b2o: boundary 2 online

  • Jeanette Vigliotti King–Ravishing Regulations and Digital Bodies

    Jeanette Vigliotti King–Ravishing Regulations and Digital Bodies

    This text is published as part of a special b2o issue titled “Critique as Care”, edited by Norberto Gomez, Frankie Mastrangelo, Jonathan Nichols, and Paul Robertson, and published in honor of our b2o and b2 colleague and friend, the late David Golumbia.

    Ravishing Regulations and Digital Bodies: Metabolizing #Metoo

    Jeanette Vigliotti King

    “It matters which stories tell stories, which concepts think concepts. Mathematically, visually, and narratively, it matters which figures figure figures, which systems systematize systems.” – Donna Haraway, Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene

    In the late 2000s, David Golumbia claimed examining the rhetoric of computation allowed for an interrogation of “those aspects of institutional power aided through belief in the superior utility of computerization as a form of social and political organization” (2009: 3). Golumbia provides a compass for navigating the slippery ways in which computers and digital life continue to obscure harm. As Golumbia states, the rhetoric of computation always carries veneers of newness and radical breaks—social media spaces are know exceptions for striking poses of liberation, newness, and connection. Like David before me, I aim to understand the ways in which digital social networking sites can be read as texts with “cultural and historical contexts” (Golumbia 2009:2). In this essay, I read metabolism, zombies, and the hashtag as interconnected logics of digital circulation: a way which bodies and stories affectively move through digital space and are rendered legible on digital bodies. This framework is particularly helpful for reading the emergence, spread, and afterlife of #Metoo. 

    The October 2017 #Metoo[1] campaign spoke wounds to life, narrating a historical story of repressed violence (Geiseler 2019). #Metoo produced largely absented, shamed narratives of sexual assault survivors. The conventions for online participation and meaning making were strategically and tactically deployed to force marginalized, nondominant, and traumatic narrative into focus—causing these stories to metabolize and explicitly enter forums of knowledge production.  As such, the digital wound named by #metoo told stories about normative health presentation and bodies on social media sites. I offer the concept zombie hunger to theorize more broadly how the unstable categories of consumer/consumed were levied during the October 2017 #Metoo multiplatform media event.

    Zombies are potent metaphors, a cultural figure that can be mobilized to track what persists after a body has been designated as abject, abandoned, or made socially dead. Zombie hunger refers to a structural condition of unending need: a repetitive reaching toward recognition, repair, and justice that fails to be fully satisfied under platform capitalism. In other words

    Zombie hunger accounts for the ways personal, uploaded social media information metabolizes with human and nonhuman others. In this sense, zombie hunger tracks how digital bodies become-with. Uploaded information is not passive, but an integral part of knowledge production in Facebook and Instagram. If uploaded information fits within certain criteria, the information circulates freely, touching many digital bodies, bringing them together. Metabolized data allows users to become-with human and nonhumans alike. (King 2025: 2)

    Its affordances lie in naming how survivors’ stories circulate as both vital and emptied material which human and nonhuman platform actants metabolize, creating moments of rupture and visibility. Its limit is the zombie metaphor risks reinscribing dehumanization. Therefore, I find the zombie useful for foregrounding the structural hunger associated with social media platforms. As a mode of cultural critique, the figure of zombies describes viral, collective and grotesque consumption, giving name to the textual cannibalism that occurs within digital social media platforms. As a descriptive figure, zombies are helpful for naming ruptures in protocol. As in films and books, zombies spread by using existing networks of contact and proximity—planes, trains, malls—anywhere people gather, are seen, and see others. Zombies are not liberators, but like all monstrous figures, can reveal harm and warn against ways of being in the world. In this way, zombies offer a Golumbian critique: “we have to learn how to critique even that which helps us” (Golumbia 2009: 13).   Read this way, the figure of the zombie is both critique and care practice: a critique of the logics of consumption in social media space which translates articulated trauma into data and a care practice for its insistence that what haunts, what returns, what stalks does so because it has not been tended to.

    Zombies metabolize—a process that regulates which bodily functions happen. Metabolism, Hannah Landecker argues, is not autonomous but dependent on multiple actants which destabilize agential positions of life (as active) and death (as passive). Consequently, the fixed hierarchy of consumer and consumed cease to be stable markers defining a body. Metabolism offers language for the divergent ways temporality, life, and death manifest for digital life. Since zombies are never singular, but always part of a horde, the metaphor is useful to think with for the ways a collectivized metabolism operates. Zombies as a figure help think about ways in which traumatic narratives are spread compulsively, blurring distinctions between self/other, consumer/consumed, alive/dead, health/sick.

    Hashtags, which are clickable links that organize and bind an uploader’s personal information to others on social media sites, can be thought of as metabolic in nature. The hashtag marked users, compelling others to witness and consume their narratives. Since regulation as a process leads to physiological change, #Metoo forced digital consumption through uncanny, repetitive exposure. Hashtags, like zombies, rely on collective meaning making, their power drawn from contact and hybridity.

    #Metoo can be understood as a monstrous story of hunger, a tale of what one cannot speak alone. In the case of #Metoo, zombie hunger is enacted through: 1) the uploader self-reporting information; 2) the uploader selecting a hashtag; 3) the hashtagged post is algorithmically selected to join other user’s feeds; 4) other users consuming the hashtagged post on their feed; 5) other users clicking the hashtag; 6) other users becoming an uploader. This process mirrors the ways the mid-twentieth century zombie operates—through consumption, transmission, and integration. #Metoo narratives transformed as they circulated, shaping and being shaped by the digital social media bodies. #Metoo resists single authorship, instead forming an overwhelming mass of testimony.

    The archive of #Metoo represents metabolized stories, kept alive through repetition and reproduction of the dominant social values of imagined communities. Paying attention to metabolized stories, I provide a close reading of October 2017 #Metoo to interrogate how repetition in digital spaces is operationalized to reveal normative practices and procedures. Which and whose stories are digestible? And why and how?

    I examine infrastructures that successfully metabolized certain textual and imagistic #Metoo testimonies and how these regulated what other testimonies were marked in poor taste, perverse, or unpalatable.  I close read texts in the public domain—newspaper articles about #Metoo, the viral media event in 2017—and the structural nature of the Facebook profile picture. Finally, I read and analyze artist and graphic designer @witchoria (Victoria Seimer)’s #Metoo image that circulated in the initial days of #Metoo to show how #Metoo offered a tactical, temporary disruption in how social media users collectively engaged with systemic sexual violence. 

    Going Viral: #Metoo 2017

    In what follows, I will contextualize the 2017 #Metoo media event to demonstrated how metabolic and monstrous frameworks manifest within these narratives. In October 2017, actress Alyssa Milano tweeted “Suggested by a friend: If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me Too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem. If you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted write ‘me too’ as a reply to this tweet.”[2] Alyssa Milano’s tweet was initially considered the origin point for this particular media event, but activist Black feminist activist Tarana Burke had already created the campaign a decade earlier and has run programming to support survivors of sexual trauma (Vagianos 2017). Celebrities and non-celebrities alike added their voices on Twitter, and soon the hashtag #Metoo was trending. #Metoo made familiar platform conventions—like the live feed and the hashtag—a site of zombie- hording and hunger. #Metoo exposed the ways in which certain bodies – those that are disproportionately women, transwomen, and women of color—experience violence when they were figured as objects, fleshed commodities. 

    According to CBS News Report from October 17, 2017, 12 million posts featuring the hashtag “me too” flooded Facebook (CBS 2017).  Although this was not the first—or last—viral hashtag campaign about a social and political issue, #Metoo affords legible conversations about the yoked nature of the digital and physical body and how an appetite to consume content can be used to upend the normative operations of social networking spaces. Through the seemingly mundane #Metoo, this translated trauma effectively organized multiple organic and inorganic entities, human and nonhuman actants.

    As more users added their voices to #Metoo, zombie hunger became a powerful, partially disruptive force. #Metoo participants used the conventions of the platform—of the pleasures of being seen and the pleasures of being consumed— to call attention to narratives not normally deemed polite or sayable. The repeated presence of #Metoo caused these stories to metabolize. In the specific case of #Metoo, the hashtag itself acts through this understanding of metabolism. The digital body of women who posted now bore a mark and thereby helped constitute what users, other users, and nonhuman actants were forced to “see” and “devour” while engaging with their live feed. Paraphrasing Hannah Landecker, the #Metoo status update is some of the “stuff out of which bodies are made.”(Landecker 2013: 4)  Since regulation as a process leads to a “physiological change,” then #Metoo forces consumption through banal tactics that are rendered unfamiliar and uncanny (Landecker 2013 : 4).

    I focus on hashtags as a mechanism of self-production and zombie hunger because hashtags have an agential capacity to shape and be shaped by existing and emergent bodies of knowledge.  Zombie hunger in the form of agential hashtags operates within the framework of testimony.[3] Gilmore explains: 

    Testimony crosses the boundary between life and death, but also it tarries at the border and inhabits it as an extracorporeal entity. The testimonial body is both a surrogate for those who cannot testify and possess a life of its own. It persists across jurisdictions and can travel the globe. Its future is defined by its capacity to communicate about the past. It exceeds the bodies of the dead, but it carries their voice where it cannot go. Testimony constantly traverses the boundaries of the living and the dead and it derives its affective charge from its disembodied and authentic location. Testimony is haunted: by the dead to whom it bears witness, as well as the living who offer it and hear it. It carries histories of the past that are difficult to narrate, and it makes a claim on the present about current situations. (Gilmore 2017: 75).

    #Metoo functioned as a kind of testimony as an “event and practice” which exists in spaces like autobiographies, memoirs, and digital social networks. When #Metoo was operationalized, the linked nature of the hashtag sent stories of sexual assault and violence skittering across the internet, infecting and replicating on Facebook, Reddit, Instagram taking over the live feeds of users. Every post with the hashtag carried a “disembodied” and “haunted” narrative through repetition in the testimonial network of multiple social media platforms. 

    Haunting seems to share a lot in common with hashtags: they are both patterns, repetitions, frequencies Haunted time is inherently an affective, nonmetric one. As Avery Gordon describes, haunting “alters the experience of being in time,” relies on repetition, and marks the re-emergence of social violence, disrupting stable notions of progress (Gordon 1997: xvi). With #Metoo, the familiar body presented a haunted and temporally displaced trauma for consumption that forced its consumers to look at absented, invisible wounds. The narrative form of hashtags draws power from repetition and dissemination. In this way, repetition combined with the desire to look becomes metabolic because meaning and power are not autonomously generated, but generated and regulated in concert with algorithms, hashtags, and other users.

    By adhering to the temporal logics of repetition, every affective engagement in social media –reactions, shares, hashtags–amplifies the larger message. According to Nicole Brodeur (2017), a columnist for The Seattle Times who also participated in #Metoo, if “the Me toos’ keep coming. Some from transgender women, some from gender nonconforming people…. we’ve not just opened a dialogue here. We’ve exposed the abuse of power and shown there is strength in numbers.” Brodeur (2017) explains how she watched “drips” of #Metoo until there was a “deluge.” The repetition, the connection, or as she says, “strength in numbers,” demonstrates the capacity of what narratives are going to be digested, which ones will force their way into public discourse (Brodeur 2017).

    The case of #Metoo shows how hashtags are nonhuman others, co-producing both desires and hunger. Hashtags have the capacity to work alongside humans to flip normative scripts and shape reality and knowledge systems, allowing for communities to form and transform understandings by forcing consumption through the logics of the live feed. Like hashtags, the zombie’s integrity and meaning-making capacity is dependent on contact with others, by the act of consumption as a moment of transformative power.

    Similarly, in postapocalyptic literature, it is the presence of the zombie that is more urgent, more important than understanding who that zombie is or was; in the #Metoo movement, the name of the participant is not nearly as urgent as the admission itself: “me, too.” When the hashtag flooded feeds, an overwhelming mass of trauma images became accessible merely through acts of repetition. But the integrity of #Metoo, like other hashtags, is dependent upon its contact with other matters. A singular hashtag, unattached to other signifiers, has diminished meaning, reduced capacity to create (digital) physiological change to the linked social body. Zombies, too, are seldom singular; they gain full recognition in a zombie horde in which individual distinction is not the defining feature. Zombies gain meaning in relationship to each other, read against orderly, healthy bodies free from disease. Zombies are an act of translation, moving between life and death, consumer and consumed. Like the pronoun “you,” zombies occupy a space of general and individual distinction.[4]

    Iterative Practices: Metabolizing Life-Writing and Trauma

    Sexual assault, like all trauma, exists at the space where language bucks, becomes undomesticated, caught between an embodied moment then and an embodied moment now. #Metoo offered a tactical, temporary disruption in the how social media users collectively engage with systemic sexual violence. In #Metoo, users and hashtags were webbed, related, co-authors in a story that extended beyond the body of one individual. Read retroactively, #Metoo is a monstrous story of hunger, a tale of what one cannot speak alone. Instead, #Metoo now signifies through volume, each story tacked on, made alive—hunting and haunting—through the nonhuman actor of a hashtag, growing more powerful through what doesn’t have to leave the lips of the user. Haunting is fraught with repetition, what demands to be re-seen again and again. Repetition is also a temporal displacement, a scene which materializes through various structures brushing up against each other. When applied to digital spaces, haunting’s affective uncanny persistence is rendered visible, particularly with recurrent encounters with traumatic events slicing into scrolling sessions via algorithmic circulation. In a digital social media site, users are likely to encounter content in shuffled time and order, rather than a strict linear fashion.

    Life-writing in digital spaces expands opportunities and forms to report, share, and connect self-representation stories; like the haunted bodily form of the zombie, it constantly weaves between interiority and exteriority. Rippl et al. (2013: 7) prefer the term “life-writing’ over autobiography…[because] the latter tends to privilege certain ways of writing about the self [and] conform to the Western Enlightenment narrative of the autonomous self determined (and at least implicitly male) individual which usually favors narrative regularity.” Life-writing is a way to center those narratives “by women, people of color, post-colonial subjects, and other historically marginalized groups, whose stories of violence and oppression are often rendered in non-linear and fragmented forms.” (Rippl et al 2013: 5). Since digital narratives rely on indexical access (rather than linear pagination), the digital temporal space of haunting provides the necessary language and strategies to think-with the lives and experiences of marginalized others.

    Thinking about the processes which enable #Metoo as life-writing focuses on which bodies, even while articulating collectivized trauma, are still subjected to systemic and structural harm. Operating from a feminist philosophical position of strong objectivity, classing #Metoo as a life-writing names the co-narrators (human and nonhuman alike) as historically and socially positioned, constructed at-once through available technologies, languages, and forms.[5] Trauma tests the limit of self-representation–it is extremely difficult to verbalize trauma. This testing necessitates a reconceptualization of the genres of self-representation that adhere to “legalistic definitions of the truth, sharply distinguish between the private and the public as well as the individual and the collective and presuppose a sovereign self as the teller of the tale” (Gilmore 2017: 7). #Metoo is haunted by this systemic violence in which a sovereign self is not the narrator. Corporeal experiences are given to digital bodies, formed both through the chain of production for the digital device, and the network of nonhuman others within the social media platform itself. #Metoo is a co-production whose potency and failings are deeply related to form or how the life-stories moved in a zombie-like horde.

    Complicating Picture Perfect Health

    Social media platforms offer a mirage of freedom. While users are free to upload their own images and contribute text, they must do so within strict boundaries. These platforms, though modifiable, follow an orderly format in which only images of certain sizes can be selected and uploaded. For instance, an uploader on Facebook has a hierarchy on their profile: an anchoring profile image, a banner image, a bolded name, and a wall where posts produced by the uploader and other users are visible. Every post follows a particular visual hierarchy: the profile picture in miniature, the uploader’s name, the content of the post (which includes things like a video or image uniformly formatted in a neat box) with text and the ability to incorporate hyperlinks in the form of hashtags or social tags to other profiles.

    There is no variety, despite the platform’s insistence on wanting the uploader to express “What’s on your mind?” For uploaders, the question “what is on your mind?” can only be addressed in the same uniform way. The ability to choose what to upload obscures the ways in which the platform itself, to use Golumbia’s work, creates a “central perspective; whatever the diversity of the input tory, the output is unified, hierarchized, striated, authoritative” (2009: 208).

    There are also unwritten social conventions governing the construction of digital profiles—only particular kinds of images and life events, those usually associated with positive experiences, are generally circulated for public consumption (Calderia et al. 2020). Lauren Berlant explains, “Health itself can then be seen as a side effect of successful normativity, and people’s desires and fantasies are solicited to line up with that pleasant condition” (Berlant 2007: 765).  Berlant’s assessment is readily extended to Facebook and Instagram. Bodies on these sites are positioned as healthy through a careful absenting of trauma and health woes. This adherence to “unification haunts” every post (Golumbia 2009: 208).These infrastructural practices of small digital repetitions such as uploading, reacting, sharing, and hashtagging uphold projects of normativity and reify the clean, upwardly mobile, white, able-bodied liberal subject.[6] Through such infrastructurally-encouraged repetitions, social norms and structural harm from “offline” continue to metabolize experiences “online.”[7]

    Zombie hunger adheres to logics of repetition: #Metoo’s power depends on the collapse of consumer/consumed, forcing users scrolling on “their” feed to consume abject experiences that survivors have been taught to repress and whose narratives have been denied life in many institutional spaces. The violence to the body returns from the dead as a hungry hunter. Every move towards eating is repeated not only by an “individual” participant but amplified by the horde’s consumption rhyt as well. When users post comments on Facebook live feeds, a smaller image of the profile picture is to the left to the textual information—whether that is a link, another photograph, a few sentences, a life event, etc. In this way, the photograph and status update form a new photographic experience—the inclusion of the linguistic message that is inseparable from the image proper (Barthes 1977). The profile picture serves two primary purposes: to identify and authenticate the user. The profile picture becomes a digital handshake, carrying a user’s identity in the selected image. Many profile pictures are headshots, or artistic spins on headshots.

    The Facebook profile picture inherits from portraiture producing healthy bodies for circulation. Tanya Sheehan explains the nineteenth century practice still permeates contemporary relationships with digital photographs as people “seek to create ‘healthy’ public images…that reproduce narrowly defined ideas about what it means to belong to an ‘American’ social group” (2011: 144). Facebook’s embedded photo tools focus primarily on brightening and lightening, while other non-native applications like Snapseed allow users to digitally enhance the body by removing blemishes, freckles, pounds–procedures and operations to make a digital body reproduce normative health which is always already positioned as white, heteronormative, and able-bodied. These apps, within and outside of Facebook, “generally ‘balance skin pigmentation idealize ‘pure’ whiteness as the desired norm” (Sheehan 2011: 144).  Sheehan notes both “physical ‘excess’ and aging” are traits associated with “the lower class” whose lives are valued differently, particularly when class intersects with the vectors of race and gender. Although whitening practices are not the heart of my analysis, it is imperative to understand that the mechanisms for disseminating information reproduce normative health practices. Illness is absented and mitigated through healing tools, camera angles, and social conventions of reporting certain kinds of information.

    Unification and repetition are mechanisms of zombie hunger for #Metoo. During the media event, the live feed of many users’ Facebooks were flooded with a jarring juxtaposition: a profile picture (likely in line with normative conventions) and the textual testimony of sexual assault or violence. This same structure which transmits fantasies of frictionless life was used to make one story viral, a story that testifies abuses to the physical body.

    The presence of #Metoo next to a profile picture disrupts the healthy body through a haunted temporality. #Metoo haunts and intervenes norms of the profile picture and status box[8]. The contingent nature of the photograph is reinscribed with admissions of sexual assault and violence, altering the unwritten conventions of sharing only positive events and news associated with capitalist and white values of success (Wells et al. 2021).  Instead, users scrolling through their Facebook live feeds are met with bodies and cannot help but taste.

    Often, sexual assault and sexual trauma are invisible wounds that afflict 1 in 3 women and 1 and 6 men.[9] However, that trauma is not absented from the survivor’s experiences. With the inclusion of #Metoo beside the profile picture, each participating user generated a consuming horde, affecting and infecting other users. A 2019 study found that #Metoo did impact public awareness–there was an increase of google searches for the following keywords: sexual assault, sexual abuse, sexual harassment, and rape (Kaufman et al. 2021). Users were spurned, at the very least, to seek additional information about a health issue that disproportionally affects women and in which women of color, women with disabilities, women in low socioeconomic classes, and trans women are overrepresented. Kaufman et al (2021) explained: 

    The National Sexual Assault Conference held in August 2018 is one example of how the hashtag has been turned into action. The conference’s opening plenary featured Tarana Burke talking about where the #Metoo movement needs to go next (National Sexual Violence Resource Center, 2018; North, 2018). The #HowIWillChange follow-up movement is another example of hashtag activism resulting in clear ways to change behavior, although whether social media users actually engage in these promised behaviors is unknown. While a hashtag seems simplistic, and the #Metoo movement has been accused of being unfocused, without a clear purpose, and at times a threat to men falsely accused (North, 2018), the movement has upended public conversation about this health issue for women and others globally. How the sustained attention on the movement and related issues is used for addressing these women’s health, safety, well-being, and policy change remains to be seen.

    The digital body can be transformed into a political stance by a digital act and one that can translate into material changes. Tarana Burke explains she thinks the “destigmatizing effect #Metoo represents a greater gain than anticipated risks” and that “There is inherent strength in agency. And #Metoo, in a lot of ways, is about agency” (Brocke 2018).  The way #Metoo has been discussed in a variety of news articles echoes this sentiment—participants often felt empowered, part of something larger, less ashamed when adding their voice to the #Metoo community.

    #Metoo: What Did Not Metabolize

     Although #Metoo generated space for sexual assault narratives by forcing viewers to consume content, I want to pay attention to Landecker’s statement that metabolism “run[s] the operation of being a body” (Landecker 2013: 4). #Metoo certainly disrupted public discourse, allowing certain women to feel safe enough to express their tales of assault or harassment by feeling connected to a larger community. However, not all #Metoo narratives were integrated seamlessly into the “operation of being a body” (Landecker 2013).  Verity Trott explains that not all survivors felt the same way, calling the feminist hashtag campaign “voyeuristic trauma porn” that disregarded the “high level of emotional labour from survivors but demands nothing from the perpetrators” (2021: 1125). Moreover, not all survivors felt safe in sharing their stories of sexual assault—despite the presence of other stories.

    Here, Golumbia’s exploration between users and CRMs becomes generative ground for thinking through the ways in which platforms have historically both catered to individuals and abstracted their specific needs. He explains:

    While the rhetoric of CRM often focuses on ‘meeting customer’s needs,’ the tools themselves are constructed so as to manage human behavior often against the customer’s own interest and in favor of statistically-developed corporate goals that are implemented at a much higher level of abstraction that the individual[.] (169)

    Following Golumbia’s account of computational logics that automate and naturalize political power, I read the hashtag as a kind of techne structuring stories to cohere as movement. This formulation of tools that meet the customer’s needs—in this case, a platform’s so-called democratic dialog prompt to share using the hashtag #Metoo—is levied against the interest of individual contributors. In fact, the hashtag is, itself, a construction that manages human behavior at a high level of abstraction. Individual contributions are absorbed into larger historically specific, deeply political projects. #Metoo participates in the logics Golumbia outlines: it amplifies, recirculates and constrains testimony through platform architectures which privilege certain repetitions.

    Not all bodies, #Metoo reveals, are valued the same. Importantly, then, some kinds of zombie hunger remain indigestible, despite the ways #Metoo forces the consumption of particular digital identities. Technological tools and digital media are not absented or immune from their situatedness.[10] Kember and Zylinska offer some insight as “to what extent and in what way ‘human users’ are actually formed–not just as users but as humans–by their media” (2014: 12). For #Metoo, understanding that media –and its consumption– as imbricated in human cultural, social, political, and economic systems is important to push against narratives of technology as liberated from the concerns of race, class, and gender.[11]

    #Metoo is not physically present, but a product of the Anthropocene where bits/bytes are organized across bodies. #Metoo organizes data in a horde–a very different kind of archiving practice than the traditional archive which is in a locatable space with defined parameters of what types of content are worthy of memorialization. Again, social media archival sites pose different challenges for contemporary historians such as privacy concerns, methods of swift retrieval, deleted accounts among other things.  Foucault explains that archives exercise a particular kind of discursive power, functioning as the “system that establishes statements as events and things” (Foucault 1972: 137). Value, significance, and authority become associated with items stored and cared for in an archive. By transitioning items into an archive, values of cultures are rendered visible–these are the ways an archive helps form “events and things” which, in turn, outline what types of events are permissible.

    Another important contour: “you” are implicated, “you” are metabolized. When survivors uploaded their stories and used the hashtag, they participated in a decentralized archive. The platforms of sites such as Facebook and Instagram enable self-archiving practices that depart from traditional archiving power structures. As Rebecca Lemov (2017: 254)) explains:

     Self-initiated nonstate archives tend to embody a different set of power and control nodes, a difference perhaps most easily embodied in the contrast between the relations Michel Foucault described in Discipline and Punish (in which the pervasive ‘eye of power’ spread disciplinary and dressage-like techniques that are absorbed through a network of power relationship) and the processes he examined in The History of Sexuality volumes 2 and 3….self-archive, a powerful paradox is at work. The imperative to optimize the self through archiving it is accompanied by a concomitant desire to ‘outsource; responsibility for choices.

    Lemov is right to focus on the ways “nonstate archives embody a differ set of power and control nodes” that have to do with panoptic impulses, regulated behavior to “optimize” the self for absorption and consumption. Digital self-archives, such as Facebook and Instagram, are unquestionably sites of knowledge production. Social facts, as Ann Laura Stoler (2017) indicates, help shape which knowledge is considered qualified. In digital spaces, the process of converting social fact to authoritative knowledge is imperative to the reconfiguration of power. Only certain knowledges are saved, waiting to be resurrected. On Facebook and Instagram, this inherited imperial practice shifts, becomes harder to see, and requires a different assemblage of historically specific materials to trace how power is exercised over bodies.

    Even in this moment of rupture, #Metoo’s imagined community still largely upholds what Gayle Rubin calls a “hierarchical system of sexual value. (Rubin 2007: 171).  Due in part to criminalization and a long tradition of dehumanization, the vulnerable population of self-identifying and self-reporting sex workers failed to be integrated successfully into the larger narrative of #Metoo. Melony Hill, Baltimore resident and sex worker, explained after disclosing her experience with sexual violence that “she’s gotten messages saying she deserved to be sexually assaulted…‘They don’t want to include women like me….They’ll say we’re just whores anyway — ‘How can you sexually assault a whore?’ I’ve had that said to me multiple times” (Cooley 2018).  The piece continues with stories from the women whose sex worker status positions them outside the generative potentiality of #Metoo. Sex workers occupy a space on the bottom of the hierarchy as a part of a “criminal sexual population based on sexual activity” (Rubin 2007: 171). Because sex work falls outside normative sexual activity, cultural narratives often dehumanize these laborers as “dangerous” or “inferior undesirables.”[12]  Professional dominatrix J. Leigh Brantly expresses this concern when she states, “they aren’t ‘perfect victims” (Rubin 2007: 172). These examples illustrate how the conventions of social media’s zombie hunger do not promise full liberation—many other socially constructed others remain outside bandwidths of acceptability for horde hunger.

    Sex worker experiences are not the only vulnerable, less metabolized. There are other intersectional concerns–women of color and working-class women are often left out of the conversation. A white actress launched #Metoo into the cultural imaginary, despite Tarana Burke’s Me Too campaign which started a decade before. Vice President for Education and Workplace Justice at the National Women’s Law Center Emily Martin explains, “‘There has not been enough attention to the way sexual and racial harassment intersect and the ways a woman’s racial identity can target them for harassment” (Jones 2018).

    Without attention to intersectional goals, digital movements run the risk of unintentionally reproducing the subordination of certain bodies. Trott (2021) explains intersectionality is a crucial framework to address some of the issues women of color, women with disabilities, women outside the United States,[13] and queer women faced while attempting to have their experiences successfully metabolized. She explains the framing of Milano’s tweet alongside the spreading sentiment that “we’re all victims and should stand together” excluded “experiences of men, transmen, and nonbinary folk, with the latter groups experiencing a higher rate of sexual violence” (Trott 2021: 12).  The exclusion of trans and nonbinary folks in #Metoo speaks to a larger rupture within mainstream feminist activism. Trott indicates the flattening of all survivors as the same within digital platforms fails to properly account for how marginalized groups operating within systemic oppression often have greater chances of experiencing sexual assault and violence. Intersectional frameworks reveal not only which narratives are deemed consumable (or hungered for) but also traces how both algorithms and digital norms work in tandem to amplify certain narratives at the expense of others.

    #Metoo, Tactical Media, and Possibilities

    From a certain vantage point, #Metoo might appear to be a neoliberal life narrative for the ways in which individuals named systemic harm and major white businessman were held legally accountable.[14] Gilmore explains that the neoliberal life narrative “features an ‘I’ who overcomes hardship and recasts historical and systemic harm as something an individual alone can, and should, manage through pluck, perseverance, and enterprise. In short, the individual transforms disadvantage into value” (Gilmore 2017: 89). However, there are distinct differences due to the interrelated, composite, zombie-like mass of people connected by a hashtag, and the words “me too.” This is not the story of an individual, but a story of scale.

    Attention to these collapses of self/other and consumer/consumed helps us think about #Metoo where the same kind of zombie hunger forced users to consume the horror of sameness. The sameness here is the horror of the volume of sexual assault survivors, of violated physical bodies and newly wounded digital bodies. Being forced to consume content in this scaled-up way furthers the zombie hunger because it calls attention to differential life chances which exist under capitalism but typically disappear from notice.

    The normative social protocol of going online and checking the live feed is part of the platform level mechanisms that allowed these testimonies to be seen and consumed. Understanding the slipperiness of the subject and self within neoliberal conventions of branding and self-commodification can reveal the gendered, classed and raced impacts of capitalism and how hunger can be used as tactical media, a disruption in normative procedures. Rita Raley explains that tactical media “engage in a micropolitics of disruption, intervention, and education” and that “tactical media activities provide models of opposition rather than revolution,” operating within the system of global capitalism and neoliberalism. Since tactical media are forms of art that form “temporary autonomous zones,” they open rather than foreclose possibilities for political transformations beyond their ephemeral temporalities (Raley 2009: 1, 151, 27).

    I read Victoria Seimer’s viral #Metoo digital artwork through zombie hunger as a form of tactical media (Seimer 2017). On Instagram, a particular image created by user @witchoria  (Victoria Seimer)[15] and promiscuously[16] circulated by other users provides an example of a story that (as noted earlier) names wounds. User @witchoria which presents a haunted, foggy field in which no bodies are present. Instead, “me too” is spectrally rendered, repeated throughout the image. On Instagram, user zero @witchoria made her image accessible to “anybody who wishes to repost,” allowing her image to circulate in testimonial networks (Seimer 2017).

    Zombie hunger is a flexible close reading strategy, one that can also be applied to visual texts; in turn, @Witchoria activates the same pleasures of consuming and being consumed. Since this image was created and meant to be shared, the image itself has the capacity to link bodies, and “make of others do” (Latour 2005: 9).

    This agential image is noteworthy for a few reasons and requires a few different, yet knotted readings. Mitchell argues photographs have ritualistic value in social life meaning images desire and perform work, occupying an uncanny space as nonhuman actors that, through social imaginings, have power to regulate meaning or produce panic (2005). He indicates images are lifeform that occupy media ecologies where “personas and avatars [can] can address us and be addressed in return” (Mitchell 2005: 203).  @witchoria’s photograph presents a natural landscape: a night-dark field, greenery, flowers, and a thick fog. However, this familiar woodland scene immediately becomes uncanny. The natural world fades away and the unnatural prevalence of sexual violence manifests in the glowing “ME TOO” that is repeated throughout the image, fading into the mist. @Witchoria’s composite photograph demonstrates the naturalization of systemic sexual violence. @witchoria flips the script of presenting idealized, normative, healthy bodies, choosing instead to withhold any bodies. She doctored her photograph to demonstrate the presence of an ill, highlighting wounds and trauma rather than shying away from such presentations.  Rather than taking a photograph of something “true,” @witchoria generates a narrative photograph, blending elements of fiction and metaphor into her work. This imagining or phantasy is necessary for the recognition of her trauma.

    @wichoria conjures a haunted space replete with zombie hunger which complicates the idea of the individual, both biological and social. On Facebook and Instagram, a digital body is always a composite being, warranted and circulating from the uploader, in tandem with other users, text, algorithms, and photographs. Such complex becoming builds from biologist Scott Gilbert declaration “We are all lichens,” meaning from a biological standpoint, humans are composite, symbiotic entities and not singular autonomous individuals.[17] If the individual is no longer a unified, singular biological entity, then this dispersed, composite fact is made reticent online, particularly in the case study of @witchoria’s widely disseminated image.  Zombies are seldom singular; they gain full recognition in a zombie horde in which individual distinction is not the defining feature. Zombies gain meaning in relationship to each other, and when read against orderly, healthy bodies free from disease. Zombies are an act of translation, moving between life and death, singular and plural. Like the pronoun “you,” zombies occupy a space of general and individual distinction.

    In contemporary imaginings, zombies lose their names–they cease to be individuals. Instead, they become a zombie horde, a collective monstrosity that is both human and nonhuman. @witchoria’s disseminated photograph, the name of the particular user is not nearly as important as the admission: “me too.” Articulating the violence and generating a wound gains potency through the horde-like mechanism of the hashtag. When the hashtag is followed on Instagram, an overwhelming mass of images—of trauma—materializes. Here we have a haunting. Here we have a story that translates wounds.

    Each user that elected to use @witchoria’s image for #Metoo participated in an act of translation, which strikes me as being related to the classic sense of repetition. Writing “Me Too” simultaneously decenters and preserves the author–or uploader.[18] The traumatic experience is distilled into a caption, gaining new life when posted online. Attaching an individualized narrative, however long or sparse, does the work of “living on” through “repetition with a difference” (Massumi 2002: 16).  It is actually the frequency and pattern that given the #Metoo endemic and temporal meaning (Massumi 2002: 39).

    Within the specific case of #Metoo, the “me” occupies a different type of first-person experience. The “me” of #Metoo names frequency as its temporality. The “when” of trauma is less important than the prevalence. Like the “ME TOO”s in @witchoria’s piece, users gain meaning through their relationship to each other, the archival tool of the hashtag, and the algorithms that mark posts for visibility and circulation.

    #Metoo also functions as a “component of passage that transforms engaged bodies into something other than what they have been.” In this case, the Facebook or Instagram body is transformed by a digital act, by its relationship to other users and nonhuman actants. Through the frequency of #Metoo, the wound of the corporeal body is transformed into a viral wound of the digital body.

    Conclusion

    The limited integration of all stories of sexual assault is indicative of zombie hunger—the story of the mass, of the horde, of what normative conventions demand stays repressed and other— dead, even. By understanding #Metoo as a narrative structure that utilizes metabolic functions, it becomes possible to better trace the conventions which govern possibilities for users.

    But like the zombie, there is power in fragmentation, in recognizing the human within the horror. Even with flaws and limitations, #Metoo wakes collective hunger, places power in abundance, in survivors using the platform conventions of looking and eating which often replicate violences of the material world as a mechanism to name structural harm. Such uncanny acts of zombie hunger cause a reckoning, a confrontation of this is how the world works.

    Metabolized narratives account for cultural tastes. They enforce boundaries, regulating which lives are awarded value. While these value designations certainly happen “offline,” the digital world renders the process of regulation more visible. The zombie like #Metoo will not be satiated, nor will liberation come through this act alone. Although Mark Zuckerberg claims a kind of celebratory ownership over the way movements such as #BlackLivesMatter and #Metoo connect people, Golumbia points out the same tools “contribut[e] to the destruction of the democratic social fabric, the destabilization of journalism’s critical function in democracies, and the promotion of hate and disinformation.” (Golumbia 204: 38). This is the danger of zombie hunger—all kinds of narratives can metabolize through the pleasures of consumption.

    Without material action, the social body has remained haunted. In a post-Covid internet during the second Trump administration, the afterlife of zombie hunger has mutated. New hashtags speaking similar structural wounds have emerged. This is the affordance of the zombie: the afterlife of #Metoo persists, refuses rest, and is a continued site of undead political energy. At time of writing, #Standwithsurvivors, a hashtag associated with the victims of Epstein’s sex trafficking ring, is stirring, hungry for justice in legislative bodies.

    Jeanette Vigliotti King is an Assistant Professor of Classical and Liberal Education at Flagler College Florida. She received her PhD from Virginia Commonwealth University in Media Art Text. A former graduate student of David Golumbia, she is interested in digital body construction within social media spaces, particularly the way digital bodies operate at the intersections of life/death, healthy/unhealthy, self/other.

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    [1] For consistency, the hashtag associated with this event will be stylized as “#metoo.”

    [2] Alyssa Milano (@Alyssa_Milano), “Suggested by a friend: If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me Too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem. If you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted write ‘me too’ as a reply to this tweet.”  Twitter, October 15 2017. https://twitter.com/alyssa_milano/status/919659438700670976

    [3]  For an explanation of how Facebook hashtags work and the date of introduction, see Joanna Stern,”“#Ready? Clickable Hashtags Are Coming to Your Facebook Newsfeed,” ABC News online, last modified June 12, 2013, https://abcnews.go.com/Technology/facebook-adds-clickable-hashtags-newsfeed-posts/story?id=19383505

    [4] For fuller discussion of the pronoun you in social media spaces, see Wendy Chun’s “Big Data as Drama.” ELH, 83: 363-382 and Updating to Remain the Same: Habitual New Media. Cambridge: The MIT Press.

    [5] See Sandra Harding. “After the Neutrality Ideal: Science, Politics, and ‘Strong Objectivity.’” Social research. 1992;59(3):567-587

    [6] For a fuller discussion of the idealized, white, thin body see Julian B Carter.. The Heart of Whiteness: Normal Sexuality and Race in America, 1880–1940, (Ukraine: Duke University Press, 2007);

    [7] For further discussions of online/offline. Please see Tom. Boellstorff “For whom the ontology turns: Theorizing the digital real.” Current Anthropology 57, no. 4 (2016): 387-407; For a robust discussion of the politics of search, please see Safiya Umoja Noble, Algorithms of Oppression: How Search Engines Reinforce Racism (New York, NY: New York University Press, 2018).New York University Press, 2018.

    [8] For a case study of the inverse (a selfie displaying bodily sickness) that generated public awareness see Noar, Seth M. Noar et al., “Can a selfie promote public engagement with skin cancer?,” Preventive medicine, 111 (2018): 280-283.

    [9] Smith SG, Chen J, Basile KC, Gilbert LK, Merrick MT, Patel N, Jain A., 2017, The National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey (NISVS): 2010–2012 state report. Center for Disease Control and Prevention https://stacks.cdc.gov/view/cdc/46305 and  Kearl H The facts behind the #Metoo movement: A National Study on Sexual Harassment and Assault. 2018 Stop Street Harassment, Reliance, and the UC San Diego Center on Gender Equity and Health http://www.stopstreetharassment.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/Executive-Summary-2018-National-Study-on-Sexual-Harassment-and-Assault.pdf

    [10] See Sandra Harding, Sciences from Below: Feminisms, Postcolonialities, and Modernities. (United Kingdom: Duke University Press, 2008). Harding says knowers are composite beings–complex and embedded in sociohistoric situations, claiming there is “no impartial, disinterested, value-neutral, Archimedean perspective.” (59). See also Donna Jeanne Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature, (United Kingdom: Free Association Books, 1991) and Gitelman, Lisa. Always Already New: Media, History, and the Data of Culture. (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006). Gitelman explains media are not just tools of research but are sites “dynamically engaged within and as part of the socially realized protocols that define…sources of meaning” (153).

    [11] See Wendy Hui Kyong Chun, Control and Freedom: Power and Paranoia in the Age of Fiber Optics, (United Kingdom: MIT Press, 2008) for a good discussion of the rhetorical work of the word “cyberspace.” See also a critique of widespread digital utopianism: Fred Turner, From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010).  See also Noble who argues “(s)earch results are simply more than what is popular. The dominant notion of search results as being both ‘objective” and ‘popular” makes it seem as if misogynist or racist search results are simply a mirror of the collective” (Algorithms of Oppression: How Search Engines are Racist, 36).

    [12] Rubin, 172.

    [13] For a global non-US perspective on 2017’s #Metoo, see ‌Pain, Paromita. ““It took me quite a long time to develop a voice”: Examining feminist digital activism in the Indian# MeToo movement.” new media & society 23, no. 11 (2021): 3139-3155 and Loney-Howes, Rachel, Kaitlynn Mendes, Diana Fernández Romero, Bianca Fileborn, and Sonia Núñez Puente. 2021. “Digital Footprints of #Metoo.” Feminist Media Studies, February, 1–18. https://doi.org/10.1080/14680777.2021.1886142.

    [14]  See also Lorna Bracewell, Why We Lost the Sex Wars: Sexual Freedom in the #Metoo Era, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2021). While not a discussion on stories that fail to integrate, Bracewell’s Why We Lost the Sex Wars examines how the criticisms of #Metoo from both the conservative right and progressive liberals often reinforce the neoliberal idea that sexual assault is linked to personal responsibility and not related to structural harm. Bracewell argues for the need to reject a liberal sexual politics to instead imagine a feminism that can contest the classed, raced and gendered structures and norms which support and sustain sexual injustice.

    [15] See Jessica Bloom, “The #Metoo Photo Going Viral on Instagram.” Format, last modified October 17, 2017, https://www.format.com/magazine/resources/art/me-too-wichoria-victoria-siemer-instagram.

    [16]  See Donna J. Haraway. 2013. “SF: Science Fiction, Speculative Fabulation, String Figures, so Far.” Ada: A Journal of Gender, New Media, and Technology, no. 3 (November). https://doi.org/10.7264/N3KH0K81.

    [17] For further development of this idea, see Gilbert, Tauber, and Sapp. “A Symbiotic View of Life: We Have Never Been Individuals,” 326.

    [18] See Derrida, Jacques, and Lawrence Venuti. “What is a” relevant” translation?.” Critical inquiry 27, no. 2 (2001): 174-200. He explains the act of translation not only “prolong[s] life, living on, but also life after death” (199). Derrida’s formation of translation also pushes boundaries between life and death, much like the undead aspect of the zombie.

  • Henry Neim Osman–Southern Circuits

    Henry Neim Osman–Southern Circuits

    This text is published as part of a special b2o issue titled “Critique as Care”, edited by Norberto Gomez, Frankie Mastrangelo, Jonathan Nichols, and Paul Robertson, and published in honor of our b2o and b2 colleague and friend, the late David Golumbia.

    Southern Circuits

    Henry Neim Osman

    Victor Grippo, Analogía I, 1971, electric circuits, electric meter and switch, potatoes, ink, paper, paint and wood

    Victor Grippo, Analogía I (2da. Version), Potatoes, zinc and copper electrodes, voltmeter, electrical cable and nylon monofilament, chair, wood, cloth, and text panel

    Buenos Aires, 1970: Victor Grippo exhibits Analogía I. Forty potatoes are installed on the wall, their yellow-brown bulbous shapes inserted into a white grid. Each potato is placed in its own cell and connected to by two wires, red and black. In the middle, splitting the potatoes into two groups of twenty, is a voltmeter that measures the collective electric generation of this ensemble and a short text that elaborates the titular analogy in Argentine conceptual artist Victor Grippo’s Analogía I (1970/1) between the potatoes stored energy, connected by a grid of wires, and the burgeoning social conscience of a networked society.

    Sao Paulo, 1977: Grippo remakes Analogía I. The voltmeter, text, and potatoes remain but the modernist grid has been disappeared as the potatoes are placed on a long banquet table. Strewn across a white tablecloth, with their wires tangled above, the clean lines of the first iteration have disappeared. Yet the analogy remains, transformed by the shift from the formal elements of the grid to the implied formlessness of the sheer mass of potatoes, from an organized matrix to a set of forms closer to how the potato itself might grow in the ground, as the set of potatoes behind the empty chair demonstrate. In the space between the grid and the tangle, between the modernist and organic networks, lies the politics of Grippo’s analogy.

    Analogy comes from the Greek analogos, or proportion, meaning that it is the relation between two things unmediated by numeric counting. Analogy, and the analog, is not ontology, Kaja Silverman tells (or warns) us, but rather a similarity with a difference (2015). This essay takes up Grippo’s titular Analogía I as diagram, machine, and networked system, by attending to the synchronic difference of analogy and the diachronic difference of Grippo’s first and second versions. The first difference concerns the grounds for this analogy itself, in which biological and technical systems are analogized to the social. How was a political problem able to be understood as analogous to both interconnected vegetation and to the technical approximation of natural networks? In the same historical moment in which Grippo made his Analogías, and in response to similar concerns about how to, and whether one could, compare natural, technical, and social systems, Chilean biologists Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela posited autopoiesis, or biología del conocer, as the theory of life’s self-production. Autopoiesis was always more than a theory of life, having distinct political and social dimensions both for Maturana and Varela, who disagreed on the organicism and holism underlying the theory’s political application, and the uptake of autopoiesis in varied realms, from Nikolas Luhmann’s legal theories to Sylvia Wynter’s theory of the overrepresentation of Man. Analogía I offers a parallel trajectory, one in which social, organic, and inorganic systems are circuited together and stages the same tension that lead Maturana and Varela to disagree on the possibility of a political autopoiesis.

    If the first difference concerns analogy as a structural principle, and the theoretical grounds for Grippo’s analogy, the second difference takes up the precise meaning of the historical shift in the formal elements of Analogía I. At first glance, much has changed. The grid, with its clean lines and roots as a technology of organization and territorialization, would seem to be opposed to the interwoven wires and roots of a natural form. Does not a grid overlay and overwrite the contingencies of life? Does not there seem to be a startling difference between the cell-like grid and promise of a different, and perhaps more natural, mode of social organization in the second version of Analogía I, in which the potatoes are strewn across a communal table?  At first glance the grid appears to be a technology that captures while the second version would be one that frees, bringing forward the tensions inherent in a work that claims to model, slightly tongue in cheek due to its elementary-school experiment, how a computer could model social conscience. It also restages centuries old debates between mechanism and vitalism. Yet the table, chairs, and plot of soil in the second installation maintain the sharp angles and rectilinear forms of the grid. These two iterations are less distinct than they appear, reducing the severity of the formal shift and the seeming antagonism between the two different network topologies. Rather than a crisis of meaning, in which the work calls forth a certain indeterminacy to the politics of the network form because of interchangeable topologies, what is left is a subtle critique of demands to model the interdependence of the social field and its web of mutual interdependence or care, located here in roots and wires, by overdetermining its relationship to natural and technical systems. The shift in the formal elements of the network here offers a path away from a holism of the network that emerges from the historical conditions of the Southern Cone in the 1970s, like autopoiesis, by allowing the social field to determine itself as an open site of contradiction.

    II

    Grippo, Sin titulo, 1966, oil and graphite on linen

    In 1966, Grippo began his investigation of energy and the circuit in a series of abstract paintings of geometric elements. In a work from this year, a simplified set of forms are rendered in primary colors of contrasting red, blue, and yellow, which transform the visual language of technical documents into a set of iconic relations. Here, abstraction is what enables analogy: stripped of their specificity, these works invoke everything from silicon chips to abstract textiles to concrete and constructivist art. The clean lines preface the machinic nature of Grippo’s later works, yet the individual icons are disarticulated from a larger circuit. Silicon chips have oft been compared to a range of visual forms. Media historian Lisa Nakamura, writing on the early production of silicon chips by Fairchild Semiconductor by Navajo women, notes how in 1969 Fairchild, in its own publicity material, would parallel the abstract design of Navajo woven rugs with the design of silicon chips. Placing images of rugs and chips next to each other to draw forth their shared formal elements, Nakamura underscores how the “resemblance between the pattern of the rug depicted on the first page and the circuit is striking and uncanny. It makes the visual argument that Indian rugs are merely a different material iteration of the same pattern or aesthetic tradition found within the integrated circuit,” (2014, 926). Computer scientist Bernhard Korte compares early integrated chip designs from the 1960s to the 1980s to works by Wassily Kandinsky and Josef Albers, because “the structures inherent in chip design and chip reality are, after all, nothing but simple geometric forms,” (1991, 63).

    While Grippo’s circuit paintings make a parallel movement in the same historical moment, abstracting the set of shared simple geometric forms between chip design and abstract art, these paintings also recall the development of arte concréta or concrete art in Argentina. Concrete art as a term was first coined in 1930 by Theo van Doesburg and was widely embraced in Argentina and Brazil by artists like Lidy Prati in the 1950s. Deeply mathematical, concrete art was non-representational, meaning that geometric forms – point, line, and shape – referred to nothing more than themselves as representations of pure rationality. As a 1946 manifesto by the Argentine Association of Concrete Art contends, “A scientific aesthetics will replace the millenary, speculative and idealistic aesthetics” and “Concrete Art familiarizes man with a direct relationship with things, not with the fiction of things,” (Inventionist Manifesto, 1946, 8). Grippo’s later work pushes back against the anti-idealism of concrete art, and even the early paintings seen above pair the visual language of concrete art with a set of forms that recall a range of natural and technical systems. The open two and three pronged shapes, separated by small dots, recall the abstracted elements of a computer circuit and “were figurative… I went on to use abstraction and from there a certain symbolism,” (Grippo, 2004, 319). In bringing what he termed mechanical models into conversation with concrete art, these paintings bridged concrete art’s anti-idealism with a certain symbolism. In an interview, he described this process as moving from “painting them [mechanical forms] (like a step in a process of evolution) to incorporating them into a system of symbols, a language,” (Grippo, 2004, 321). The structuralist influence here presages how the later network in Analogía I is a one defined by the (negative) relations between its constituent parts.

    In the following year, Jorge Glusberg, an Argentine artist and curator, founded Centro de Arte y Comunicación (CAyC), of which Grippo was a part. CAyC’s first exhibition was Arte Sistema which brought together the cybernetic systems thinking that was already circulating in European and American art practices with an inherent social critique from the South.[1] Glusberg framed these interventions as an ideological conceptualism, a phrase borrowed from Spanish critic Simon Marchan Fiz (Zanna, 2009). This was a refashioning of conceptualism as a distinctly political project tied to third-worldism and anti-psychiatry. Glusberg deployed this term to distinguish CAyC’s projects, and later exhibitions and interventions organized by Glusberg as Grupo de los Trece, from Western conceptualism, which he argued failed to respond to the political and material specificities that CAyC and Grupo de los Trece faced. This echoes what Luis Camnitzer calls the “regional clock,” which distinguishes the distinct temporality of regional conceptualisms (of which Europe is one as well) to critique universal periodizations (Camnitzer 2007, 28). At the same time, this was not a group of works united by a singular ideology nor by a unified mode of critique. Rather, they were organized by their opposition to the dominant ideologies, both artistic and social, in contemporary Argentina via a wide range of dematerialized practices (Glusberg, 1972).

    In 1970, amidst these shifts in Argentine art production, Grippo’s practice turned from circuit paintings to large scale installations, often using the potato, that grappled with social issues. Grippo writes that he:

    [B]egan to work with potatoes as a material… ‘to consecrate’ an everyday object and discover its multiple significations. Art and science—logic and analogue—served as instruments. Later, almost without thinking about it, I articulated some symbols: man’s foodstuffs, the trades, energy and the rose, the disequilibria and consequent transformations. (Grippo 2014, 16)

    The potato is a central part of Grippo’s complex visual language, along with roses and lead, due to his ongoing interest in alchemy and the history of science and served as a connection to life and liveness, in particular. He also writes, in verse, that:

    I consider myself a realist

    what is more real than a live potato

    what is more real than Pb (lead) carried [sic]

    shown in its fixity, in its behavior,

    what is more real than seeds (Grippo, 2014, 19).

     

    Life, then, is as much the object of Grippo’s work as the circuit. Change over time, growth, the ability to open and change with the world, the living material of the potato symbolizes the possibility for both individual and social growth. He also, in a conversation remembered by critic Guy Brett, cited post-war British military experiments aimed at building biological batteries powered by micro-organisms as one influence,(Grippo 2017, 8). Analogía I, then, can be read as a more liberatory re-reading of this military project that sought to imagine a biological battery for social conscience instead of for military power.[2]

    At the center of this re-reading, both theoretically and literally, was the voltmeter and related text at the center of the first version of Analogía I. In it, Grippo lays out three analogies: (1) between “Papa (Quechua name)” and the Latin concientia, “the inner feeling through which man acquires an appreciation for his actions… freedom of conscience. Right recognized by any government to each citizen to think as he pleases.”; (2) between the potato as “daily function; basic food” and “daily form of conscience; individual conscience,”’ and (3) “extension of daily function” source of electric energy (0.7 volt per unit) and “extension of conscience. Source of conscience of energy.” [3] The potato here becomes the locus of a set of entangled analogies to energy, freedom, rights, and conscience, both individual and social, but also how we become aware of our own actions and their impact on others, which is to say, it asks about networks of care on a macro level.

    Each tuber’s .7 volts of latent power are wired together, measured by the central voltmeter as an analogy for the general power of the social field. In connecting each individual potato with wires, the rhizomatic root network of a potato plant is replaced with the technical assemblage of wire, electrode, voltmeter and potato. Put differently, a technical network replaces a natural one, materializing and systematizing the formal relations between different parts of a single organism. Unlike the cybernetic analogy, which placed organic and inorganic systems on the same field, allowing for a set of equivalences and exchanges between distinct systems, Analogía I refuses distinctions between the organic and the inorganic in favor of a different network analogy, in which the social field is always already natural and technical. There is no distinction to be overcome. A series of distinct phenomena are thus rendered parallel, as potato is equated to person, energy to cognition, and a burgeoning techno-organic network to social relations. Further, the voltmeter computes the total electrical generation produced by the system which, following Grippo’s own analogy, is a computation of a social conscience and consciousness.

    It is precisely this question of the politics of the network that returns us to the grid. Analogía I forwards an ambiguous politics that vacillates between the potential of a coming-together referenced in the written analogies to the severity of the grid itself, a move that celebrates mutual care while also subtlety critiquing the political potential of this analogy through the grid that mediates the network. Justo Pastor Mellado notes that as much as Analogia I is about an emerging consciousness, the potatoes are enclosed in wooden cages (Mellado, 2004, 308). The cell of the grid echoes the plant cell, which at the moment of its discovery was named after the Latin cella, for a small room reminiscent of a monk’s cell (Mazzarello, 1999). The plant cell was then always emergent from an architecture of power meant to organize bodies, or in this case raw being. Multiple parallel cells, separate but together, produce the vitality of multicellular life just as different potatoes, distinct but linked together, produce consciousness for Grippo. We could term this cellularity, denoting the collapse of social and spatial relations with biological ones through the figure of the cell.  Pastor Mellado also argues that just to mention an electrode “reminds us of torture; in particular, the application of an electric current to the body,” (2004, 308).  A computer that models social conscience and consciousness becomes as menacing as it is liberatory, capturing life as much as it emancipates it.

    Yet more than the torture chamber, the grid here denotes a tension between the organic and the inorganic and the twin processes of regularization and normalization. As Bernhard Siegert notes, the grid is a cultural technique of ordering and representation that is first an imaging technology, because it projects a three-dimensional world into a two-dimensional plane, secondly a diagram that traverses the real and the symbolic, and finally it constitutes a world of objects imagined by a subject in his reframing of the Heideggerian gestell (Siegert 2015, 98). Put differently, the grid is a medium that merges representation and operation through deixis. Yet a second idea of the grid for Siegert emerges in which it symbolizes a cartographic imaginary emergent from South America and Argentina in particular. Here, the grid is the organizing principle of colonial topography, a division and organization of space that, while originally devised in antiquity, reaches its advanced form in the Spanish colonial city plan, which is infinitely reproducible and expandible (2015, 108-9). It is in the city that the grid re-emerges in three dimensions, moving from abstract deixis and cartography to a principle for the ordering of space through reproducible cells, which are both organizational technique and visual practice. And it is in Argentina that Siegert locates the apogee of the grid as a spatial technique in three dimensions. In 1929, Le Corbusier visited Argentina, where he developed his theory of the cell as the building block in architecture, both via his trip in an ocean liner to Argentina and his plane rides over different cities in South America, like Buenos Aires, La Plata, and Montevideo, which had distinct grid plans. For Siegert, “Le Corbusier’s real model for cellular construction was neither plant nor prison but the machine,” an idea that he claims only developed in his visit to South America (2015, 116).

    Is not neither plant nor prison but machine the central principle of Analogía I? As neither holist organic networked, linked by mutual exchange and care, nor model for the prison cell, Analogía I is a model of a social machine that is always-already organic and inorganic, holding the potential for new ways of coming together just as much as it holds the potential for capture and control, a contradiction that structures for Grippo’s installation and that he never seeks to paper over. Yet, the grid here takes on a distinct valence, as, contra Siegert, it is not a cultural technique of ordering and of territorialization, emerging from cartography and Renaissance perspective, but a network architecture. 

    III

    This second formulation of the titular analogy is thus not a return to a prelapsarian before, bringing a social conscience back to the soil, which in this version is constrained to a single square behind the chair. Each potato remains networked and connected to a single point: a voltmeter, albeit one that instead of dividing the installation into two equal parts is set off to the side like a pulpit or control panel. There are three major changes here: the grid has been replaced by a non-standardized and distributed network; some potatoes have been returned to the soil without being disconnected; and an empty chair holds not the head of the table but serves as a step for yet more potatoes as they move from ground to a set table, or vice-versa.

    Analogía I (2da. Version) rejects the grid as organizing principle but does not reject the central analogy of the installation nor Grippo’s material theorization of the social as an (in)organic machine. If the first iteration was organized into a set of discrete elements, here there is a return to more seemingly natural forms that recall less the prison cell than woven knots of roots in soil. Despite organizational differences, Grippo’s intervention remains the same, asking the viewer to analogize a deceptively simple system of potatoes and wires to a broader theory of the social. In both, it is the voltmeter that serves as the interface between system and environment. The formal shift in organization between the two installations, alongside the maintenance of the analogy itself, may seem to point to an incoherence to the political claims that ground his analogy. However, it is the refusal of easy organicist interpretations that would prioritize organic networks as a model of the social or mechanistic interpretations that would prioritize technical interconnection that grounds Grippo’s work. The fundamental contradiction between the two different version of Analogía at the level of the politics of their networked form, between each potato being held separately or strewn across a table such that they can touch each other, speaks to the tension between the network as a mode of control and a new horizontal modality of care, even as they both remain more similar than they appear.

    In 1972, between the two versions of the installation, CAyC organized an exhibition in a public plaza. Grippo installed a rural-style oven to make bread, handing out warm bread in an installation that merged proto-relational art, arte povera, and his own interest in transforming simple materials through heat and energy. The next day, the police impounded the installation and destroyed the oven. The epigraph to the exhibition has included a long quote from Louis Althusser, that “One could propose the hypothesis that a great work of art is that which acts within an ideology at the same time that it distances itself from it to constitute an act of critique of the ideology it sets forth, in order to allude to different ways of perceiving, feeling, hearing, etc., that surpass existing ideology by freeing itself from its latent myths,” a line of critique that aptly applies to Analogía I as well (Longoni 2004, 285). Analogía I proposes new ways of interconnecting and raising the social conscience while also subtending such a possibility, forwarding an ideology critique of both the network and attempts to organize the social following nature’s own systems of interconnection, holding up care as critique and critique as care.

    A parallel debate on the relation between nature and the social and the politics of the model was occurring across the Andes, where Chilean biologists Humberto Maturana and Francisco Varela De Maquines y Seres Vivos began outlining their theory of autopoiesis or la biología del conocer and eventually diverged due to Maturana’s belief that a social autopoiesis      was possible, an organicist turn that Varela strongly disagreed with. Autopoiesis is a theory of self-organizing systems that grapples with the foundational question of what is (cellular) life, but it is a theory of politics and social organization as well.[4] Autopoiesis, in its beginnings, concerned how nervous system activity, and thus the organism in general, is only triggered by the nervous system itself, and the “external world would have only a triggering role in the release of the internally determined activity of the nervous system.” (Maturana and Varela, 1980, 121). It is in this observation that autopoiesis is borne, as the circular activity of the organism (or the cell, or the system) constitutes the auto-, the self-production at the heart of the theory. A central question is thus how can an organism maintain its own identity as it constantly changes.

    Maturana and Varela distinguished between the organization of a unity (an inside, a system, an organism) and a medium (in which the unity is embedded), which can also be phrased as the difference between the system of relations that constitute a unity and the actual structure of a unity in a particular moment (Maturana, 1972, 46-47). Organization is maintained even as structures change. Further, the relation of unity to medium, or how the unity is embedded and relates to its environment, is a pre-requisite for life. In a late publication, Varela reframed the central tenets of autopoiesis as whether the system has a semi-permeable boundary, is self-producing, and able to regenerate the components of the system (Varela 2000). Key to these distinctions is semi-permeability and operational closure. The former is how autopoietic systems are organizationally closed but structurally open, while the latter refers to how autopoietic systems are neither representational, because the terms of the systems reactions are determined by its organization, nor solipsistic, because the nervous the system does interact with the environment at the level of its structure. Outside inputs are triggers that are only registered if the system’s organization allows them to be. The relatively simple recursivity of first order cybernetics’ theories of feedback is now transformed to one in which the observer is not a neutral transducer of information but actively produces itself.

    Analogía I is not an autopoietic system per se, but the tension between an autopoietic theory of a system and Grippo’s installation reveal something of a nascent Southern circuit, emergent from the political and material conditions of the Southern Cone, organized around the same central contradiction as the two versions of his installation. The network modeled in both versions of Analogía I contains something of a cybernetic enclosure, as it is only accessible through the voltmeter that selectively determines and processes the systems output. What is crucial here is not the network itself, in autopoietic terms the structure, which is of course not self-reproducing as a potato cannot wire itself nor produce new mechanical components, but rather how Grippo analogizes two distinct autopoietic systems of the organic potato and the social, united by a technical apparatus. It is here that the political implications of autopoiesis can be drawn forth, even as autopoiesis is often understood as either an epistemological or ethical rather than political quandary by interlocutors in the humanities and social sciences. This is the crux of Cary Wolfe’s critique of how autopoiesis contains a humanism that:

    manifests itself in the philosophical idealism which hopes that ethics may somehow do the work of politics. What we find here, in other words, is (to borrow Fredric Jameson’s formulation) a kind of “strategy of containment” whereby the post-humanist imperatives of second-order cybernetics are ideologically recontaied by an idealist faith in the social and political power of reason, reflection, voluntarism, and what Jameson calls “the taking of thought (1995, 62).

    For Wolfe, this is due to Maturana and Varela’s transformation of the particular values of their milieu into a universal theory of the system, particularly their focus on the necessity of love, which is transformed into imperative. This leads to a confrontation with the fundamental idea for him that all points of view are not valid because they have differentially distributed effects in the social field. Where then is social antagonism?

    If Wolfe seeks to uncover a latent humanism in autopoiesis, Sylvia Wynter turns to autopoiesis to understand, and subtend, the production of the liberal human throughout her work, starting with her 1984 essay “The Ceremony Must be Found.” For Wynter, whose wide-ranging oeuvre is too expansive so be summarized here, autopoiesis serves as the mechanism for her hypothesis of auto-speciation and elaborate a “new science,” in conjunction with Caribbean thought (Wynter 2003, 328). Autopoiesis serves as the logic behind how sociogenesis functions, in material-semiotic systems, and how certain genres of the human have become overrepresented, leading to a world in which Man2, or the liberal homo oeconomicus has come to stand in for the human.

    Wynter, while primarily focusing on autopoiesis as a biological theory that she brings into conversation with Black and Caribbean philosophy, attends to autopoiesis in its larger dimension as theory of the social. Yet, the focus remains on neuro-biological feedback, particularly among her interlocutors. For Katherine McKittrick, Wynter:

    [R]eads biological theory to claim that autopoiesis—the consensual circular (not teleological-evolutionary) organization of human life through which we scientifically live and die as a species—draws attention to “a new frame of meaning, not only of natural history, but also of a newly conceived cultural history specific to and unique to our species, because the history of those ‘forms of life’ gives expression to [a] . . . hybridly organic and . . . languaging existence, (2015, 145).

    Such readings of autopoiesis render it a theory of the cell and remove its epistemological, and political, valences. Similarly, in the same volume, Walter Mignolo charts a divide between autopoiesis as theory of perception in which:

    [T]he living organism that fabricates an image of the world through the internal/neurological processing of information. Thus, Maturana made the connection between the ways in which human beings construct their world and their criteria of truth and objectivity and noticed how their/our nervous system processes and responds to information. (2015, 106)

    What is missing here is precisely how autopoiesis was never just a theory of perception, except perhaps in its earliest form as Maturana and Lettvin’s experiments on the frog’s eye 1959, over a decade before Maturana and Varela first deployed the term autopoiesis. In rendering autopoiesis a scientific theory transferred to the social field, the particularities of autopoiesis’s emergence remain obscured.

    Autopoiesis was always-already a critique of reason, at least for Maturana if not for Varela. In their later years, the two diverged on precisely this question of politics. Maturana, in a 1991 letter responding to a review of the Tree of Knowledge, critiques “the defense of truth, the defense of reason, or the defense of universal transcendental values under the claim that the defender is intrinsically right and the others are intrinsically wrong,” (1991, 92). Here, Maturana is suspicious of both reason and truth and their claims to universality grounded in an enlightenment idealism, because he distinguishes between “constitutive operational legitimacy of all manners of living in the biological domain,” which “does not carry with it the acceptance of all manners of living as equally desirable in the human domain of coexistence,” a distinction that echoes the autopoietic division between organization and structure (Maturana, 1991, 92). Central is how Maturana can never know what is “biologically, transcendentally good” or “biologically transcendentally bad,” (1991, 90-91). Maturana is not speaking abstractly about reason or truth, however. He grounds his critique in Pinochet’s dictatorship, which he opposes on political grounds rather than by that he is intrinsically right. This is clearest in a response Maturana wrote to Morris Berman’s review of The Tree of Life. Berman claimed that Pinochet was, when read autopoietically, “biological distortion” and that Allende was “biologically legitimate,” leading Maturana to contend that “Berman says that he is not ‘willing to display any tolerance; to people like General Pinochet. If he says so because he thinks that he is intrinsically right and that General Pinochet is intrinsically wrong, he is speaking like General Pinochet,” and that “Salvador Allende does not “represent one of the highest forms of biological integrity,” as Berman says. He was a human being who could not escape being trapped in the meshes of a network of ideological fanaticism. There is nothing like a biological distortion or like biological integrity in the domain of biology,” (1991, 91, 96) In a strange turn of phrase here, Maturana both rejects claims to biological legitimacy through an understanding of biology. Even as nature cannot be used as the grounds for making a political claim, he still deploys autopoiesis as a framework for politics: there is no operational legitimacy in biology, but only autopoietic operations are legitimate.

    For Maturana, then, autopoiesis is a political response to organicist claims that ground politics in biology, or biologize and naturalize the political field, while, at the same time, contending that the very rules of the social are still emergent from biology – he wants to have it both ways. He applies autopoietic semi-permeability or operational closure to the political realm to ground the autopoietic organization of politics in nature or in his words biology, while disavowing such moves at the level of structure. Varela strongly disagreed with Maturana’s turn to autopoiesis as a theory of the social field because:

    [A]ll extension of biological models to the social level is to be avoided. I am absolutely against all extensions of autopoiesis, and also against the move to think society according to models of emergence, even though, in a certain sense, you’re not wrong in thinking things like that, but it is an extremely delicate passage. I refuse to apply autopoiesis to the social plane. That might surprise you, but I do so for political reasons. History has shown that biological holism is very interesting and has produced great things, but it has always had its dark side, a black side, each time it’s allowed. (Varela, 2002)

    In rejecting the inherent organicism and holism of Maturana’s autopoiesis tout court, Varela underscores the failures of politics emergent from biology, a charge that Maturana himself tries to avoid by distinguishing between how all life has operational legitimacy and the non-acceptance of all these legitimate autopoietic unities as good. Following Wolfe’s critique, this is also the effect of a latent humanism in autopoiesis both in its development of universal rules and in its inherent speciesism. Autopoiesis seeks to escape organicism by the same mechanisms with which it defines its own semi-permeability to the world: operational closure.

    There is an echo in Maturana and Varela’s debates over autopoiesis’s political valence and how it can serve as a critique of reason and truth, due to how it destabilizes any claim to a universal even as, via sleight-of-hand, it functions through a set of seemingly natural laws itself, of the tensions between the two instantiations of Analogía I. Turning to autopoiesis uncovers a shared concern with how social systems are modeled on, nested in, and emergent from natural systems following natural laws that emerged in tandem. Yet Grippo never offers a hierarchy of one system to another, in which the social field is immanent from and reducible to, at the right level of abstraction, the organization of a cell. Instead, he makes a parallel move, destabilizing the network as a technology of either capture and liberation, restaging Maturana and Varela’s debate. Beyond showcasing a crisis of meaning of the network in this era, there is also a nascent critique against reducing mutual interdependence to a technical or natural system and the easy analogies between environmental and natural networks that impoverish both. In thus critiquing overdetermined theories of the social field by acting within it (via the model), Analogía I makes the network and circuit visible. In the move between the grid and the entangled network, between the plant, the prison cell, and the machine, what structures the scene is a social and political field that remains open and able to serve as the grounds for politics. The social can never be fully resolved because the same analogy can be organized differently such that one iteration can be read as a torture chamber and another as a cell. If for Maturana “the social is constituted in relations of love,” (1991, 89) which are also relations of care, Grippo’s installation models a different yet related circuit in which antagonism, difference, and contingency, which is to say politics itself, remain open. Systems, and here the social, can be organized differently – that is the work, rather than ascertaining a certain truth in nature or technics. Instead of elevating biologically inspired notions of care and love, at the risk of holism or organicism, pace Varela’s critique, Grippo holds them in delicate tension: machine and vegetable, electricity and life, grid and tangle.

    Henry Neim Osman is a PhD candidate in the Department of Modern Culture and Media at Brown University. He works across media theory, science and technology studies, and philosophy of technology. His dissertation, “Analog Immediacy: Computation and Critique at the Ends of the Digital,” historicizes the recent resurgence of analog computing and AI and critiques how life is reconceptualized by new computers at the limits of the digital. His work has been published in Digital War, Film Quarterly, Surveillance & Society, and Media Fields.

    References

    “ICAA Documents Project Working Papers Number 5.” Houston: Museum of Fine Arts Houston (MFAH), 2017. 

    “Manifiesto invencionista”. Accessible: https://monoskop.org/images/1/18/Manifiesto_invencionista_1946.pdf.    

     “Victor Grippo,” Museo Universitario de Arte Contemporaneo (MUAC), 2014, 16. Accessible:            https://muac.unam.mx/assets/docs/p-057-f_muac_016-int-grippo.pdf. 

    Camnitzer, Luis. Conceptualism in Latin American Art: Didactics of liberation. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007.

    Gilbert, Zanna. “Ideological Conceptualism and Latin America: Politics, Neoprimitivism and Consumption.” rebus: a journal of art history & theory 4 (2009): 1-15.

    Glusberg, Jorge. “Arte e ideología,”  Hacia un perfil del arte latinoamericano. Buenos Aires: Centro de Arte y Comunicación (CAyC), 1972. 

    Korte, Bernhard. Mathematics, Reality, and Aesthetics – A Picture Set on VSLI-Chip-Design. Berlin: Springer Verlag, 1991.

    Longoni, Ana. “Víctor Grippo: his poetry, his utopia.”  In Grippo: Una Retrospectiva, ed. Marcelo Pacheca. Buenos Aires: Malba, 2004. 283-291. 

    Maturana, Humberto R.  and Francisco J. Varela, Autopoiesis and Cognition: The Realization of the Living. Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1980.

    Maturana, Humberto R. “Response to Berman’s critique of the Tree of Knowledge.” Journal of Humanistic Psychology 31, no. 2 (1991): 88-97.

    Maturana, Humberto R., and Francisco J. Varela. The tree of knowledge: The biological roots of human understanding. Boulder: New Science Library/Shambhala Publications, 1987.

    Mazzarello, Paolo. “A unifying concept: the history of cell theory.” Natural Cell Biology 1, E13–E15 (1999).

    McKittrick, Katherine. “Axis, bold as love: On Sylvia Wynter, Jimi Hendrix, and the promise of science.” Sylvia Wynter: On being human as praxis (2015): 142-63.

    Mignolo, Walter. “Sylvia Wynter: What Does It Mean to Be Human?”. Sylvia Wynter: On Being Human as Praxis, edited by Katherine McKittrick. New York, USA: Duke University Press, 2015, 106-123.

    Nakamura, Lisa. “Indigenous circuits: Navajo women and the racialization of early electronic manufacture.” American Quarterly 66, no. 4 (2014): 919-941.

    Pastor Mellado, Justo. “Víctor Grippo’s Chilean novel.” In Grippo: Una Retrospectiva, eds. Marcelo Pacheca. Buenos Aires: Malba, 2004. 307-311. 

    Siegert, Bernhard. Cultural techniques: Grids, filters, doors, and other articulations of the real. Fordham University Press, 2015.

    Silverman, Kaja. The Miracle of Analogy, or, The History of Photography. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2015.  

    Van Doesburg, Theo. Concrete Art Manifesto. Accessible: https://monoskop.org/images/9/91/Concrete_Art_Manifesto_1930.pdf. 

    Varela, Francisco “Autopoïese et émergence.” In La Complexité, vertiges et promesses. Ed. Réda Benkirane. Paris: Le Pommier, 2002. 

    Wolfe, Cary. “In search of post-humanist theory: the second-order cybernetics of Maturana and      Varela.” Cultural critique 30 (1995): 33-70. 

    [1] Contemporary writers like Jack Burnham, writing in 1968, argue that this marks a shift “from an object-oriented to a systems-oriented culture. Here change emanates not from things but from the way things are done,” Jack Burnham “Systems Esthetics,” Artforum, September 1968; South here refers to a broader reorientation along the lines of Joaquin Torres García’s provocation that “Nuestro norte es el sur,” or that our north is the south.

    [2] There are echoes of Joseph Beuys here as well, who two decades later began his own series using lemons as batteries. Beuys knew of Grippo but the level to which he was influenced by Grippo’s earlier practice is still debated.

    [3] This text is the translation used by an English-language version of Analogía I (first version) bought by Harvard Art Museums in 2010.

    [4] Autopoiesis can be traced back to Maturana’s foundational 1959 paper, co-authored with Jerome Lettvin, Warren Mculloch and Walter Pitts, “What the Frog’s Eye Tells the Frog’s brain.” Before this paper, the retina was seen as a light receptor that simply transferred light into visual signals that were then processed by the brain. What Maturana et al. showed was that, after implanting an electrode onto the optic nerve, there were feature detectors that processed visual information directly in the retina itself, prioritizing for the frog visual recognition of small, intermittent quickly moving dots, which were termed “bug detectors.” The retina was no longer an objective sensor passing information along, but proof that the frog never neutrally saw. Instead, the structure of its eye determined and constructed the frog’s view of reality such that perception was not automatically representational. This is a type of boundary work, producing what would later be termed an operational closure onto the frog. Autopoiesis took this intervention further to show how the observer produces what they observe, moving beyond the assumption in this early article that there was an objective reality to which the frog did not have full access.

  • Tomás Borovinsky–The Argentina Chapter: An Introduction

    Tomás Borovinsky–The Argentina Chapter: An Introduction

    This essay is part of “The Argentina Chapter” of the b2o Review‘s dossier “The University in Turmoil: Global Perspectives”. 

    The Argentina Chapter: An Introduction

    Tomás Borovinsky

    The texts gathered in this dossier examine how the global crisis of the university acquires a particular intensity in Argentina, a country in which the university has been a central institution of democratic life for more than a century. Around the world, universities have seen their historical sources of legitimacy erode under the pressures of new managerial regimes, standardized evaluation systems, unstable budgets, and a public sphere increasingly hostile to institutions whose value has always depended on duration, autonomy, and the slow accumulation of knowledge. In the Global South, these transformations intersect with structural inequalities and recurrent fiscal crises, sharpening the question of what universities are for—and who they are for.

    In Argentina, this global turbulence acquires a singular historical density. Since the late nineteenth century—when figures such as Domingo Faustino Sarmiento promoted a republican, secular, and universalist vision of public education—and mainly since the University Reform of 1918, the public university has functioned as a political form that has articulated autonomy, equality, and intellectual citizenship. As such, it became an engine of social mobility and a key producer of public knowledge, rooted in an Enlightenment conception of education as a right and as a condition for democratic life.

    However, the arrival in Argentina in 2023 of an openly anarcho-capitalist government, informed by paleolibertarian ideas, marks the most profound rupture in this trajectory in more than a century. For the first time since 1918, the state not only withdraws material support from the university but also questions the very legitimacy of the institution, recasting it as a moral anomaly sustained by taxation, self government (professors, graduates, and students), and egalitarian values. This conflict crystallizes in an explicit culture war. The university is labeled part of the “casta,” a vestige of statist politics to be overcome. Faculty and researchers—especially in the social sciences and humanities—are accused of indoctrination. And the institution’s own temporality—slow, deliberative, accumulative—is reframed as incompatible with a political project that celebrates acceleration, rupture, and permanent deinstitutionalization. What is at stake is not merely funding but the very possibility of autonomous knowledge production.

    Yet the crisis has also reshaped the university’s political role. The mass mobilizations of 2024 and 2025 showed that, despite the erosion of the old democratic consensus, the public university retains significant social legitimacy. Its defense, however, cannot be reduced to corporatist reflexes. The challenge—as the essays in this dossier argue—is conceptual: how to sustain critical knowledge when expertise itself becomes publicly contested, and how to reinvent the university without abandoning its historical commitments?

    Within this confrontation, the Social Sciences and Humanities (SSH) occupy a particularly vulnerable position. The anarcho-capitalist attack seeks to delegitimize them by portraying them as a “useless expense” or an elitist indulgence, contrasted with the supposed “indisputable utility” of the natural sciences. This opposition rests on an impoverished view of knowledge that recognizes only what can be immediately translated into a measurable, marketable, or technically operational product. Against this simplification, the defense of the SSH cannot be reduced to arguments about instrumental utility. Their value is deeper: they are historical practices of collective debate, bearing ethical, political, and critical dimensions, enabling societies to question what is taken for granted, revisit the past, and open possible futures. In a context where speed and efficiency become universal benchmarks, they remind us—as philosophy once insisted—of “the usefulness of the useless.” Their decisive contribution does not lie in producing immediate solutions but in sustaining a society’s capacity to think itself and to build a historical, political, and human “we.”

    Taken together, the texts in this chapter of the b2o Review’s dossier “The University in Turmoil: Global Perspectives” suggest that the path forward is not restoration but a vital search for the university’s new formations. At a moment when a global intellectual counterrevolution seeks to delegitimize collective institutions, the Argentine university offers a privileged vantage point from which to rethink what forms of democratic life remain possible. The university, that longstanding repository of promises and conflicts, may once again need to become a laboratory—an institution capable of imagining new modes of learning, participation, and everyday life amid this particular storm, and the ones to follow.

    Tomás Borovinsky is a researcher at CONICET (National Scientific and Technical Research Council, Argentina) and a professor at EIDAES–UNSAM (the Interdisciplinary School of Social Sciences at the National University of San Martín). His latest collective volume is ¿Hay algo que no esté en crisis? Arte y pensamiento en la era del cambio acelerado y sin fin (Siglo XXI). He is also the editorial director of the publishing imprint Interferencias (Adriana Hidalgo Editora), focused on contemporary thought, and the editor-in-chief of Supernova, a magazine of ideas and public debate.

  • Juan José Martínez Olguin–The University and Public Education in Argentina under “Libertarianism”

    Juan José Martínez Olguin–The University and Public Education in Argentina under “Libertarianism”

    This essay is part of “The Argentina Chapter” of the b2o Review‘s dossier “The University in Turmoil: Global Perspectives”. 

    The University and Public Education in Argentina under “Libertarianism”

    Juan José Martínez Olguin

     

    The Rise of Javier Milei and the Libertarian Revolution

    The Libertarian Revolution—the name which Javier Milei proposed to designate the set of radical transformations he intended to carry out in Argentine society if he was elected as its first and highest political authority—does not lend itself, at least at its most general level, to any confusion.[i] A revolution, today as in the past, is an invitation to make in a very intensive way profound changes of those societies where revolutionaries are called to enact it. Milei, in fact, was elected President of Argentina in the presidential elections held on November 19, 2023. His opponent was the Peronist Sergio Massa, defeated by more than ten percentage points, the largest difference between two candidates in the history of our contemporary democracy. The scene that those elections built clearly illustrated the differences between both candidates: on the one hand, there is Massa, a professional politician with a long trajectory in the different political parties that identify themselves as part of the Peronism movement. On the other, there is Milei, who is known in certain specialized circles as an outsider, someone who came from outside politics but also someone who wants to “defeat it”—that is to say, defeat politics, or at the least traditional way of doing politics, which includes the State. Paradoxically, Milei proposes doing so by weaponizing politics and the State towards their defeat–in his own words, the goal is to “destroy it (the State) from within”. His political trajectory is, frankly, astonishing: in just two years he founded his own party, La Libertad Avanza (Freedom Advances) and became a national deputy (in the 2021 legislative elections). As his appearances on various political television programs grew, so did his image and popularity.

    It is undoubtedly difficult to fully grasp the libertarian ideological and expressive universe upon which Milei’s Revolution relies or is founded, for one simple reason: beyond its presence in Western Europe and especially in the United States, libertarianism in Argentina emerges as a new political expression. Largely born in the context of pandemic isolation and lockdown policies, it fundamentally arose from the fragments of a political system in crisis due to the deep erosion of legitimacy of its two main parties: Peronism and Juntos por el Cambio (a center-right political party). However, aspects of that universe can be foregrounded due to the political activities of Milei–through his discourses and actions in the public sphere. In this sense, libertarian ideas in the Argentinian political frame come from various doctrines and intellectual traditions. First and foremost, there is the most explicit level of the libertarian symbolic universe: its economic doctrine, based on a marginal school in contemporary economic theory, the Austrian School of Economics led by von Mises and Friedrich Hayek. Milei himself frequently references them in his public appearances. Essentially, libertarianism advocates for shrinking the State to its minimum expression and expanding individual freedom over the State in all spheres of social life. This exaltation of liberty inevitably clashes with some of the most basic values of democratic life. Its strong defense of freedom—especially economic freedom—such as the legal buying and selling of organs and babies (a proposal that was floated and harshly criticized during Milei’s presidential campaign), is an example of this tension. A second defining component of the economic universe of Argentine libertarianism is Murray Rothbard’s anarcho-capitalism. Regardless of the ultimate success in implementing the transformations these doctrines propose (Milei’s government is only halfway through its term), the libertarian vocation marks, at least in this ideological-economic dimension, the most radical transformation of the economic foundations of Argentine capitalism in the last 100 years.

    The Libertarian Revolution, however, does not define itself only as an economic revolution based on the Austria School of Economics. It also and simultaneously assumes the form of a “cultural revolution”. The libertarian universe reserves a name for this facet of the revolution: the “culture war” (or “la batalla cultural,” a term popularized in Argentina by Agustín Laje, one of the ideologues of libertarianism and local radical right parties).[ii] This term and its specific meaning is shared, in fact, by the alt-right and radical right movements worldwide.[iii] Based on Gramsci’s old category of hegemony, Milei’s cultural battle seeks to transform the hegemonic meaning of some of the essential community values of at least the last 40 years—since the institution of contemporary democracy in Argentina and the rise of Ricardo Alfonsín as the first president of the country’s contemporary democratic Era (1983–1989). The culture war, in this sense, is an ideological struggle that entails profound changes in democratic life as we have known it in Argentina in recent decades. This culture war has, in fact, an enemy: “the caste,” which, according to the libertarian narrative has held Argentina’s political and cultural hegemony for the past 40 years. The caste is not, strictly speaking, a sociological and determinable group in the demographic makeup of the country. The term “caste” is the product of an expressive operation that twists perception, a “coherent deformation”[iv] of what is perceived, granting a particular form of being to a part of the “flesh of the social”.[v]

    Turned into a specific form of being of the element from which we are made—the flesh of the social—, the caste comprises different segments or social layers: the members of the cultural life of Argentina (writers, movie and television actors and actresses, film directors, etc.), welfare beneficiaries and public employees, the different political parties and politicians that alternately governed Argentina since the return of democracy in 1983, and finally, scientists and members and workers of the academic world. In each case, we can find a link to the “evils” that, according to libertarianism, plunged the country into decay: members of the cultural life and their “progressive doctrine,” welfare beneficiaries and public employees who are tied to an endemic evil: a corrupt and inefficient State, the “traditional” politicians and the failures of democracy, scientists and the public university system fostering social and political indoctrination in classrooms, on the one hand, and “partisan” or “ideologized” scientific research (especially in the Social Sciences), on the other. It is, indeed, in this context—in the context of the culture war and its various stakes, and not only in the context of its economic doctrine—that we can understand better libertarianism’s disdain for public universities and scientific research system, as well as the systematic and deliberate siege policies Milei’s government has been implementing against the whole public system of education.[vi]

    One aspect is particularly relevant: the specific twist of meaning that libertarianism gives to its notion of caste—the twist between rights and privileges. In most of his public interventions, but especially in the speech following his presidential victory, President Milei referred to his government’s vocation in terms that clearly express this twist: “We are not here to take away your rights; we are here to end privileges”.[vii] This phrase illustrates very well the constitutive twist of the ideological amalgam that defines libertarianism: what in the context of the last decades of transformations of contemporary democracies was delineated as new rights (social rights, gender rights, economic rights, etc.), have turned into privileges of what libertarians define as “the caste” in the context of the new demands and changes of democracies. This conversion, in effect, explains the figure of the State as the principal agent responsible of the promotion of those privileges, and simultaneously it delineated the ideology that must be defeated: el progresismo (the woke ideology; that is to say, those who identify themselves as “liberals” in the United States) that, according to libertarianism, expands the influence of “cultural Marxism”. Privileges, then, separate those who advocate for freedom, effort, and individual merit from those who are part of the State and live off the benefits and subsidies that the public sector provides them. This twist not only clashes with several rights enshrined in the National Constitution but, in one of its decisive aspects, confronts the very heart of the Argentine national project—from its founding to the present day, including especially the last 40 years of uninterrupted democracy: education as a right, that is, the guiding idea behind the constitution of the National State—the idea of public education. More profoundly still, it opposes the conception held by a figure who, through both his theoretical reflection and his political practice, played a central role in shaping the historically situated form of public education in Argentina: Domingo Faustino Sarmiento.

    The Figure of Sarmiento and Public Education in Argentina

    Sarmiento was not only President of Argentina during the years of the foundation of the National State (from 1868 to 1874) but also a profound thinker—not just a thinker of education but also of the social and political conditions of existence of his own Argentina, whose thought and actions made him a central figure throughout Latin America. Sarmiento’s thought radiates and permeates Argentine culture, but also Latin American culture, in an irreversible way.[viii] In the historical configuration of education as a public institution in particular, his thought was and remains decisive. Strongly influenced by the French Revolution and its ideas just a few decades after it took place, Sarmiento wrote a book that laid the foundations for the idea of public, common, or popular education on Argentine territory: Sobre la educación popular (On Popular Education).[ix] Sarmiento (who by then was in exile in Chile) begins the text that was commissioned as a “Technical Report for the Minister of Public Instruction of Chile, Manuel Montt,” by exploring the historical origin and essential condition of public education: its conception as a human right. He writes:

    Public instruction is a purely modern institution, born from the dissensions of Christianism and made a right by the democratic spirit of current association. Until two centuries ago, there was education for the ruling classes, for the priesthood, for the aristocracy; but the people, the plebeians, did not, properly speaking, form an active part of nations. It would have seemed as absurd at that time to claim that all men should be equally educated as it would have been two thousand years earlier to deny the right of making slaves… It is not my intention here to tell the history of the series of events and conquests that have brought Christian peoples to the point they have reached today… For now, let us be content with the fact that each progress in institutions has tended to this primary objective, and that the freedom acquired… has contributed in masse to the use of rights that today no longer belong to such or such class of society, but simply to the condition of human being.[x]

    This conception of public education as a human right had its institutional imprint on Argentine society in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. And in this institutional imprint Sarmiento was, in fact, decisive. In this sense, the promulgation of Law 1420 in 1884, which established free and secular public education, was the first major step in this direction. The construction of public schools, particularly during Sarmiento’s presidency, and the literacy process of Argentinian citizens advanced in just a few decades by giant steps (by the early twentieth century, Argentina had the highest literacy rate in Latin America). Despite the antagonisms and political conflicts that configure the twentieth century in Argentina, and even the early twenty-first century, the materiality of the trace of Sarmiento’s thought regarding education and the public system remained intact. And despite, also, the institutional discontinuities and coups d’état that took place during the last century (and therefore, the selective policies the military governments adopted to undermine, above all, the public university through partial closures of certain careers or faculties).[xi] The arrival of democracy in 1983 expressed, in the words of the newly elected president Raúl Alfonsín–“With democracy, not only do we vote, but we also eat, heal, and educate”[xii]–the most intense moment of the omnipresent legacy of Sarmiento’s trace, by linking the form of public education with the very form of democracy (something Sarmiento indeed did throughout his own thinking). In other words: in the promise of a social democracy with greater rights, much of Sarmiento’s reflection and his political, cultural, and institutional roots, crystallized.

    The University and Public Education Under the Siege of the Libertarian Revolution

    Public universities in Argentina have a strong and decisive source of inspiration in Sarmiento’s legacy of education as a human right: “higher education,” it is stated in the current Higher Education Law, “is a public good and a human right”.[xiii] The set of laws and measures that Milei’s government has been implementing, particularly against the public university system, is framed, therefore, within this dual ideological pillar that inspires the Libertarian Revolution: its economic doctrine, on the one hand, and its political-cultural doctrine, the culture war, on the other. While the first defends the market’s presence as a regulator of the various spheres of social life, and consequently emphasizes its decisive role in offering education as a “public” service (and not as a right), the second entails a much deeper critique to our actual public system of education. In his recent book on this subject, Argentine anthropologist Pablo Semán points out a central aspect in this regard: those who identify themselves as militants of the libertarian movement do not show a detachment or direct rejection of the common wealth or the public sector, but rather of the “state of the State,” that is to say, they do not reject the “abstract idea” of the State, but its real and material conditions of operation and existence in daily life.[xiv] Rejection of the “state of the State” is also, therefore, a rejection of those who “live” due to the benefits of that State, whether in the form of benefits from social welfare programs or as public employees. A double gap, therefore, separates these individuals from private employees or entrepreneurs: first, the former maintain a salary without the risk involved in entrepreneurship, creativity, and sacrifice, while the latter dignify their income through the effort and merit that the risks of the labor market require. Second, this gap was widened by the pandemic and the restrictive measures and lockdowns that limited public freedoms, and especially, in the case of younger generations, the freedom to work. It is in this precise context that university professors and the academic world in general became targeted as part of the caste.

    There is, indeed, a second element which is critical for the libertarian political and cultural imagination regarding the academic world, an element inherent, on the other hand, in its condition as a caste: the excessive presence of political trends, especially Marxism, which, according to libertarianism, operate as a form of indoctrination of youth, limiting their freedom (this criticism, in effect, also applies for the scientific system, particularly the scientific productions of the National Council of Scientific and Technical Research [CONICET], for their “ideological biases”). The criticism, which I would argue extends to the scientific system in general, is proclaimed as part of the “culture war.” It is not, however, just a cultural critique. It is a rejection of the political views that libertarianism repudiates, and a form of rejection of “politics” in general. Public universities and the scientific system, for example, are, according to libertarianism, unnecessarily tainted with political practices and political ideologies. Unproductive papers, useless research, and superfluous activities are the consequence of the presence of the caste in the scientific and academic system of Argentine society. This rejection of the “university and scientific caste” as a source of political and ideological visions which are dangerous to society can also be easily seen in the criticism of Trumpism, which is very close to Milei’s movement, of woke ideology in the United States.[xv]

    One final aspect, however, is decisive for understanding the rupture that the Libertarian Revolution and its political principles produce, or aim to produce, in historical and political terms. This aspect pertains in particular to public universities and the university system as a whole, but more generally also to the educational system that founded and was founded in parallel with the Argentine State and which has in Sarmiento its most illustrious thinker. Paradoxically, public university and the Argentine university system reached what, for Sarmiento, was central in the process of democratizing public education, and is evident from the title of the aforementioned work, On Popular Education: the institution of a “popular action” capable of “improving public education”, that is to say, the institution of public education as a “collective work”.[xvi] Sarmiento’s greatest challenge was achieving the realization of that popular action and that collective work in primary education, a necessary pillar, of course, for the existence of higher education. What is important to emphasize at this point is, however, the status of those decisive terms—popular action and collective work—, because they reveal the relationship which Sarmiento establish between education and civil society or citizenship, or more specifically, between democracy and public education. In other words: they are decisive to understand his conception of popular education 

    Popular education, in fact, is not, for Sarmiento, an abstract concept or a model to follow in institutional, social, or pedagogical terms. On the contrary, it is a historically situated educational experience: that of 19th-century United States, and very particularly, that of the northern states of Massachusetts and Connecticut. There, Sarmiento notes, the funds and most elementary needs of district schools, unlike the public education systems of Holland, England, and Prussia, are obtained through what in the northern country are called annual meetings, which are public assemblies of parents, school staff, and “individuals with zeal and instruction,” who decide together and through debate the amounts of those funds and their different destinations. To put it in another way: Sarmiento found that, in these districts, education is the product of the collective action of those who are involved in the educational system. This aspect is decisive because it reveals the bond between democracy and education or, more precisely, their intrinsic, and to use Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s term, chiasmatic, relationship.[xvii]

    The idea of popular education thus implies the retreat of education upon itself, its institution and self-institution, the institution and self-institution of its form and content. In this sense, and returning to Sarmiento’s own words, if public education is a purely modern institution, born from the divisions of Christianity and turned into a right by the democratic spirit of the contemporary forms of society, this spirit, I add, is the one that simultaneously configures it and gives it its transitory form. The concept of popular education involves a self-reflective movement of education as a public good: it is not only a right enshrined for the individual and society as a whole but also an act that society and the individual give to themselves, and give in a double sense: they grant it (thus, it is a right) and they give it its form and content (it is the product of collective work). Democracy, as a form, thus coincides with education as a pedagogical and political act. In the Argentine university system, this conception of education and its self-instituting form as a constitutive principle adopted a specific historical and legal figure: that of self-government and that of autarky, enshrined today by the National Constitution and mobilized as a social and political process by the University Reform of 1918.

    Final Words

    The siege advances, and it advances with firm steps. By this, I mean: the siege that Milei’s libertarian government is imposing through its various policies on public education and, especially, on the public university system, that is, on universities. Public education, first of all, and universities, second (but no less important), are an active and decisive part of collective life, of its cultural and symbolic forms. No one embodies this active and decisive part of Argentine society like the figure of Sarmiento because, it is Sarmiento himself who founds and roots the public education system in a movement that unfolds “in three directions”: as I have shown, his pedagogical and political thought (first direction) unfolds simultaneously with the formation of the Argentine state (second direction), which is in turn characterized by the formation and consolidation of this public education system (third direction). Both public education, and especially the universities, are an active and decisive part of the collective life of Argentine society because this movement leaves a decisive trace in the political culture: the conception of public and university education as a human right, intrinsically tied since its genesis to the genesis of the modern Argentine state. This bond between state, education, and rights, which today was turned into a new bond between democracy, education, and rights, runs like blood through the veins of the flesh of Argentine society.

    That is the way in which public universities, the most complete institutional expression of Sarmiento’s project of public education and, by extension, of the national project for the formation of the educational system and the state, have been fundamental as a political actor in Argentine modern history. From the 1918 University Reform movement, which began the process of democratization and universalization of the higher education system itself, to La noche de los bastones largos (The Night of the Long Batons), a tragic and fateful episode of that history when students, teachers, and authorities from the Faculty of Exact Sciences of the University of Buenos Aires were brutally repressed on July 29, 1966, by the military government of Juan Carlos Onganía (1966–1970), leaving a large number of victims, university life has been intertwined with political and public life, and, vice versa, political and public life in Argentina has been intertwined with university life.

    Indeed, with the beginning of the contemporary democratic cycle (1983), led by the inauguration of former President Raúl Alfonsín, this delicate and singular fold between university life and political and public life reached its highest degree of (un)folding in the promise of the foundation of contemporary democracy. The process that Alfonsín himself opened with his government resides in the idea of education as a human right, but as a human right that is part of the very contemporary condition of democracy, that is: education is a constitutive and genetic part of the contemporary expression of the flesh of the social of Argentinian democratic society. In other words: since 1983, the words of the former president in his inaugural speech at the Legislative Assembly–“With democracy, not only do we vote, but we also eat, we heal, and we educate”–have run through the intimate fibers of the flesh that shapes our collective life.

    The Libertarian Revolution evoked and led by Milei therefore seeks to rest, and in fact rests, on a very fine and delicate thread. A fine and delicate thread, because its anti-elitist vocation, in which the university and its different actors (teachers, students, and authorities) are a parasitic part of the “caste,” stands in tension not only with the public nature of higher education, but also with primary education, and more profoundly, with the role that both higher education and primary education play as horizons that organize the possible and the impossible, the sayable and the unsayable of Argentine contemporary democracy. Therefore, the Libertarian Revolution is not just about the siege of one of the symbols of the Argentine state, a symbol, in fact, of distinction throughout Latin America: it is about the siege of democracy itself or, better yet, of one of the folds that form its contemporary expression. In the context of the “culture war” and political struggle against the university world, the Libertarian Revolution finds much more than a policy of “austerity” to shrink the state: it finds the key to carry out the radical transformations that change the very physiognomy of democratic system. And in the current political context of the Western democratic world, where the emergence of extreme right-wing or radical political expressions has gained unprecedented speed, and whose corollary is, to a large extent, the implementation of a global process that, in terms of French philosopher Jacques Rancière, takes the form of an “intellectual counter-revolution”[xviii] led by these very same radical right political expressions, the attack of Argentina’s libertarianism on the university, singular as it no doubt is, is likely to embody one of many global examples of the displacement of the university from the public and political life of our democracies.

    Juan José Martínez Olguín is a researcher in political theory at EIDAES–UNSAM (the Interdisciplinary School of Social Sciences of the National University of San Martín) and at CONICET (the National Scientific and Technical Research Council, Argentina). He is also a professor at the University of Buenos Aires. A specialist in political phenomenology (Merleau-Ponty, Lefort, Rancière), contemporary French philosophy, and theories of democracy. His latest book is Los pliegues de la democracia. Derechos humanos, populismos y polarización política (Buenos Aires–Madrid, Miño y Dávila, 2025).

    [i] Milei and his political party, La Libertad Avanza, are part of what it is known in academic circles, and mostly known in public conversation of contemporary democracies, as radical right movements or extreme rights. In another text, I have focused specifically on the study of these radical movements and their expressive universe: the Jacobin style of political antagonism. Cf. Martinez Olguín, Juan José: Los pliegues de la democracia. Derechos Humanos, populismos y polarización política, Buenos Aires, Miño y Davila, 2025.

    [ii] The book La batalla cultural: reflexiones críticas para una nueva derecha (Buenos Aires, Harper Enfoque, 2022) is where Agustín Laje mostly develop his ideas. 

    [iii] “Culture war” is, in effect, the English expression for what radical right movements in Latin America call batalla cultural.  

    [iv] Merleau-Ponty, Maurice: La prosa del mundo, Madrid, Trotta, p. 70, 2015. The translation is mine. Cf. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice: Œuvres, Paris, Gallimard, 2010.

    [v] I take the expression: “flesh of the social” from Lefort (El arte de escribir y lo político, Barcelona, Herder, 2007, p. 159).

    [vi] This set of politics that Milei’s libertarian government is implementing against the public system of education and mostly against Higher Education and universities in general is composed of different layers: first of all, a critical reduction of the funds destined for the scientific system, universities and public education, the reduction of salaries for professors and academic authorities, and a presidential veto of a law sanctioned by the Congress which intended to twist the situation and recover some of the institutional mechanisms to finance the system.

    [vii] Presidential speech, October 22, 2023. Source: Clarin.com

    [viii] I highly recommend, for a larger and more accurate perspective about the influence of Sarmiento in Argentine and Latin America culture, the book of the Argentinian sociologist Horacio González: Restos pampeanos. Ciencia, ensayo y política en la cultura argentina del siglo XX (Buenos Aires, Colihue, 1999).

    [ix] Cf. Sarmiento, Domingo, F.: Educación Popular, Buenos Aires, Banco de la Provincia de Córdoba, 1989.

    [x] Ibid., p. 55. The translation is mine.

    [xi] During the XX Century, political life in Argentina was characterized by six coups d’état which interrupt the democratic cycles. The last of them, the dictatorship led by the Army (1976-1986), which ends with the Peronist government of Isabel de Perón (1973-1976), finish with the election of Raul Alfonsín as the new democratic President.   

    [xii] Raul Alfonsín’s speech at the Legislative Assembly, during the day of his assumption. 10 Decembre, 1983. Source: Digital Repository of the Chamber of National Deputies. The translation is mine.

    [xiii] Law 24.521. Source: Digital Repository of the Chamber of National Deputies.

    [xiv] Cf. Semán, Pablo y Welschinger Nicolás: “Juventudes mejoristas y el mileismo de masas. Por qué el libertarianismo las convoca y ellas responden”, in Está entre nosotros. ¿De dónde sale y hasta dónde puede llegar la extrema derecha que no vimos venir? (Pablo Semán coord.), Buenos Aires, Siglo XXI, 2023. 

    [xv] Cf. Connolly, William: Aspirational Fascism. The Struggle for Multifaceted Democracy under Trumpism, Minnesota, University of Minnesota Press, 2017.

    [xvi] Sarmiento, Domingo F.: Educación Popular, op. Cit., p. 88.

    [xvii] Cf. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice: Œuvres, Paris, Gallimard, 2010.

    [xviii] Rancière, Jacques : Les trente inglorieuses. Scènes politiques, Paris, La Fabrique, 2022, p. 12. The translation is mine.

  • Mariela Cuadro and Sol Montero–Beyond Utility: A Defense of The Social Sciences and the Humanities

    Mariela Cuadro and Sol Montero–Beyond Utility: A Defense of The Social Sciences and the Humanities

    This essay is part of “The Argentina Chapter” of the b2o Review‘s dossier “The University in Turmoil: Global Perspectives”. 

    Beyond Utility: A Defense of The Social Sciences and the Humanities[1]

    Mariela Cuadro and Sol Montero

     

    The Argentine scientific system and public universities

    The Argentine scientific and university system is based on two main pillars: scientific research and higher education. It comprises a network of decentralized national science and technology organizations—most notably the National Scientific and Technical Research Council (CONICET)—and the university system, which includes 64 national public universities as well as around 50 private universities and university institutes. The two systems reinforce each other, and this is for two reasons. Firstly, universities provide workplaces for many researchers in the Science and Technology system to conduct research. Secondly, many of these researchers work as professors on university campuses. Consequently, changes related to national scientific development also affect the functioning of national universities, albeit indirectly.

    Argentina’s scientific-university system has been closely linked to scientific progress and broader models of economic and social development. Established in the 1950s to support the government’s developmentalist strategy of the time, the scientific system has historically been tied to oscillations between developmentalist/heterodox strategies and neoliberal/orthodox approaches. While the former were driven by governments that encouraged national scientific development, the latter sought to undermine science and development through defunding and discrediting. Despite repeated attempts to dismantle it, the system has remained standing.

    The Argentine university system’s status as free and publicly funded places it in a unique position within the global context of right-wing attacks on universities, particularly on the social sciences and humanities. Since many Argentine university students come from working-class backgrounds, the discourse prevalent in other countries that university students are part of an elite ‘privileged’ class is ineffective in Argentina. Consequently, right-wing discourse in Argentina has sought to create divisions between professors and students. Categorized as ‘the caste that lives off the state,’ professors and researchers are accused of ‘indoctrinating’ students.

    The government’s ‘cultural battle’ narrative frames the argument: professors at public universities are labelled ‘socialists’ and accused of forcing students to think the same way. Consequently, universities are no longer viewed as spaces for debate, exchange, and the free circulation and production of ideas. Instead, they are discursively constituted as hierarchical and authoritarian structures that obstruct free thought.

    If the main issue that the right-wing government identifies in university life lies in the realm of ideas, it should come as no surprise that its discourse particularly targets the disciplines that are concerned with them. Hence, they become the objects of continuous attacks, mainly directed at questioning their utility. “What use are the social sciences and humanities?” their critics ask. In their defense, many have tried to highlight their contributions to public policy. In this text, however, we argue that the social sciences and humanities are far more than mere tools for public policy. Due to their ethical and political dimensions, we view them as products of collective and historical debate, enabling us to reflect on our past, question our present, and imagine alternative futures.

    Right-wing discourses and the issue of universities

    Since the 2000s, universities have been targeted by reactionary and conservative movements. In countries such as the United States, England, and France, programs and departments adopting postcolonial, feminist, anti-racist, or environmentalist theoretical perspectives have been accused of indoctrinating students, restricting pluralism, and threatening Western values. These seem to be the theoretical origins of a ‘virus’ spreading across university campuses worldwide: wokism, cancel culture, and the tyranny of political correctness.

    Attacks on the university system also lie at the heart of the Argentine libertarian right’s discourse and project. Since the beginning of his presidency, Milei and his supporters have devoted themselves to attacking CONICET and public universities in two main ways. Firstly, they have discredited the intellectual, theoretical, and practical framework of the social sciences and humanities, accusing professors, intellectuals, and scientists of belonging to an elite of dilettantes and privileged individuals. Secondly, they have cut funding for universities and science, which has a tangible impact on the lives and work of teachers and students.

    In this context, the alleged uselessness of the social sciences and humanities is key to delegitimizing these disciplines. Compared with the indisputable usefulness of the natural sciences, history, anthropology, philosophy, and classical literature, to mention only some of the vilified disciplines, are accused of being a ‘pure (useless) expense’ in a context of scarce resources. Due to their supposedly ‘elitist’ nature, they are also dismissed as mere entertainment — a privilege enjoyed by a select few and financially supported by the masses.

    The topic of usefulness as a measure of the value of scientific knowledge has become so prevalent in public discourse that even defenders of the social sciences and humanities often resort to this argument to demonstrate the value of their disciplines: they highlight the tangible, material, and immediate benefits these disciplines contribute to society. The impact of sociology, political science, gender studies, and communication sciences on public policies, development, and the advancement of social programs is therefore often emphasized, among other areas in which these disciplines can demonstrate their performance and productivity.

    The fact is that this approach to scientific knowledge does not always fulfil its promise of productivity within a short timeframe. In times of precarity and acceleration, when frustrations mount and people seem increasingly replaceable, demonstrating the effectiveness of the social sciences and humanities is becoming increasingly complex. Nevertheless, human beings will continue to address and identify social, political, and economic problems and produce ideas to solve them. The ethical-political question is who will be able to do this: a select few financed by private interests or world powers, or the many financed by our own informed public decisions?

    In this sense, the question of the usefulness of social and human disciplines can be compared to that of democracy, which does not always fulfil its promises either. Is this reason enough to discard it? So, what are the social sciences and humanities for? What is democracy for? What are universities for, beyond their often unfulfilled promises of utility and productivity?

    First, we should acknowledge that our ability to question the usefulness of human inventions is a direct result of democracy, universities, and the social sciences. These institutions enable and encourage this type of inquiry, and it is through them that we address it. As the epigraph to Nuccio Ordine’s The Utility of the Useless Manifesto states, “It is precisely the task of philosophy to reveal to men the utility of the useless, or, if you will, to teach them to differentiate between two different senses of the word utility.”

    In his Manifesto, Ordine argues that there are forms of knowledge that are not a means to an end but ends in themselves. In hostile contexts, the value of useless knowledge “is radically opposed to the dominant notion of utility which, in the name of an exclusive economic interest, progressively kills the memory of the past, the humanities, classical languages, teaching, free research, imagination, art, critical thinking, and the civic horizon that should inspire all human activity. In the universe of utilitarianism, in fact, a hammer is worth more than a symphony, a knife more than a poem, a wrench more than a painting.”[3] The exercise of these non-instrumental forms of knowledge and practice is unique to human beings and, to that extent, distinguishes us from other creatures. But calling them useless does not mean that they lack social, political, or cultural function. Precisely because of “their gratuitous and disinterested nature—far  removed from any practical or commercial purpose—these forms of useless knowledge and practice can play a fundamental role in the cultivation of the spirit and in the civic and cultural development of humanity”[4], says the Italian writer.

    Secondly, usefulness is undoubtedly a slippery category. It invites us to ask infinite questions: Useful for whom? For what? And when? This brings us immediately to the problem of capitalism and money. If the financier is the state, one might ask: Useful for whom? For the state? For the country? For its people? Then, we should ask ourselves, “What is the state? What about the country? What about the people?” These are precisely the questions for which we need the social sciences and humanities.

    As social scientists, it is crucial for us to navigate this quagmire without seeking our own salvation but rather to highlight the specific knowledge produced by our disciplines and practices. To do so, we must change the question and shift our perspective. So, we should rather ask: what do the Social Sciences and the Humanities do? Here, the question of ‘doing’ has a double meaning: firstly, how are the social sciences and humanities done? In other words, what is our daily practice as researchers? But also: what effect do the humanities and the social sciences have on the world in which we live? What do they make happen?

    “La pregunta por el oficio”: Narrating our practices

    The social sciences and humanities deal with subjects that are part of our everyday lives. We are all familiar with the issues of political science, international relations, linguistics, economics, or sociology. How often do we find ourselves discussing populism, the role of a particular country in a war, or the use of the letter ‘e’ in inclusive language in everyday situations? Our disciplines are grounded in a shared language and common sense, which connect us to our society, politics, and history.

    In fact, the distinction between doxa (the realm of common sense and opinion) and episteme (the structured body of knowledge that shapes our scientific understanding) is necessary in the scientific field. However, we cannot detach ourselves from the interaction between expert and lay discourse or between native and analytical discourse. The discourse that actors produce within a social practice shapes and influences the specialized and analytical discourse that we produce in our academic disciplines. For this reason, researchers in the social sciences and humanities are inevitably immersed in the social reality they study, and their work has a public impact in that it concerns the public and the common good. This is why they are often accused of being ‘politicized’ or even ‘partisan’, i.e., biased and influenced by ideology.

    In Argentina, in particular, the accusation of ideological ‘indoctrination’ in public universities is a ghost that the current government has repeatedly invoked. The Argentinian president himself has mocked and publicly denounced teachers for ‘indoctrinating’ students in matters of gender or national history. These suspicions assume that there are sciences that could be exempt from ideology and politicization. Not coincidentally, these are the sciences considered more ‘useful’, productive, and strategic. The accusation of ‘indoctrination’ also has an instrumental and strategic outlook. It suggests that there is a hidden interest in changing the minds of our students and readers, which is hidden behind the ‘façade’ of our research and classes. As if we too sought instrumental utility and benefit.

    From this utilitarian perspective, nobody could imagine that our work involves rules and methods, that it is a job with highs and lows, that we are sometimes overwhelmed by bureaucracy, and generally affected by the same precariousness as our societies at large. However, our work is also often full of desire, enthusiasm, and passion. In fact, it is the love of knowledge and the intellectual pleasure we derive from reading, writing, thinking, and discussing ideas that essentially drives and sustains the generation of knowledge, even in contexts of precariousness and systematic attacks.

    Like anyone else, professors and researchers have political views, but that doesn’t mean we’re devoted to teaching those political visions in classrooms. Still, our practice is also framed by rules, verification mechanisms, and evaluation and demonstration processes, as is any other scientific practice. In this sense, we regularly submit our ideas and progress for evaluation by our peers in formal and informal settings (which, incidentally, are not exempt from productivity criteria). Thus, for example, in faculty competitions and in the evaluation of our publications, colleagues and experts intervene by assigning scores and accepting or rejecting our proposals. As the academic and scientific world has public and explicit rules about research methods, it is an egalitarian and democratic system that allows us to learn from shared knowledge and criticism. Of course, this system has been widely criticized for its colonial, disciplinary, and restrictive effects, and there are forces within academia that are contributing to its transformation. However, here we want to highlight its normative function, precisely because it enables certain equalization, hierarchization, and evaluation.

    In this sense, the social sciences and humanities are not deprived of techniques – methodologies for researching, speaking, transmitting, and teaching. However, they do not necessarily adopt a technicist approach to the phenomena they address. In other words, not all social scientists seek to solve problems. Instead, much of our work focuses on identifying issues, problematizing what is taken for granted, and highlighting the historicity of what is considered natural. This critical view is fundamental, as it enables us to innovate and create possible futures. It allows us to imagine new worlds that may not materialize immediately –or ever– but which enable us to overcome inertia and modify history. This is where the ethical and political nature of scientific knowledge lies.

    In contrast to the uniformity imagined by those who attack the social sciences and the humanities, the scientific and university fields are traversed by opposing forces, conflicting interpretations, and crosscutting arguments. This is why the rules that structure research are valuable, as they provide a framework within which we can build knowledge and community together.

    The effects and the affects: What the social sciences and humanities do

    The contributions of the social sciences and humanities are valuable in themselves. They address questions about what constitutes us as humans and as a community; the construction and challenge of common sense; the defense of, and opposition to, different forms of political and social organization; the tracing of history; the exploration of identity, difference, and justice; the understanding of beauty and usefulness; and the debate around freedom and equality. At the same time, they question all that seems obvious, evident to us. The topics of our disciplines are ever-changing, evolving alongside societies and humanity. However, they are also timeless, as specific issues persist and resurface.

    We argue that humans cannot and should not be reduced to mere survival, as human characteristics far exceed notions of functioning or utility. Consequently, matters concerning society, politics, aesthetics, language, history, and ideas cannot be considered mere accessories or ornaments added accidentally to the ‘essential’, i.e., the purely reproductive, tangible, and material.

    Attacks on the social sciences and the humanities (as well as culture and the arts in general) are rooted in an ethical-political position that treats humans as mere pieces in a mechanism whose sole function is to increase profits (‘for whom?’, the critics ask). This impoverished view of humanity enables the idea of utility, which questions the social sciences and humanities. As Piovani says, this is “a merely practical utility, which implies that knowledge can be immediately translated into a tangible product, into something that can be traded on the market, that can be priced, bought and sold”.[5]

    This does not mean that there are no researchers in these disciplines who are devoted to producing knowledge in response to demands from others (the state, political parties, economic actors, or social organizations). However, the social sciences and humanities are not restricted to this. From our point of view, it would be undesirable for them to lose their critical, creative, and questioning functions. The problems posed by our disciplines extend into the future in an open, unpredictable way in science. In this sense, the social sciences and humanities may not always be immediately helpful. Still, they undoubtedly contribute to the formation of a “we”, a historical, political, social, and human community.

    Mariela Cuadro is a researcher at CONICET (National Scientific and Technical Research Council, Argentina) and a professor at EPyG-UNSAM (the School of Politics and Government at the National University of San Martín). Her work focuses on Critical International Relations Theory, Global South theories, and Middle Eastern politics. She is the author of several articles on these debates, with a research agenda centered on critical thinking and knowledge constitution.

     Sol Montero is a researcher at CONICET (National Scientific and Technical Research Council, Argentina) and a professor at the EPyG- UNSAM (School of Politics and Government at the National University of San Martín). Her work focuses on the intersection of discourse and politics, and her latest book is Avatares en el poder. Claves sobre el discurso político en redes (UNSAM EDITA, 2024).

    [1] We are grateful to Paula Salerno (Escuela de Humanidades, UNSAM) and Nicolás Viotti (Escuela Interdisciplinaria de Altos Estudios Sociales, UNSAM) for their collaboration. Their reflections provided essential input for composing this text. Nevertheless, the authors alone are responsible for the ideas presented here.

    [2] Pierre Hadot, Ejercicios espirituales y filosofía antigua, quoted in Ordine, Nuccio, La utilidad de lo inútil, Acantilado, Madrid, 2023, p.2.

    [3] Ib. p. 3

    [4] Ib. p. 1

    [5] Piovani, Juan Ignacio, “Sobre la utilidad de las ciencias sociales en tiempos de neoliberalismo y posverdad”. En Brugaletta, F., González Canosa, M., Starcenbaum, M., Welschinger, N. (ed.), La política científica en disputa: diagnósticos y propuestas frente a su reorientación regresiva. Facultad de Humanidades y Ciencias de la Educación UNLP- CLACSO, 2019, p. 123.

     

     

  • Tomás Borovinsky–The University Experiment in a Reactionary Age

    Tomás Borovinsky–The University Experiment in a Reactionary Age

    This essay is part of “The Argentina Chapter” of the b2o Review‘s dossier “The University in Turmoil: Global Perspectives”. 

    The University Experiment in a Reactionary Age

    Tomás Borovinsky

     

    The University as a Political Form

    In recent decades, universities across the world have been experiencing a global crisis. Their traditional sources of legitimacy have weakened, their funding models are under permanent pressure, and their place in society no longer seems self-evident. While universities in the Global North have been increasingly strained by managerial logics, standardized evaluation systems, and the retreat of humanist ideals, in the Global South those same forces have advanced as well, though within a much more fragile institutional landscape. In both cases, universities have been forced to adapt to a common pressure: to demonstrate efficiency, justify their existence in terms of performance, and submit their intellectual autonomy to external metrics that rarely capture the deeper meaning of academic work.

    But in the Global South, these trends are combined with additional dilemmas. The crisis of the university is inseparable from the crisis of the public sphere: budgets that fluctuate with unstable economic cycles, periods of institutional hollowing-out that erode basic capacities, and a persistent dispute over the place of knowledge in societies marked by structural inequalities. Thus, rather than two distinct processes, North and South share a common diagnosis, albeit traversed by material asymmetries. Both face the same question: how to sustain an institution that produces critical knowledge and civic education? However, they do so under very different conditions, where each global pressure acquires a particular density as it embeds itself in unequal political, economic, and social histories.
    We are living through a context of public defunding of universities and a retreat of international cooperation more generally. Even institutions such as UNESCO (to mention just one example), which in earlier times were donors and funders of research programs, now compete for funds with the very institutions they once financed.
    At the same time, as we will see in the Argentine case in particular—but also globally—we are witnessing the rise of extreme political movements that call the role of universities into question. If the modern university, heir to the Enlightenment, saw itself as a generator of “useful” scientific knowledge but also assumed a critical role vis-à-vis society, today it finds itself besieged by a reactionary tsunami that positions the university as a privileged political enemy.

    In Latin America, and this is especially the case in Argentina, the public university is not simply a space for professional training nor (only) a gear in the market: it is a political institution, a device in which, over more than a century, the promises, conflicts, and contradictions of Argentine democratic life have been inscribed. The university “convulsion” in this context cannot be reduced to an administrative or budgetary problem (though it is that as well). Rather, it expresses a dispute over the meaning of the common good and over the place that knowledge occupies in the making of a society.
    Part of this specificity has historical roots. In Argentina, the university predates the state and, in a sense, the nation itself. The National University of Córdoba, founded in 1613, and the University of Buenos Aires, created in 1821, belong to a political time much older than the Republic (1853) or the formation of the modern Argentine state (1880). In other words, they are institutions older than the state and the republic that support them today. They accumulate legitimacies, traditions, and social expectations that no political cycle so far has been able to reconfigure fully. Their persistence through dictatorships, democratizations, economic crises, and institutional reconstructions reveals something important: the university is a repository of dreams that outlive time. But how long can that dream endure?

    From this vantage point, in Argentina, the university has not been—at least over the last century—a mere educational device. Rather, it has been—and continues to be—a political form, a privileged space in which the democratic promise of Argentine modernity has been imagined, contested, and also embodied. The university articulates autonomy, equality, and intellectual citizenship, and it is a major producer of public knowledge and common goods. In the social imagination, it has been more a horizon of possible social mobility than a machine for reproducing privilege.

    As public opinion studies from the University of San Andrés, a private Argentine university, indicate, Argentine science enjoys a very positive image in society.[1] Even in moments of precarization, the university continues to be one of the few sites where the meritocratic ideal still holds, albeit in partial and conflictive ways. Where other institutions have deteriorated or lost credibility, the university—and the scientific system organized around state institutions such as CONICET—continues to operate as a space where equality seems possible, where a certain idea of the future—so fragile in contemporary Argentina—still retains a place.

    The Long Century of the Argentine University (1918–2023)

    To think about the Argentine university between 1918 and 2023 is to reconstruct a historical cycle in which the university functioned as one of the symbolic and political lungs of the country. Unlike other systems, in Argentina the public university was not limited to the transmission of knowledge: it was a stage on which models of citizenship were projected, disputes over the meaning of the State unfolded, expectations of social mobility took shape, and, above all, an imaginary of equality traversed generations. In a way, this long century constitutes the political biography of the modern Argentine university.
    The starting point is 1918. The University Reform of the province of Córdoba was much more than an academic reform: it established a way of understanding the university as a space open to deliberation, equality, and conflict. Co-governance among professors, graduates, and students, together with institutional autonomy, academic freedom, and a distinctive Latin American influence and resonance, introduced a political grammar that continued to radiate throughout the century. The 1918 University Reform emerged as a student insurrection that dismantled the inherited academic order, questioning the concentration of professorial power and the closure of participatory spaces. Its momentum opened the doors to a model of university more receptive to intellectual renewal, with selection mechanisms designed to prevent the stagnation of academic chairs, and with a conception of university life grounded in deliberation and the circulation of new currents of thought. As one of its most emblematic documents states: “Our university system—even the most recent—is anachronistic. It is founded on a kind of divine right: the divine right of the university professorship. It creates itself. It is born in it and dies in it. It maintains an Olympian distance. The University Federation of Córdoba rises up to fight against this system and understands that its life is at stake in doing so. It demands a strictly democratic government and maintains that the demos of the university, sovereignty, the right to self-government, resides principally in the students.”[2]

    The Córdoba Reform movement not only reorganized the political life of institutions but also established a generational sensibility that understood the university as a stage for social transformation, capable of projecting debates and demands beyond its own walls. Seen from today, the Reform is not so much an event of the past as an institutional language that made it possible to imagine the university as a place where knowledge circulates without tutelage, where hierarchies must justify themselves, and where power is always already in dispute. This permanent availability of conflict, this “empty place” of power, is one of the most enduring marks of Argentine university culture. As Claude Lefort writes: “where an empty place takes shape, there can be no possible conjunction between power, law, and knowledge.”[3] The university thus lives its internal effervescence while, even as part of the Argentine state, it maintains its autonomy from power.

    By the mid-twentieth century, the university entered a period of expansion, modernization, and politicization. Peronism (1945–1955), though in conflict with student organizations, ensured free tuition, and it was followed by the developmentalism of the late 1950s and early 1960s, which sought to turn the university into the engine of the national project. As a consequence, there was budget expansion, new faculties, academic professionalization, and the later creation of CONICET (the National Council for Scientific and Technical Research) as scientific infrastructure.   

    Understanding the Argentine university also requires taking seriously its intertwining with its scientific system. Since the creation in 1958 of CONICET, inspired by the French CNRS (the French National Centre for Scientific Research) and spanning the natural and exact sciences, the humanities, as well as the medical and economic fields, the country experimented with a singular architecture of knowledge: the university as a generator of knowledge and as a territory for teaching, conversation, and transmission; and CONICET as the structure that organizes research, gives it continuity, and projects it beyond political urgency. There emerged research careers, disciplinary commissions, mixed institutes: an ecosystem that breathes at the rhythm of the universities and, at the same time, gives them a depth that would be impossible without that support. Through crises and expansions, withdrawals and re-launches, CONICET maintained its mission of producing public knowledge. For this reason, speaking of the university in Argentina is never only about classrooms and students: it is about that scientific fabric that grants it historical continuity, social prestige, and a forward direction—even when the country seems to lose it.

    However, this technical impulse coexisted with a climate of growing political mobilization. Universities became territories where heterodox Marxisms, popular nationalisms, left-wing Christian movements, new social sciences, and a set of intellectual explorations circulated that exceeded the boundaries of the strictly academic. It was a time in which the militant intellectual, the modernizing scientist, and the student as political actor intersected. This politicized density transformed the university into a central battleground with authoritarian projects: intervention, censorship, expulsions, and episodes such as the “Night of the Long Batons” (1966) were attempts to break a university world that was perceived—rightly—as a hub of critical thought and social organization.

    The “Night of the Long Batons” was a turning point in the history of Argentine universities. The intervention of the dictatorship of Juan Carlos Onganía (1966–1970) and the police eviction of UBA (University of Buenos Aires) faculties revealed with absolute clarity the conflict between academic autonomy and state power. The operation interrupted research, dismantled research teams, and occurred at a moment of intense intellectual dynamism in Buenos Aires. Spaces such as the Di Tella Institute—a center for social studies and avant-garde art that, with the return of democracy, would later become a university—functioned as laboratories of artistic, scientific, and technological experimentation. This coexistence between a reformist university and an innovative cultural ecosystem, on the one hand, and a growing state desire for control, on the other, shows that the “Night of the Long Batons” was not an isolated event. It was the collision between two models of modernization: one open and experimental; the other vertical and disciplinary. The episode has since delineated the material and normative limits within which the university can produce knowledge and sustain long-term projects.

    This politicization accelerated in the 1970s, when the political radicalization of the Peronist left and the non-Peronist left was persecuted by para-state organizations such as the AAA (Argentine Anticommunist Alliance), until the 1976 military coup placed the university under direct military control. At that point, persecution intensified, censorship was consolidated, and state violence expanded, culminating in executions, kidnappings, and desaparecidos.

    With the return of democracy in 1983, the university regained its place as a laboratory of citizenship. Degree programs were reopened, exiled professors returned, institutional projects were reconstituted, and the idea that the public university was part of the democratic pact was restored. It was a period of massification, expansion into the metropolitan periphery, the creation of new national universities, and science and technology policies aimed at rebuilding a system devastated by years of authoritarianism. However, this momentum coexisted with new tensions: growing bureaucratization, internal fragmentation, budgetary difficulties, a crisis of the academic career, and a certain loss of the reformist horizon that had organized university life for half a century. The democratic university expanded access, but it did not always succeed in producing a new intellectual project capable of replacing either the militant ethos of the 1960s or the modernizing one of the 1950s.

    In the twenty-first century, the university system experienced an accelerated and unprecedented expansion. New universities in Greater Buenos Aires—a phenomenon already underway in the 1990s—expanded enrollment, and this period was marked by a renewed protagonism of the university in the public agenda. There was an increase in education spending, and investment in science grew steadily. Institutions were created, staffing expanded, and efforts were made to rebuild a scientific system battered by decades of instability and austerity. But this growth had a flip side: an increasingly unequal system between central and peripheral universities, an administrative structure that grew heavier, research circuits strained by precarization, and a proliferation of institutions, degrees, and initiatives that sometimes made it difficult to articulate a shared horizon. The reformist ethos, which in the past had operated as a motor of transformation, began to survive as a defensive gesture against the advance of a managerial culture that tended to turn the university into a collection of indicators and planning documents rather than a shared intellectual project.

    Since 1983, the Argentine student landscape has reorganized itself around a plurality of political traditions that alternated in influence. Reformist and social democratic and Peronist leadership marked the early years of the transition, promoting agendas centered on the defense of autonomy, institutional reconstruction, and the expansion of academic rights. Throughout the 1990s and 2000s, Reformist and Peronist student groups and independent formations also occupied important spaces, combining university concerns with broader debates on the role of the state and educational policy. By the early twenty-first century, the growth of left-wing groups—from Trotskyist organizations to new movements emerging from social, feminist, and territorial struggles—reconfigured the landscape, introducing a repertoire of demands tied more closely to critiques of the economic model, the democratization of academic life, and the active defense of the public sphere.

    By 2023, however, this long cycle seemed to have reached a turning point. Argentina was marking forty years of democracy (1983–2023) after half a century of dictatorships, authoritarian governments, bans, and political violence (1930–1983). The public university still retained its social legitimacy—surprisingly high for an institution subjected to recurrent crises—but it had lost part of its aura of upward mobility, future, and emancipation. The meritocratic imaginary that sustained it for decades is now eroded by a fragmented society, persistent inequalities, and a climate of political disorientation that affects all state institutions. The democratic consensus that once protected the university is no longer unquestionable: today it must justify itself, defend itself, and perhaps once again reimagine itself.
    This exhaustion of the reformist-democratic cycle defines the threshold from which the current offensive against the public university can be understood. And it turns the period from 1918 to 2023 not into a concluded era, but into a legacy now being disputed under new historical conditions.

    The Anarcho-Capitalist Offensive: Milei and the War Against Public Education

    The arrival of Javier Milei to government in 2023 marks a turning point not only in Argentine history but in that of the Argentine university in particular. For the first time since 1918, the State is not only reducing its material support for public education—something that has happened many times in the past—but is questioning the university’s social role and its very legitimacy. It’s worth noting that Milei comes to power in 2023, the year that marks forty years of uninterrupted democracy and half a century of erratic economic policies (1973–2023) producing a deterioration in people’s living conditions and successive extreme economic crises (1975, 1982, 1989, 2001, 2009, 2018, etc.) under all kinds of regimes and governments: dictatorships and democracies, right-wing or left-wing, statist or neoliberal.
    As I noted in a text I wrote with Martín Plot and Daniela Slipak, “2023 was marked by the exhaustion of a democratic regime that made economic uncertainty entirely intolerable and by the emergence of Milei as a leader who articulates critical solutions to the regime born in 1983.”[4] For the first time since 1983, a true outsider—someone outside the traditional political parties and the elite that has governed the Argentine Republic in democracy to varying degrees—had reached power. And it was Milei who knew how to make functional use of the tsunami of public anger that was emerging.[5]
    In this context, anarcho-capitalism, in its Argentine version, does not simply aim to cut budgets or reorganize ministries: it seeks to dismantle the very idea of the public as the organizing principle of common life. In this way, the public university—one of the most highly valued institutions of Argentine democracy, as we have shown—becomes a privileged ideological target. What is at stake is not only institutional continuity but the survival of a political-cultural model that associated knowledge, equality, and a shared social project.

    This movement is not unique to Argentina. There are resonances, mimicry, and contagion among movements worldwide. In Viktor Orbán’s Hungary, for example, free universities have come under such pressure that the Central European University in Budapest, founded and financed by George Soros, was forced to relocate its operations to Vienna, Austria’s capital. In the United States, radical figures such as J.D. Vance have openly declared that “university professors are the enemy.” Trumpist rhetoric has constructed the university as a polarizing figure through a convergence of dynamics also visible in Argentina: universities and the media are “hostile elites,” producers of a liberal culture deemed decadent or anti-national. The thought of Curtis Yarvin, with his theory of “The Cathedral,”[6] serves as an intellectual matrix for this worldview: the university and journalism appear as cultural devices that reproduce progressive values and block popular sovereignty. Milei feeds on this repertoire and on this global moment: he translates it into the local idiom, blends it with the media logic of provocation, and transforms it into a political program. And he also accelerates that Zeitgeist.

    Milei is a believer and an ideologue who jumped from the margins of the intellectual debate to become a global reference point for anarcho-capitalism. This transition—from professional economist to media panelist and later ideological activist—structures his relationship with knowledge: it is not so much a technical debate as a doctrinal alignment that views the public university as a bastion of “statism” to be dismantled. The problem is not only budgetary. It is philosophical: public education appears as a moral anomaly within a worldview that equates freedom with the market and the state with corruption. Ironically, Milei—a global referent of anarcho-capitalism—is a relative newcomer who found in this ideology a framework for measuring and transforming the world.

    Within this entire ideological constellation, paleolibertarianism occupies a central place. Milei came to Murray Rothbard’s work relatively late, in 2013, after which he named one of his dogs Murray. Following this epiphany, he would say: “When I finished reading Rothbard I said: ‘For more than 20 years I’ve been deceiving my students. Everything I taught about market structures is wrong. It’s wrong!’”[7] Another of his “idols” is Hans-Hermann Hoppe,[8] from whom he adopts a simultaneous critique of egalitarianism, the welfare state, and liberal democracy—an intellectual framework within which the public university becomes inconceivable: an institution supported by taxes, organized through collegiate bodies, and permeated by egalitarian values that Hoppe identifies as signs of cultural decadence. Milei takes up this matrix but cultivates it within Argentine public and historical debates, explicitly reclaiming Juan Bautista Alberdi (1810–1884), one of the founders of the Argentine constitutional order. Milei argues that the origins of all Argentine evils and of “Argentine decadence” began in 1916: curiously, the year in which “universal suffrage” (for men) was instituted. It is with the arrival of the vote, he claims, that Argentina ceased to be a “world power,” as dictated by the founding myth of the libertarian movement (we call it a myth because although Argentina’s GDP was indeed very high between the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, it is not true that it was a “world power” of any kind). And it is precisely in that democratization process initiated in 1916 that, in 1918, the spark of the aforementioned Argentine University Reform was ignited. Under this anarcho-capitalist logic, the public university is not merely an expense: it is an obstacle to the technocratic reorganization of power and to the ideal of a leader who acts without intermediaries, without checks, and without a public sphere that limits him. Within this framework, the public university—financed by the state, co-governed by professors, graduates, and students and ruled by norms that limit the market—embodies, for this new regime, the epicenter of ideological resistance.

    Thus, the offensive against public education must be read in continuity with another idea that Milei repeats insistently: the need to “destroy the State from within.” This formula—which he himself links to his admiration for paleolibertarians, and which echoes the neo-reactionary rhetoric of Silicon Valley—expresses a strategy of accelerated erosion of traditional institutional mechanisms. In this context, the public university appears as a symbol of the kind of state that the regime aims to dismantle: a state with territorial presence, egalitarian vocation, and cultural legitimacy. Rather than administering an education policy, the government seeks to modify the very conditions of possibility for any public knowledge project. The university thus becomes the site where this transformation becomes visible—not because it has been chosen as an enemy, but because it embodies what the new regime seeks to leave behind: the idea that knowledge can be organized collectively and outside the proprietary logic.

    The intellectual constellation surrounding Silicon Valley adds a decisive layer to the contemporary offensive against the public university—not only in the United States but also in Argentina under Milei. This is not a unified doctrine but a cultural milieu that associates innovation with deregulation, speed with virtue, and bureaucracy with decadence. Here we find extreme entrepreneurs, technolibertarians, accelerationists, and media figures such as Elon Musk, whose worldview rests on a simple premise: progress occurs best when there are no institutions to moderate it. In this vision, academia functions as a device that is too slow, normative, and attentive to collective procedures. The critique of scientific “slowness,” the exaltation of rapid motion, and the suspicion toward any deliberative instance shape an idea of knowledge in which the university appears as an artifact of the past. Faced with the epic of code, global scale, and technical solutionism, the public university is cast as an anachronistic world, organized in another temporality and faithful to values the new technological order deems obsolete.
    The meeting between the Argentine president and Peter Thiel at the Casa Rosada in March 2024—an event of which there are no photos, something that’s unusual for a government that constantly flaunts encounters with “great men”—symbolizes this convergence between technological acceleration and the politics of exception: two different ways of imagining the dismantling of the state converging in a shared anti-public logic.

    A more immediate gesture complements this ideological background: the de-hierarchization of expert knowledge. Martin Gurri, author of The Revolt of the Public: The Crisis of Authority in the New Millennium,[9] who, during his visit to Argentina, was struck by Milei’s rise, offers in his book a valuable lens for thinking about the cultural clash between the university and the anti-establishment political activism that in Argentina is dominated by mileísmo. His thesis is simple: we are living through a collision between a Center rooted in the industrial era and a digital Frontier that has not yet constituted itself as an order. The Center is hierarchical and professionalized; the Frontier is fragmentary, egalitarian, and corrosive. What collides are not political actors but two ways of organizing the world. The decisive element in this situation is information. Digital flow breaks the monopoly that sustained modern authority: there are no longer mediators, but a public that chooses, contradicts, ridicules, and multiplies narratives without limit. Any technical decision or expert knowledge can become the subject of suspicion within hours. It is no coincidence that the information age coincides with the rise of conspiracy theories. It is the price of deregulating the truth market. In this context, Gurri situates the university within the Center: a hierarchical institution, guardian of legitimate knowledge, dependent on a vertical chain of validation. The Frontier erodes that regime. It amplifies flaws, exposes errors, and turns criticism into a constant impulse toward dismantling. It is not an organized opposition; it is a multitude without a project of its own. The paradox is that the Frontier destroys more than it can replace. The Center resists out of inertia; the Frontier destabilizes without offering an alternative architecture. The result is a prolonged interregnum: an old order that does not fully recede and a new one that does not fully arrive. In this uncertain space, the university must reconfigure its legitimacy, because authority has ceased to be a value and has become another object of suspicion.

    As Gurri said during his visit, “Milei is the most interesting of the populists, because he has a proposal,”[10] thus distinguishing the Argentine president from Donald Trump’s first term. With Trump’s return to power in 2025, Gurri would later say: “Today Trump has a governing program derived from Milei’s influence.”[11]

    Within the intellectual ecosystem of the new Latin American right, the philosopher Agustín Laje functions as a strategic popularizer: someone who organizes scattered diagnoses, simplifies them into intervention-ready language, and projects them toward mass audiences. Author of highly circulated books across social media and traditional media—books that attempt to translate global debates on hegemony, subjectivity, and discourse into the local political terrain—Laje, born in 1989, is viewed by many as Milei’s heir and a potential presidential candidate in 2031.
    For Laje, drawing on readings from the new right in the Global North, since the late 1960s politics has reorganized itself around the dispute over culture. In his framework, this is not merely a rhetorical intuition but a structural shift: central conflicts are no longer defined by economic distribution but by the struggle over the codes that organize the perception of the world. The left, he argues, grasped this mutation earlier than anyone and oriented its strategy toward identities, language, and social sensibilities. The right, by contrast, remained attached to a technocratic reflex, trusting in the persuasive capacity of economic arguments.

    In this landscape, the university occupies a crucial place. As he writes, for example in his book Globalismo: “Western universities function increasingly as apparatuses for legitimizing woke derangement.”[12] For Laje, the university is not merely an educational device: it is an organizer of worldviews, a machinery of symbolic legitimization, and a vector for disseminating interpretive frameworks that then radiate outward into society. Hence his insistence on characterizing it as a space where the ideological direction of the era is defined. According to his diagnosis, a progressive hegemony consolidated in that territory, sustained by critical traditions—from French theory to contemporary feminism—and by transnational funding networks that promote specific agendas.
    Regardless of whether one agrees with his reading, Laje crystallizes a climate that permeates much of the new right: the idea that contemporary politics is, above all, a struggle over the production of meaning, and that universities—given their ability to shape languages, expectations, and sensibilities—are one of its decisive arenas.

    In its strategy against the university, mileísmo replaces academic debate with media impact, argumentation with performance, evidence with conviction. The criticism of “indoctrinating professors” does not aim to correct content but to disable the very idea that a legitimate sphere of autonomous knowledge production could exist. In this movement, the public university appears as the residue of an order that must be surpassed, a structure that operates according to a temporality incompatible with the immediacy demanded by the new regime. More than a confrontation between two educational models, this is a clash between two conceptions of political time: the university as a space of duration, accumulation, and critique; anarcho-capitalism as the accelerated time of rupture and permanent deinstitutionalization.

    Accusations of indoctrination, the denial of scientific knowledge on climate issues (the prohibition of discussing climate topics in official documents), economics (never-implemented economic ideas such as dissolving the central bank), or public health (denial of the usefulness of vaccines), and the systematic reduction of university and scientific budgets all fit within this framework. These are not isolated measures but part of a broader process of reconfiguring the internal enemy. The university no longer appears as a space of education but as an enclave supposedly producing “statist,” “socialist,” or “communist” ideas. Confrontation becomes inevitable: while anarcho-capitalist logic conceives the property-owning individual as the sole legitimate moral unit, the university belongs to an order that affirms the existence of public goods, shared languages, and collective ways of constructing the future.

    The clash became visible in the massive university mobilizations of 2024 and 2025, which were among the largest demonstrations of Argentina’s democratic era in recent years. There, the university reappeared as a political subject: open classrooms, assemblies, academic and student communities moving through the streets under the conviction that public education is a right, a common good, and a form of future. This reactivation of the reformist spirit—now defensive rather than expansive—exposed the symbolic dimension of the university: when it is attacked, it reemerges as one of the last places in which a significant part of Argentine society recognizes itself.

    Argentina’s public sphere became traversed by a persistent phenomenon: massive mobilizations that overflow any routine reading of social protest. A tide of people that surprised the government itself and produced the first rupture in the official narrative that labels universities as “elitist” or “privileged.” The sheer size of the demonstration in the center of Argentina’s capital—between 400,000 and 800,000 people[13]—forced even traditional opinion leaders who typically support the government to express reservations about its austerity toward universities. Along this trajectory, the marches in defense of the public university and public health occupied a decisive place: not only because of their scale—among the largest since the start of Milei’s presidency—but also because of the kinds of actors they mobilized and the way they revealed the symbolic role these institutions play in Argentine life.

    This collective gesture reactivated something that goes beyond the budgetary conflict. It expressed the idea that the public university is not merely a service that deteriorates or improves depending on the year’s budget: it is an institution that organizes life trajectories, defines horizons of mobility, and functions as a republican promise passed across generations. The social pressure had concrete effects. In this context, the National Congress approved a law granting public universities a larger budget, with adjustments for inflation and improvements in scholarships and salaries.[14] President Javier Milei vetoed the measure, arguing that funding sources were not defined. Subsequently, Congress rejected the veto and reinstated the law.[15] Despite this, the government did not implement the allocated funds, prompting universities to take the matter to court. The conflict is now in the judicial realm, and the Executive branch is, in effect, in rebellion against a law approved by both chambers.[16]

    But the paradox is evident. The attempt to defund the public university did not diminish its symbolic weight; it placed it at center stage. Where the government sought a cultural rupture, a latent fact emerged: the public university remains one of the broadest consensuses in Argentine society. However, the electoral dynamic followed another path. Despite the confrontation with university and scientific institutions, the government managed to prevail in the October 2025 midterm elections, strengthening its position while advancing its agenda of reducing educational spending.

    In this scenario, the Argentine university is situated in a particular zone of tension: it maintains high social legitimacy but operates under a political climate that distrusts its function and structure. The challenge is not only financial but conceptual: sustaining the production of knowledge and critical thought in an environment where the value of academic expertise is publicly disputed and where the figure of the intellectual loses centrality to influencers. The university thus moves between the need to ensure its institutional continuity and the difficulty of maintaining its place as a cultural reference in a country where the coordinates of public debate are being altered. The challenge was described by Michel Foucault when rethinking the question of Enlightenment half a century ago: “I would say that critique is the movement by which the subject grants itself the right to question truth concerning its power effects, and power concerning its truth discourses: critique will be the art of voluntary inservitude, of reflective indocility.”[17]

    Defending the University Through More Experimentation

    We can read the current crisis of the university not only as an external attack or a misunderstanding, but also as a test of its own experimental capacity. If democracy survives only when it conceives of itself as an open, everyday, and revisable process, the same holds for the university. Following John Dewey and William James, the Brazilian philosopher and Harvard professor Roberto Unger revives the concept of experimentalism. The point is that it is not enough to appeal to past credentials or insist on being “indispensable”: any institution that claims centrality in a time of generalized distrust must once again justify its place. That requires risking new forms of teaching, research, engagement with the broader community, and interaction with the world of work, and accepting that certain inherited rituals and hierarchies, rather than protecting the institution, now make it opaque and unreadable to a significant part of society.

    In this sense, the alternative is not between preserving the old model intact or resigning ourselves to its destruction, but between a corporatist defense of the existing order and a reinvention that seeks new legitimacies. An experimentalist university is not one that meekly adapts to managerial language nor one that retreats into nostalgia for the lost welfare state, but one that explores new forms of student and faculty participation, new modes of evaluation, and new ways of producing and circulating knowledge in dialogue with publics who are no longer passive recipients. In a saturated informational ecosystem, authority no longer comes from the scarcity of knowledge but from the capacity to organize shared experiences, to create spaces where conversation has rules but not gag orders. The challenge is precisely this: to recognize that the university can defend itself only if it dares to change. To reimagine it not as a prestigious vestige of the Middle Ages or the twentieth century, but as one of the few places where it is still possible to rehearse—calmly, at least to some degree—forms of democratic life that outside appear overwhelmed by polarization and fury. If the future of democracy depends on combining stable institutions with devices for experimentation and openness, the university is uniquely positioned to embody that tension.

    What is at stake, then, is not merely the budgetary continuity of a set of buildings, but the possibility that there exists, in the midst of the storm, a collective laboratory where it still makes sense to learn together what to do with the time that has befallen us. As Unger says once again, “we need a set of decentralized, pluralistic, participatory, and experimental forms of coordination.”[18] For an experimentalist and democratizing response cannot be a “corporate” defense of the “old order.” Our near future will determine whether what we are living through today is a terminal crisis, a decline, or a profoundly vital metamorphosis of the university to come.

    Tomás Borovinsky is a researcher at CONICET (National Scientific and Technical Research Council, Argentina) and a professor at EIDAES–UNSAM (the Interdisciplinary School of Social Sciences at the National University of San Martín). His latest collective volume is ¿Hay algo que no esté en crisis? Arte y pensamiento en la era del cambio acelerado y sin fin (Siglo XXI). He is also the editorial director of the publishing imprint Interferencias (Adriana Hidalgo Editora), focused on contemporary thought, and the editor-in-chief of Supernova, a magazine of ideas and public debate.

    [1] “Encuesta de satisfacción política y opinión pública”. UdeSA: https://images.udesa.edu.ar/sites/default/files/2025-09/47.%20UdeSA%20ESPOP%20Septiembre%202025_0.pdf

    [2] Manifiesto Liminar. La juventud argentina de Córdoba a los hombres libres de Sud América
    Manifiesto de la Federación Universitaria de Córdoba – 1918.

    https://www.unc.edu.ar/sobre-la-unc/manifiesto-liminar

    [3] Lefort, Claude, “¿Permanencia de lo teológico-político?”, en La invertidumbre democrática. Ensayos sobre lo político. Anthropos, Barcelona, 2005.

    [4] Borovinsky, Tomás, Plot, Martín and Slipak, Daniela, “Milei y los horizontes de lo político. Crisis de régimen y anhelo de clausura de la incertidumbre democrática”, en Alejandro Grimson, Desquiciados, Buenos Aires, Siglo XXI, 2024, p. 162.

    [5] Borovinsky, Tomás, “Tsunamis de ira pública”, junio de 2023, Revista Panamá.

    https://panamarevista.com/tsunamis-de-ira-publica/

    [6] Yarvin, Curtis, Unqualified Reservations, Passage Press, 2022.

    [7] As cited in Stefanoni, Pablo, “Peinado por el mercado”, Revista Anfibia, 2021.

    https://www.revistaanfibia.com/javier-milei-el-libertario-peinado-por-el-mercado/

    [8]  Hoppe, Hans-Hermann, Democracy: The God That Failed, Transactions, 2001.

    [9] Gurri, Martin, The Revolt Of The Public And The Crisis Of Authority, Stripe Press, 2018. For further uses of these concepts in the Argentine context, see Borovinsky, Tomás, “Presentación”, La rebelión del público, Interferencias, Buenos Aires-Madrid, 2023.

    [10] Entrevista de mayo de 2024 en diario La Nación:

    https://www.lanacion.com.ar/ideas/martin-gurri-milei-es-el-mas-interesante-de-los-populistas-porque-tiene-una-propuesta-nid04052024/

    [11] Entrevista de febrero de 2025 en el diario La Nación:

    https://www.lanacion.com.ar/conversaciones-de-domingo/martin-gurri-hoy-trump-tiene-un-programa-de-gobierno-derivado-de-la-influencia-de-milei-nid31012025/

    [12] Laje, Agustín, Globalismo. Ingeniería social y control total en el siglo XXI, Harper Collins Publishers, 2024, p. 170.

    [13] “Del Congreso a Plaza de Mayo”. Diario La Nación.

    https://www.lanacion.com.ar/sociedad/del-congreso-a-plaza-de-mayo-cuantas-personas-participaron-de-la-marcha-universitaria-nid24042024/#/

    [14] Ley de financiamiento universitario. Chequeado.

    https://chequeado.com/el-explicador/ley-de-financiamiento-universitario-las-claves-del-proyecto-que-tratara-el-senado/

    [15] “El congreso rechaza el veto de Milei”. Diario El País.

    https://elpais.com/argentina/2025-09-17/el-congreso-argentino-rechaza-el-veto-de-milei-a-las-leyes-de-financiamiento-universitario-y-emergencia-pediatrica.html

    [16] “El gobierno no cumple la ley y las universidades irán a la justicia”. Página 12.

    https://www.pagina12.com.ar/867490-el-gobierno-no-cumple-la-ley-y-las-universidades-iran-a-la-j/

    [17] Foucault, Michel, Sobre la Ilustración, Tecnos, Madrid, 2004, p. 10.

    [18] Mangabeira Unger, Roberto, La alternativa de izquierda, Fondo de Cultura Económica, Buenos Aires, 2010, p. 174.

     

  • The Question of Literary Value–A b2o special issue

    The Question of Literary Value–A b2o special issue

    b2o: an online journal is pleased to announce the publication of a special issue titled “The Question of Literary Value.” Edited by Alexander Dunst and Pieter Vermeulen, and based on a workshop that took place in Erlangen (Germany) on June 20-21, 2025, the issue brings together a range of responses to a question that, the issue editors argue, has remained “surprisingly open”–if it was asked at all. 

    The issue’s Table of Contents reads like a list of “theses” on literary value that are sure to spark further discussion:

    Thesis 1: Understanding Literary Value Requires Institutional Ethnography (Günter Leypoldt)

    Thesis 2: Literary Value Emerges In and Against the Story Economy (Maria Mäkelä)

    Thesis 3: Literary Value is Nonliterary Value (Pieter Vermeulen)

    Thesis 4: Literary Value Rests on Form (Antje Kley)

    Thesis 5: Literary Value = the Value of the Novel (Natalya Bekhta)

    Thesis 6: To Understand Literary Value Today, Look to Visual Culture (Alexander Dunst)

    Thesis 7: Literature and Literary Studies Can Contribute to the Revaluation of Economic Value (Gerold Sedlmayr)

    Thesis 8: Literature Isn’t Invaluable–But It Can Be Redundant (Nathan Taylor)

    Thesis 9: Literary Value is Unexceptional (Arne De Boever)

     

  • Alexander Dunst and Pieter Vermeulen–The Question of Literary Value: An Introduction

    Alexander Dunst and Pieter Vermeulen–The Question of Literary Value: An Introduction

    This article is part of the b2o: an online journal special issue “The Question of Literary Value”, edited by Alexander Dunst and Pieter Vermeulen.

    The Question of Literary Value: An Introduction

    Alexander Dunst and Pieter Vermeulen

    The question of literary value is a surprisingly open one. Literary value is a topic that has only fairly recently become a focus of literary theoretical debate. For a long time, if the question of literary value was posed at all, it was posed as a rhetorical question (that is, as on occasion to reaffirm an alleged truth). For most of the modern period, the value of literature was self-evident: whether literature was valued as a rarified mode of language use or as a privileged carrier of social and moral values, its worth did not need to be argued for. That changed in the last decades of the twentieth century, when a number of feminist, postcolonial, and other critical perspective launched a radical critique of the literary canon, and approaches inspired by Pierre Bourdieu’s critical sociology debunked claims to literary distinction as covert strategies for social promotion. From this revisionary perspective also, however, the question of literary value was not really open: if it had been pre-empted before by the default assumption that literature was self-evidently valuable, its significance as more than a mere social strategy now became automatically suspect.

    That literary value can no longer be either simply assumed or categorically dismissed—and that the question of literary value has thus finally been broached—has something to do with the fact that today, the question of literary value is not only no longer rhetorical; it is also no longer merely theoretical. Dwindling readerships, shortening attention spans, shrinking numbers of English majors, increasing competition from other commodities and media, and the realization that today’s elites can very well do without what John Guillory called “the cultural capital of the old bourgeoisie” (1993, 45) have made the distinctive value of literature more uncertain than ever. In this context, simply deflating claims to literary value risks turning into a self-fulfilling and literature-destroying prophecy.

    In his book The Problem of Literary Value, Robert Meyer-Lee divides customary approaches to the question of literary value into two categories: ontological approaches, which apodictically state what the value of literature is; and genealogical approaches, which deconstruct and relativize value claims by highlighting the contexts that gave rise to them (2023, 70-98). The problem with these two approaches is that they capture only part of how literary value actually functions. Take, as examples of the ontological approach, Peter Boxall’s statement, in his book The Value of the Novel, that the novel has the power “to represent our shared communities and to suspend the ties that bind them” (2015, 12); or Hanna Meretoja and Pirjo Lyytikäinen’s claim, in their volume Values of Literature, that literature can do “different things”, “ranging from affirmation of social dogmas to its capacities for self-questioning and challenging of moral certainties” (2015, 3); or, most famously perhaps, Rita Felski’s case for the Uses of Literature that advertises its capacity to offer shock, recognition, enchantment, and knowledge (2008).

    None of these statements is wrong, exactly. But none answers the question of literary value either: instead, they situate literature within “an anthropology of human needs and desires” (Guillory 1993, 301). They name some of the uses of literature, but they do not situate literature in the context in which it has had to operate in the last two centuries: the context of a capitalist market in which claims to literary value are, as Gerold Sedlmayr and Nathan Taylor demonstrate in detail in their contributions to this issue, complexly entangled with the issue of economic value. Naming the uses of literature does not explain why these uses matter—why they deserve to circulate and thrive in a situation marked by (while not totally subsumed by) economic exchange. As Guillory notes, “[t]he very concept of aesthetic value betrays the continued pressure of economic discourse on the language of aesthetics” (317). Affirmations of literature’s uses do not factor in that pressure.

    If turning towards the relationship between literature and financial value looks outward to the economy at large, a more inward gaze has focused on the relationship between value and form, a long-standing concern of literary studies that is given a new twist in this issue by Antje Kley. Where a specifically literary complexity was dear to the New Critics, a more contemporary version espouses the sophistication of prizewinning novels, often moving from strictly formal concerns to the ethical value of literature. In her contribution, Natalya Bekhta draws attention to the unequal distribution of value within literature’s generic system. Bekhta argues that the prominence of the novel, and especially its Anglophone variant, has led to a situation where other genres are taken to task—that is, are denied value—for not conforming to novelistic conventions. Turning from novels to graphic novels, Alexander Dunst argues that we need to look more closely at the interactions between literature and the wider media ecology of which it forms a part to understand how value is produced.

    Addressing the question of literary value, then, invites us to account for the (at least) double nature of literature under capitalism: the obvious fact that literature is a commodity, and the equally undeniable fact that in many ways it is not simply a commodity like any other. Even if art and literature are, as Arne De Boever argues in his contribution to this issue, rigorously unexceptional, they are not for all that entirely mundane. The frantic activity on dedicated reading and reviewing platforms—from Youtube and TikTok to Goodreads and Archive of Our Own—show that literature still courts intense attachment. And the difference between, say, Fifty Shades of Grey, and Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead is hard to theorize (which is why it is an open question!), but it is even more impossible to deny. This double nature is not something to simply posit or debunk, but it is something to investigate.

    In The Problem of Literary Value, Meyer-Lee undoes the stand-off between ontological and genealogical approaches by proposing a pragmatic account—one that attends to the ways that value is actually produced, justified, challenged, and circulated. In the field of sociology, also, the Bourdieusian critique of value has been complemented by a more descriptive pragmatics of valuation. These pragmatic approaches to value study, in sociologist Michèle Lamont’s words, “how value is produced, diffused, assessed, and institutionalized across a range of settings” (2012, 203). For Nathalie Heinich, this involves a shift “from value to valuation”: from the simple assertion of particular values to the “close observation of the operations by which actors actually manifest the value they assign to this object” (2020, 77). Such manifestations of value need not be verbal or argumentative: they can also exist in modes of measurement (a Goodreads score, a graph of the rising number of downloads) or attachment (gifting a book as a birthday present or carrying it around as a marker of good taste or performative masculinity).

    While outside of the study of literature, this pragmatic orientation has spawned the interdisciplinary domain of valuation studies (the journal of that name has been going since 2013; the field brings together anthropological, sociological, and economic approaches), it has made few inroads into literary studies (Phillipa Chong’s study of book critics [2020] is an exception). Meyer-Lee’s work suggests that literature could profit from such a pragmatics of valuation. He distinguishes between things which are tightly bound with their value (think of the relation between pizza and “hunger satisfaction” [2023, 103]) and entities marked by a loose binding. Literature clearly falls within the latter. The idea of a loose binding helps explain how literature can be—and has historically been—linked to many different values. Indeed, the instability of the bond between literature and other values means that the articulation between literature and extraliterary values is not only possible but also increasingly compulsory: Meyer-Lee notes that “the characteristic loose binding of literary value both facilitates and, by that same token, demands linkage to other-than-literary values” (108). As Pieter Vermeulen observes in his contribution to this issue, such explicit linkages are today more necessary than ever, as literature no longer holds the self-evident power it once had—a situation he sees emblematized in Hugo Simberg’s painting The Wounded Angel, which he presents as a diminished and pale counterpart to (Walter Benjamin’s elevation of) Paul Klee’s Angelus Novus.

    The looseness of the association between literature and value, then, circumscribes the terrain where the (at least) double nature of literary value can be explored. Ascriptions of value need not be logically consistent: their job is to provide compelling (rather than logical) links that effectively situate literature in discursive contexts that sustain it. This “capaciousness and flexibility” of literary value ascriptions means that “they may plausibly mediate a range of rather different or even antithetical values, without contradiction or incoherence” (Meyer-Lee 116). This tolerance for logical inconsistency (as when a work of literature is valued at the same time for, say, representing minority voices and, say, being a sophisticated work of metafiction) in value justifications emphatically does not mean that our value attachments—to certain writers, to certain works, to a certain idea of the literary—are entirely fungible. On the contrary, it means that the power of those attachments overrides issues of consistency. Günter Leypoldt underlines in his contribution that our strong attachments to literature—which for Leypoldt coexist with weak attachments to them, as when we indifferently select a book to kill time with on the beach—do not allow for relativism. If relativism has often been a theoretical postulate, in the context of literary value, it is rarely a lived reality. This also comes through in Maria Mäkelä’s contribution, which situates the question of contemporary literary value in the digital story economy. This context, which Mäkelä sees as the nonnegotiable milieu in which contemporary authorship operates, compels writers to sustain a consistent narrative about themselves across different media. While this encompassing context exerts an undeniable pressure on the forms and themes of literature, it does not abolish the (let’s call it) semi-autonomy of authors to position themselves in and against that economy.

    Several contributions show that the question of the (semi-)autonomy of literature is also a methodological one. As Arne De Boever underlines, posing the question of literary value from a sociological perspective in a way already concedes that that value is a radically truncated one, as literature is hardly given a voice in addressing the question of its own valuation. Several of the contributions to this issue insist that the question of literary value hinges on literature’s residual capacity to emancipate itself from this selbstverschuldete Unmündigkeit: De Boever turns to contemporary fiction as the site where the question of value is negotiated; Antje Kley insists that literary value rests on form (a formulation in which every term matters); and Gerold Sedlmayr argues that any hope of overcoming capitalist value regimes depends on literary values. Cumulatively, the contributions to the issue certainly do not solve the question of literary value. Then again, they might allow us to pose it more carefully.  

    References

    Boxall, Peter. 2015. The Value of the Novel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

    Chong, Phillipa K. 2021. Inside the Critics’ Circle: Book Reviewing in Uncertain Times. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

    Felski, Rita. 2008. Uses of Literature. Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell.

    Guillory, John. 1993. Cultural Capital: The Problem of Literary Canon Formation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

    Heinich, Nathalie. 2020. “A Pragmatic Redefinition of Value(s): Toward a General Model of Valuation”. Theory, Culture & Society 37, no. 5, 2020: 75–79.

    Lamont, Michèle. 2012. “Toward a Comparative Sociology of Valuation and Evaluation”. Annual Review of Sociology 38, no. 1: 201–21.

    Meretoja, Hanna, and Pirjo Lyytikäinen, editors. 2015. Values of Literature. Leiden: Brill.

    Meyer-Lee, Robert J. 2023. The Problem of Literary Value. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

  • Günter Leypoldt–Understanding Literary Value Requires Institutional Ethnography

    Günter Leypoldt–Understanding Literary Value Requires Institutional Ethnography

    Fig. 1. Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow. Bantam, 1974.

    This article is part of the b2o: an online journal special issue “The Question of Literary Value”, edited by Alexander Dunst and Pieter Vermeulen.

    Understanding Literary Value Requires Institutional Ethnography: The Case of Pynchon’s Pulitzer Scandal

    Günter Leypoldt 

    Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow appeared in March 1973 and was soon nominated for both the National Book Award (NBA) and the Pulitzer. This may seem unsurprising in hindsight, but during the 1970s the still evolving system of prizes had not always been that open to such hard sells (“One of the Longest, Most Difficult, Most Ambitious Novels in Years”, the New York Times had titled its review [Locke 1973]). When the Pulitzer advisory board overruled the jury’s selection of Gravity’s Rainbow and paused the prize for the year, the scandal that followed in May 1974 reveals important changes of literary authority in the post-45 period. In what follows, I chart these changes and propose that in order to understand the making of literary value, we need to practice some socio-institutional ethnography. To that end, I define varieties of value, consider questions of relevance or “impact”, and distinguish ethnographers from critics.[1]

    Gravity’s Rainbow became prizeworthy to the degree that the jury culture during the 1960s saw a subtle but consistent orientation towards academic peer review. The recent history of the NBAs makes this trend visible: founded as a book industry prize in 1936, its early selection committees included book traders and industry professionals that kept winners close to mainstream tastes (in 1937, the prize for most distinguished novel went to Gone with the Wind). With the more academicized literary culture of the 1960s, the nomination and consecration process came to be dominated by credentialed experts (prize-winning novelists, literary journalists, and academic critics). Book industry professionals tried to reverse this trend with a number of largely unsuccessful rear-guard actions. In 1970, for example, the National Book Committee introduced a nationwide poll that gave booksellers a vote in the nominations, a measure that ended badly when the 1971 poetry and fiction juries refused to consider the bookseller selections (Raymont 1971). The poll was abolished, and subsequent juries gave the NBA to John Barth’s Chimera (1973), Gravity’s Rainbow (1974), and William Gaddis’s J R (1976), hard pills to swallow for an already grumbling book industry.

    The Pulitzer forced these tensions into the open because it required decisions to be ratified by its advisory board. So when the jury of three scholars—Alfred Kazin, Elizabeth Hardwick, and the Amherst English professor Benjamin DeMott—selected Gravity’s Rainbow, the board’s 14 newspaper executives and University of Columbia trustees overturned it as “‘unreadable’, ‘turgid’, ‘overwritten’, and in parts ‘obscene’” (Kihss 1974, 38).

    Cultural historians channeling their inner critic might dismiss the Pulitzer board as a ship of fools, philistines too obtuse to recognize Pynchon’s greatness (the New York Times suggested they “should take a crash course in remedial reading” or “get out of the awards business altogether” [Leonard 1974]). If we look at this issue as ethnographers, however, it seems more coherent to posit a clash between two diverging reading cultures. The board members were perhaps passionate lovers of literature, but as people with day jobs who read fiction after work, they had different literary sensibilities—more attuned, perhaps, to Gore Vidal’s bestselling Burr (which the jury had ranked third, after Pynchon and John Cheever’s The World of Apples). In all likelihood they were invested in the prize system’s promise of serious or “higher” entertainment (as opposed to “mere” entertainment as pleasurably killing time) but for a number of reasons, including training-specific rhythms of perception and generational tastes, they did not resonate with the maximalist fabulism on display in Pynchon’s novel. By contrast, the jury members were steeped in what John Guillory has called the “culture of the school”, with closer ties to scholarly networks and academically housed avant-gardes. They were thus more at home with what then emerged as the experimental cutting edge.

    Varieties of Values (Strong/Weak, Sacred/Toxic/Everyday)

    While ethnographers can live with the view that Gravity’s Rainbow is both “great” and “turgid”—depending on reception networks—, readers and critics find lived relativism acceptable only in proportion to their disinvestment (their sense that choosing between Vidal and Pynchon is not that important to their lives). Such disinvestment shapes a specific readerly mode, which Charles Taylor (1985) describes as “weak evaluation”. In moments of weak evaluation, we resemble purpose-rational consumers pursuing short-term desires in relatively private spaces. Here, the choice between Vidal and Pynchon becomes a bit like negotiating a plate of pastry: you might adore sponge cake in the morning, despise apple crumble at night, yet have no difficulties in tolerating others with different tastes—pastry habits rarely rope us into culture wars.

    Weak evaluation is a common enough practice of everyday reading—on the beach we want whatever suits our situational now (could be Pynchon, could be a TikTok feed). Universalizing weak-value attachments has encouraged the misconception that, literature being mostly about pleasure, pleasure depending mostly on your palate, and there being no arguing about taste, artistic value is an inherently soft target. Such assumptions have bolstered cultural-studies intuitions about the fundamental pointlessness of canons or prizes and an ideology-critical centering of politics as the artwork’s supposedly more tangible core.

    However, in moods of “strong valuation” literature can invoke a felt “higher pleasure” that strikes readers with a sense of contact with an identity-defining charismatic center. Whereas the pursuit of weak values is about what we already want, strong valuation follows from what we feel we should want after trusted institutions (artistic or civil-religious) rank our desires into higher and lower kinds. Indeed, the notion of “guilty pleasure” exists because as moral beings we can want to be told what it is good to want, not just to signal legitimized taste (the snob’s efforts of social distinction) but also to orient ourselves towards a greater good (the moral or civil-religious need to connect with collectively defined hypergoods).

    Whereas weak-value moods keep Gravity’s Rainbow invisible unless we have an everyday use for it, strong valuation can make it rise above the everyday, even make it look down upon us as a sacred or a toxic thing (the former pulls us into worship, the latter into culture-warriordom).[2] Blood pressures rise, and the Pulitzer scandal can feel as polarizing to us as, say, the Supreme Court’s 2022 decision on Roe v. Wade. In this state of hypertension, Pynchon’s proponents decried the Pulitzer’s mediocrity (Gass 1985), while Vidal came to the board’s defense with a series of essays—“The Hacks of Academe” (1976) and “American Plastic” (1977)—that denounced postmodernism as a scholastic fad ruining the novel.

    Critics, Scholar-Connoisseurs, Ethnographers

    Within English departments it is common to wade into such debates as critics rather than ethnographers. According to Michel Chaouli’s superb definition, as a critic you ask whether a text “speaks” to you and compels you to “tell [others] about it” (Chaouli 2024, 3). Good criticism can thrive on self-analyses of how Gravity’s Rainbow’s affordances have moved you or left you cold. An ethnography of value, however, also needs to factor in how it affected other participants in the field (Murray 2025).

    While this seems intuitive to field-working disciplines, as literature scholars we can feel that our accumulated experience and academic training gives our artistic sensibility an objective edge over other audiences. Michael Clune seems to make this claim when in A Defense of Judgment (2021) he obliges English professors to use their acquired taste to help students improve theirs. But how does my academic expertise give me an edge in anything other than, well, academic expertise? Field-defining skills are key to negotiating the field that defines them (as per Jonathan Kramnick’s Criticism and Truth [2023]). In the case of my own field—academic literary studies—, those skills would be classroom habits of reflexive close-reading, and scholarly benchmarks of multiple re-readability. But few, if any, non-professional audiences feel bound to such skills. The assumption that prestige can be justified or disproven by acute textual analysis seems useful only within collectives with relatively homogenous taste cultures.

    An often overlooked source of heterogeneity even within a single taste culture is the socially embedded character of perception: placed within different relational ties, Pynchon’s affordances produce different affective atmospheres (sacred, banal, toxic, indifferent, liberating, constraining, and so on). Since these atmospheres are relational—they emerge only during lived immersion within a network of people and things—attempting to justify Gravity’s Rainbow’s prestige with reference to the text occludes how our own group-specific atmospheric immersion shapes what we experience as the text. In order to see value as an embedded social thing, we need to unlearn the widely shared intuition that true literary-artistic excellence and/or its ideological-political imbrications precede markets and institutions.

    Relevance, Impact, Consecrated Consecrators

    Ethnographies remain incomplete if they fail to trace the public relevance of values. While democratic societies contain multiple strong-valued horizons of higher pleasure, only few of these get to shape history books, classrooms, and museums. Curating institutions differ vastly in their “impact factor”, that is, their capability to shape what I call the public square, a spatially limited heritage-scape that materializes the literary field’s symbolic weights rather than its commercial or political assets.[3] Picture the public square as a cityscape whose buildings represent authorized prestige (see fig. 2). Here, the most iconic prizes inhabit the best real estate on the block while commercially more dominant institutions occupy more modest buildings (Danielle Steel and James Patterson sold more than one billion copies during their long writerly lives but are still nearly invisible in the public square).

    Fig 2. Günter Leypoldt, “The Public Square”.

    Whereas genre-fiction writers have a sense of their irrelevance on the public square (“I’d much rather sell books than get good reviews”, John Grisham recently told an interviewer, emphasizing how hard and liberating it was for him to learn over the years how to ignore literary authority [Liptak 2021]), the Pulitzer scandal was a conflict about who gets to inhabit literature’s strong-valued institutional center. And when the smoke of the heritage-making battles settled during the 1980s, Pynchon had become canonical while Vidal had been relegated, in Michael Lind’s description, to “a middlebrow’s idea of a highbrow” (Lind 2016). The reason that the Pulitzer board’s position now seems more “mid-cult” than it did in 1974 is that academic networks have further increased their impact on the public square.

    To speak of “impact” is to use a term from scientific peer review that measures a journal’s capability to make a difference in its field. Peer-reviewed journals are curating systems that in theory should remain neutral (insulated from the higher or lower value of the research previously published in them), but that in practice become infected by the esteem that accumulates with selection histories and institutional affiliations (it would take years of bad editorial decisions to ruin the authority of Nature). A similar alchemy of contact charisma, I argue, pertains to cultural institutions: prestige awards like the Nobel, the Booker, or the Goncourt once began their social lives as ordinary curating institutions that over time morphed into “consecrated consecrators” (Casanova 2010, 300)—so enriched by their high-cultural affiliations over the years that they acquired a nearly civil-religious weight.

    A common-sense response is to dismiss prestige prizes as establishment smokescreens that a minimal dose of readerly self-reliance will brush away. There is also ideology critique’s secularist habit of dismissing consecrated atmospheres as mere fantasy or fetishism that a more rational view of things should dispel. Yet the idea that readers or critics make informed strong-value decisions outside institutional trust relations, entirely on their own terms—mechanically sampling the texts that are “out there” to separate excellence from trash—is unrealistic not just because of the sheer volume of artifacts (120,000 new novels were published in the US in 2015 alone [English 2016]) but because as moral beings invested in “higher” entertainment we require orientation through collectively produced trust. Such orientation is mediated through institutions: stabilized social ties that connect people, things, and practices in hierarchical relationships. That these relationships are socially produced does not invalidate their relevance to how we experience strong and weak values.

    The most tangible manifestation of impact is the well-known award effect: when a prestige prize propels a novel that no one expected to sell more than a few thousand copies into large-scale bestsellerdom. The award effect applies when atmospheres of consecration pull audiences towards aspirational reading, encouraging them to take on books they normally find too demanding or insufficiently entertaining but now approach as providing privileged access to a perceived higher cultural life of the nation. The career of Gravity’s Rainbow is a good case in point. Viking Press worried during production about how to recover the high costs for a difficult 700-page hardcover (Howard 2005), but their intense prepublication marketing campaign, in combination with immediate establishment rave reviews, produced so much Great-American-Novel buzz that a wave of orders lifted Gravity’s Rainbow briefly into the New York Times bestseller list. One year later the additional buzz of the NBA and Pulitzer nominations led Bantam to issue a mass market paperback. The Bantam edition looked like a cheap commodity, but centrally on its front cover it featured a pull quote in large letters as a stamp of consecration: “The most important work of fiction yet produced by any living writer” (see fig. 1).

    All of this demonstrates the path dependency—hence relative autonomy—of literary consecration. Prestige effects can turn the most experimental works into aspirational bestsellers (think of García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, or Morrison’s Beloved), but commercial success as such yields no prestige. By the same logic, the more consecrated curators will sell more books (the Nobel even turns poets into bestsellers), but high sales have no consecration effects (as we can gather from the low heritage-making impact of genre-fiction prizes, Goodreads, or Oprah Winfrey). Although the term “bestseller” is often colloquially used to suggest cultural importance, numbers alone tell us nothing about impact: Gravity’s Rainbow sold about 90,000 copies in the first year, with the Bantam paperback reaching an estimated 250,000 over the next ten years (Howard 2005), astonishing figures for an experimental doorstopper. But they are well below Vidal’s Burr (which reached the higher six figures in its first year [Kihss 1974]), not to speak of mass-market blockbuster territory (Peter Benchley’s Jaws sold nearly six million copies in the year before the movie release in June 1975 [“Summer” 1975]).

    That institutional authority cannot simply be bought, and sometimes withers through commercialization, is a lesson the Association of American Publishers learned the hard way after relaunching the NBAs as the American Book Awards in 1979. Remodeling them along the lines of the Oscars or Emmys, they added commercial categories, involved booksellers in the selection process, and produced a glamorous TV presentation. The decision-makers soon backpedaled when it transpired that the more commercial platform had not only failed to improve book sales (as prizes make little difference to mass-market blockbuster regimes) but also drained the NBAs of the institutional charisma that had just lifted the Booker Prize in England (McDowell 1983).

    Conclusion: How Money and Singularity Reach a Good Match

    The Pulitzer scandal shows how more commercial and more market-sheltered regimes of judgment can overlap and disaggregate. Of course, the Pulitzer board members were not just leisure readers but also representatives of a business model that between the mid-nineteenth-century industrialization of print and the more recent conglomeration of publishing has sought to stabilize profit margins by risk-reducing rationalization (Sinykin 2023). And the Pulitzer jury participated in this business model by contributing to the kind of reputational branding that remains important even to conglomerate portfolios (Thompson 2012). Yet the jury also represented a peer-review culture whose regimes of judgment significantly diverge from corporate rationales.

    While since the 1950s, the rising conglomerate behemoths have raised the volume of a blockbuster-oriented entertainment industry, literature’s more recent academic patronage systems have provided experimental writers and prize juries with stronger market shelters. Contra neo-Frankfurt-school declension stories (closing minds in conglomerate-driven fetishscapes), the rising commercial turnover in the 1960s and 1970s helped to decouple the value judgments of prestige-prize juries and blockbuster curators in historically new ways. These developments are not reducible to straightforward ideologies because they involved figurational changes to literary culture, including the extension of tertiary education that between 1960 and 1975 produced larger college-educated audiences and more stable subsidies for experimental and avant-garde ecologies (McGurl 2009). These figurational changes are ill-explained by single binaries (Pynchon vs. the conservative mind) or large political-economy frames (cold-war liberalism, late capitalism, et cetera).

    From a historical wide angle, the Pulitzer scandal was an iteration of an older conflict—beginning with the eighteenth-century print-market revolution—over how commercial appeal and literary singularity can be brought into a “good match” (Zelizer, 2011). Since money is always involved in cultural production, sustaining good matches requires ongoing boundary work, shielding the literary from self-enclosed ivory-towerism on the one side, and from pandering compromise on the other. As authority over such boundary work has shifted further towards expert curation, aspirational leisure readers occupy a more ambivalent position towards the institutional center. They largely finance the award effect, yet their limited agency within the high-impact prestige economies that dominate the public square means that their sense of strong value is reflected back to them as slightly askew—belated, too easily won, pandering, or simply “middlebrow”. But good or bad matches depend on standpoints unequally represented in social space. While it is relatively easy to determine a literary work’s economic value (measurable in sales), its literary worth requires more laborious ethnography. As a critic, I can know whether or not Pynchon speaks to me, and hope to persuade others about my own sense of a good match. But how can I know Pynchon’s actual life as a strong-valued object before I have studied the public square, as a relational space whose scales emerge from differing collectives that themselves differ in their performative impact?

    References

    Casanova, Pascale. 2010. “Consecration and Accumulation of Literary Capital: Translation as Unequal Exchange”. Critical Readings in Translation Studies, edited by Mona Baker, pp. 285–303. London: Routledge.

    Chaouli, Michel. 2024. Something Speaks to Me: Where Criticism Begins. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

    Clune, Michael. 2021. A Defense of Judgement. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

    English, James F. 2016. “Prestige, Pleasure, and the Data of Cultural Preference: ‘Quality Signals’ in the Age of Superabundance”. Western Humanities Review 70, no. 3: 119–39.

    Gass, William. 1985. “Prizes, Surprises and Consolation Prizes”. New York Times, May 5. https://www.nytimes.com/1985/05/05/books/prizes-surprises-and-consolation-prizes.html.

    Howard, Gerald. 2005. “Pynchon from A to V”. Book Forum 12: 29–40.

    Kihss, Peter. 1974. “Pulitzer Jurors Dismayed on Pynchon”. New York Times, May 8: 38.

    Kramnick, Jonathan. 2023. Criticism and Truth: On Method in Literary Studies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

    Leonard. John. 1974. “Pulitzer People Are No Prize”. New York Times, May 19: 421.

    Lask, Thomas. 1979. “Book Ends”. New York Times, March 4: 12.

    Leypoldt, Günter. 2025. Literature’s Social Lives: A Socio-Institutional History of Literary Value. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

    Lind, Michael. 2016. “The Empire of Gore Vidal: The Legacy of an American Writer”. The Smart Set, Jan. 29. https://www.thesmartset.com/the-empire-of-gore-vidal/.

    Liptak, Adam. 2021. “John Grisham on Judges, Innocence and the Judgments He Ignores”. New York Times, October 17. https://www.nytimes.com/2021/10/17/books/john-grisham-judges-list.html.

    Locke, Richard. 1973. “One of the Longest, Most Difficult, Most Ambitious Novels in Years”. New York Times, March 11. https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/97/05/18/reviews/pynchon-rainbow.html?_r=2

    McDowell, Edwin. 1983. “Publishing: New Life for American Book Awards”. New York Times, November 4: C28.

    McGurl, Mark. 2009. The Program Era: Postwar Fiction and the Rise of Creative Writing. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

    Murray, Simone. 2025. The Digital Future of English: Literary Media Studies. New York: Oxford University Press.

    Raymont, Henry. 1971. “Judges of Book Awards Revolt on Use of Nationwide Polling”. New York Times, January 26: 22.

    Sinykin, Dan. 2023. Big Fiction: How Conglomeration Changed the Publishing Industry and American Literature. New York: Columbia University Press.

    “Summer of the Shark”. 1975. Time Magazine, June 23. https://time.com/archive/6846922/summer-of-the-shark/.

    Taylor, Charles. 1985. Human Agency and Language: Philosophical Papers I. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

    Thompson, John. 2012 Merchants of Culture: The Publishing Business in the Twenty-First Century. 2nd Edition. London: Plume.

    Zelizer, Viviana. 2011. Economic Lives: How Culture Shapes the Economy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

    [1] For a more comprehensive account, see Leypoldt 2025. I am grateful to boundary 2’s anonymous reviewer and the issue editors, as well as to the organizers and participants of the Erlangen and UC Dublin conferences in June 2025, where I had the pleasure of sharing and discussing earlier versions of this essay.

    [2] I use the semantics of the sacred in the spirit of Durkheim and Weber, denoting not religious belief but a practical sense of something larger about which one may have beliefs. Like strong values, the sacred is collective (transcending private purpose-rationalities), identity-defining (raising public monuments and calls for political action), and defined against two outsides: first, the sphere of the everyday, which neutralizes consecrated values (as when texts falling out of the canon become invisible); and second, the profaned or polluted pole of a consecrated hierarchy, which gives consecrated values a toxic presence that riles people into defensive action (think of the recent controversies over Cecil Rhodes, Peter Handke, or Woody Allen). For a more in-depth discussion, see Leypoldt 2025, 277–78.

    [3] Note that my use of “public square”—as a  metaphor for the limited space of material heritage-making in which plural prestige economies compete for public resources and authority—diverges from more familiar notions of the “naked public square” (as in Rawlsian debates on whether private morality and religion are to be kept out of procedural law) or the Habermasian public sphere.

  • Maria Mäkelä–Literary Value Emerges In and Against the Story Economy

    Maria Mäkelä–Literary Value Emerges In and Against the Story Economy

    Photograph by the author. 

    This article is part of the b2o: an online journal special issue “The Question of Literary Value”, edited by Alexander Dunst and Pieter Vermeulen.

    Literary Value Emerges In and Against the Story Economy

    Maria Mäkelä[1]

    One of the global star authors of the 2020s, Édouard Louis, describes an emergent new literary aesthetic in an interview with the Los Angeles Review of Books in 2024:

    the implicit doesn’t have a monopoly on beauty … There is a kind of revolution happening from certain points of the literary field, and I believe that interviews are a part of that, part of a possibility to say things without hiding. (Bell 2024)

    By celebrating the freedom “to say things without hiding” Louis captures a shift in literary valuation that in the 2020s feels generational and converges with recent post-critical movements in literary theory. Students who primarily value authenticity and relatability in literature and look for authors who share these same values are taught by professors who continue to be steeped in a long twentieth century of literary theory and criticism founded on ideas of literariness and expert interpretations of the implicit, the paradoxical, and the difficult. For Louis, the “revolution” not only abolishes the tyranny of the implicit but also dissolves the generic and platform boundaries between the literary and the non-literary, as well as between text and paratext. In his vision, literary texts function alongside other types, genres, and platforms of storytelling, pursuing a shared rhetorical—and political—goal.

    As an upwardly mobile author and a Bourdieu scholar, Louis is intimately acquainted with questions of literary value. His most ambitious autobiographical work Changer: méthode (2021) reads like a full endorsement of Bourdieu’s theories of literature as symbolic capital and its convertibility into other forms of capital:

    I want to be clear: for me the key thing was change and liberation, not books or writing. I don’t think my primary obsession was with books. … What I’m writing shouldn’t be seen as the story of the birth of a writer but as the birth of freedom.  (2025, 141)

    By underscoring that his escape from poverty, violence, discrimination, and ignorance— conditions he endured as a homosexual growing up in proletarian Hallencourt in Northern France—could have taken any form other than a literary career, Louis stages a performance in which he trades literature’s symbolic capital for the urgency of class struggle and personal liberation. Again, as with the proclaimed aesthetics of the explicit, literature appears as interchangeable with or convertible into something else: it’s a tool or a means among many others. Morgane Cadieu (2024, 2) argues that “parvenue” authors like Louis “need more than one format to contain their cross-class trajectories”. Additionally, I would suggest that the popularity of socioautobiographies like Louis’s is to some degree related to the fact that social media amalgamate the social and the literary.

    Louis is a prototypical author of the twenty-first-century story economy. He has successfully commodified a personal story of transformation, aligning with the imperative for authors to embody a consistent, shareable, and scalable story franchise. He maintains the kind of consistent transmedial authorial ethos that is rewarded not only by audiences, but— more significantly—by platform affordances and algorithms. Indeed, the continuity of Louis’s ethos across platforms and genres—from his autobiographical oeuvre to interviews, political pamphlets, essays, and social media profiles—forms an integral part of his aesthetics of the explicit. Paratexts extend both his personal story and its sociological analysis beyond the novels—and vice versa. In the wake of the Gilets Jaunes protests, Louis has successfully intervened in state politics and challenged Emmanuel Macron through a strategic blend of autobiographical narrative and online storytelling (see Cadieu 2024, 62–63):

    @EmmanuelMacron, my book rebels against everything you are and do. Do not try to use me to mask the violence you embody and exercise. I write to make you feel ashamed. I write to arm those who fight against you. (Louis on Twitter, 6 June 2018, my translation)

    Moreover, in addition to the obsessive focus on the transformation of the self, it is also the repetitive, cyclical, and list-like visual and anecdotal poetics of his literary works that reflects platform value (apart from his participation in the tradition of experimental French autobiographical writing from Rousseau to Ernaux). Although Louis refrains from explicitly referencing social media storytelling, the structural and textual composition in his autobiographical novels evoke the aesthetics of digital platforms: highlighted captions reminiscent of Instagram stories, meme-like aphoristic wisdom, and a dialogicality akin to TikTok stitches or duets, where users juxtapose their argumentative videos with those of others. In Changer, one may find, for example, “Je suis désolé” (“I’m sorry”; 2021, 77; 2025, 55) spread across an otherwise empty page; or explicitness of intention and narrative positioning that verges on naiveté: “Je comprenais que Savoir = Pouvoir” (“I understood that Knowledge = Power”; 2021, 194; 2025, 151). Louis’s obsessive self-exposure and confessionalism does not unequivocally read as liberation but can also be considered – in the spirit of critical, symptomatic reading that predates the story economy – as a form of digitally induced self-surveillance.

    While Louis may embody certain Foucauldian aspects of the story economy, he is simultaneously a shareable and scalable author whose compelling narrative conveys a clear, unambiguous sociopolitical stance—readily adaptable to a progressive discourse that thrives in digital spaces. From the perspective of modern or modernist ideals of ‘pure’ literature, the price to pay for relevance and visibility in the story economy is at least a partial loss of autonomy of the literary field as once defined by Bourdieu. Yet for a post-digital author like Louis, this loss marks a revolution, as for him, the boundaries between narrative genres and platforms, as well as the values they promote, have already collapsed.

    ***

    Studies of literary valuation have not sufficiently dealt with the question of the digitalization and platformization of the literary field. Many crucial changes are introduced by the social media-fostered story economy that transform every user—from individuals to businesses and institutions—into storytellers. Research on the digital literary sphere (Murray 2018; Skains 2019; Thompson 2021; Pignagnoli 2023) focuses on the publishing industry, digital paratexts, the erosion of traditional institutions, the emergence of new literary platform elites, and parasocial relationships between authors and their audiences. Yet the effects of storytelling as a revenue model on the literary field and literary valuation remain insufficiently addressed.

    Even less attention has been paid to how the platformized commodification of storytelling affects narrative rhetoric and literary form. I am not referring solely to the dominance of the autobiographical mode, to interactive writing practices, or to intermedial experimentations with digital interfaces within print literature, but to much deeper formal resonances between literature and digital platforms. Matti Kangaskoski (2021) names recognizability (manifesting as readability in literature) and a clear affective stance as platform norms that currently contribute to automated responses and a compression of both form and content in the literary field. To this should be added the most typically recognized affordances of social media, such as shareability, replicability, scalability, searchability, and persistence (see Ronzhyn et al. 2022).

    The story economy has also prompted the “return” of the author, as the author figure functions now, perhaps more than ever, as a placeholder for intersectional or demographic representativeness and a “right to speak” (Busse 2013; Heynders 2023; see also Gibbons and King 2023, xix). The story economy commodifies personal narratives and capitalizes on experiences of trauma, transformation, and survival (Mäkelä et al. 2021). It elevates individuals’ lives and identities as exemplary and imposes an expectation of consistent ethos, habitus, and moral positioning sustained across media and platforms (Mäkelä et al. 2025). Authors may choose to ride the wave, fight against it, or turn away, but the overall platformization of the publishing industry and legacy media has made opting out very difficult. Today, the formation of literary value needs thus be understood in relation to the platform-driven imperative to produce and reproduce shareable, replicable, and scalable stories that are, moreover, capable of withstanding the critical scrutiny enabled by digital persistence and searchability.

    The rise of new digital literary elites, such as BookTokers and GoodReads reviewers, and of the literary genres (such as romantasy) and values (such as relatability) they promote, drives many authors as well as legacy institutions to reinforce the prestige distinction of “Lit Fic” (Vermeulen 2023, 1232) more strongly than before. An author’s popularity on social media, or the affective, networked publics shaping a work’s or an author’s reception, or even the author persona’s ability to embody a particular narrative ethos may not feature explicitly in institutional “grammars of valuation” (1231). More likely, much of evaluative discourse by literary legacy institutions is implicitly positioned against the story economy, for example by celebrating such rarified genres as “nonautofictional metafiction” and complex entanglements of history, memory, and trauma (Vermeulen 1233), or authors who criticize or reject social media (Mäkelä et al. 2025; see also Gibbons and King 2023, xviii). Yet the difference between new digital elites and legacy arbiters may prove a generational rather than an institutional gap, as students in literary departments already represent a pragmatic, post-digital mindset, navigating digital environments where literary value is being “articulated and generated in concrete interactions” rather than stable and taken for granted (Vermeulen 2023, 1235). Therefore, studies on the grammars of literary valuation need to be able to account for platforms and algorithms, too.

    The logic of digital storytelling platforms in literary as well as in any other context is completely reliant on what I call “emergent narrative authority”: while popular content is all about individual struggle and survival, no one storyteller can be held accountable for the rhetoric and ethics of the telling (Dawson and Mäkelä 2020). In the literary field, this means that the negotiation of authorial ethos is increasingly guided by algorithms and affordances that traditional literary institutions have no control over. Emergent narrative authority, as a concept, introduces a rhetorical perspective to what social media scholars study as context collapse (see Davis and Jurgenson 2014). In the literary field, contexts collapse and authorial ethos attributions are affected and complicated by platform affordances and values when, for example, citations are detached from novels and juxtaposed with social commentary by authors or audiences. In this context, we can surmise that the tendency in the contemporary literary field to foreground a strong, consistent, and pronouncedly embodied transmedial authorial ethos arises as a response or even as a defense against the emergent, distributed narrative authority of social media platforms and the narrative context collapse they induce. Édouard Louis as an embodiment of intergenerational trauma, structural violence, and literary prestige stands as an emblem of this simultaneously postdigital and reinforced authorship.  Meanwhile, authors’ literary and non-literary gestures of rejecting social media can then be interpreted as attempts to evoke literary value as a counterforce to platformization.

    Moreover, the algorithmization of the literary field risks eroding the distinction between discourses of valuation and instrumentalization. On social media, metrics—the number of shares, likes, comments, followers—form an integral part of both narrative rhetoric and its valuation (Georgakopouolou et al. 2020). Followers sharing an author’s inspirational story to engage in affective networks articulate their own identity through shared stories and thus accumulate their own narrative and digital capital. This surely suggests an instrumentalization of literature rather than a celebration of its autonomous value. Yet social media metrics currently constitute the most tangible and visible archive of collective literary valuations in the digital story economy. Quantifiable traces of valuation, from GoodReads reviews and their likes to social media shares of author interviews by the mainstream media, directly affect the public prestige of authors and their visibility.

    ***

    While building his authorial ethos on ruthless authenticity and raw self-analysis, Louis nevertheless says nothing about his social media prominence in interviews nor in his autobiographical literary works. His fellow leftist intellectual star and frequent co-poster on Instagram, Geoffroy de Lagasnerie, asserts that “on Instagram, we seek to produce a different aesthetic of intellectuals: more real and more exciting” (qtd. in Menon 2023). What Louis does not reflect in his trans-platform narrative practice is the value of confessionality in social media and in literature. A ruthless analysis might suggest that in an economy driven by visibility, upward mobility is far more likely to be achieved through social media than through literary distinction.

    What ultimately makes Louis so successful is his ability to play a double game when it comes to narrative and digital capital (see Ragnedda and Ruiu 2020) in the contemporary literary field (see Mäkelä et al. 2025). The storification of his split habitus (the fracture between his proletarian childhood and adolescence on the one hand and the identity of a world author celebrated by both the literary elite and online audiences on the other) requires emphasizing the autonomy and value of the traditional literary and intellectual establishments that he is able to conquer and challenge with his aesthetics of the explicit. Yet the tyranny of the explicit in literature, as I have argued, today inevitably means compatibility with platform affordances and values. Louis thus exemplifies the convergence of literary and platform elites, signaling a transformation in literary valuation and a corresponding decline in the autonomy of the literary field in the twenty-first century.

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    [1] This essay was written in the context of the consortium project Authors of the Story Economy: Narrative and Digital Capital in the 21st-Century Literary Field (consortium PI Maria Mäkelä, Research Council of Finland 2024–2028, decision 360931).