• Lionel Ruffel  — A Dangerous Book (On The Invisible Committee, The Coming Insurrection)

    Lionel Ruffel — A Dangerous Book (On The Invisible Committee, The Coming Insurrection)

    by Lionel Ruffel

    Translated from the French by Claire Finch and Jackson B. Smith

    We are watching a man on a screen. He displays all the characteristics of a vigorous, conservative, republican, married, paternal, naturally born-to-lead American. He’s white, his name is Glenn Beck, he has a baby face and a crew cut, and he’s wearing the mandatory uniform — a red tie with white stars, a striped shirt, and a dark suit. He leans his elbows on the table, using them to emphasize all of his gestures. It’s like we’re at his house and he’s talking to us in private. He’s speaking to us so casually that it even feels a little like water cooler gossip, but don’t let that fool you: what he’s about to tell us is serious. We’re watching Fox News; it’s July 1st, 2009. He starts with the typical idiotic conspiracy theories. But then, less than a minute into the show, something happens, and suddenly we’re confronted with the unexpected, the incredible, the weird: he holds up a small book, yes, you heard me correctly, a book. And he not only holds it up, he flips through it, turning a few pages without reading them, and we can tell right away that he hasn’t read the book and that this doesn’t matter. He hasn’t read it yet, because he just got it, but he’s been waiting for it for a long time. “It is a brand new book,” he tells us, and he looks at us, knowingly, “it is a dangerous book,” and he looks at us threateningly, “it is called The Coming Insurrection,” and here he takes his time, exaggerating each syllable. He holds up the book again, making sure to repeat the title two times, and the second is even more terrifying than the first. “It is written by the Invisible Committee.” Now he looks utterly aghast, because, as he’s speaking, at this very moment, “it calls for a violent revolution.” He gives a little automatic smile, a knowing smile, when he tells his viewers that this Invisible Committee is an anonymous group—and he emphasizes anonymous—and they come from France, of course, although he doesn’t actually say “of course,” we can hear it anyway.

    *

    What makes a book dangerous? So dangerous that a celebrity commentator of a major conservative American television network would devote so much energy to it. So dangerous that the French state imprisoned nine people and flung open what became known as the so-called “Tarnac” case, getting wrapped up in another one of those judiciary true-crime fiascos that it does so well. The combination of the two, the celebrity commentator and the French state, thus gave the book a double recognition the likes of which no French book has received in a very long time. We can’t help but think about similar cases that came before, even though they already seem like they happened so long ago: Guyotat, Genet; or the cases that happened even longer ago: Baudelaire, Flaubert. I recall those cases of literary trials, because the so-called “Tarnac” case, and here comes my hypothesis, is fundamentally a literary trial, even though we’re using it as a false pretext to debate terrorism in our courts. Each of these literary trials thus reveals an anxiety that corresponds to its period, an anxiety about the production of literature and the production of truth. When we talk about the 19th century, we often mistakenly bring up morality, but it was actually all about putting realism on trial. When we talk about the 1960s, we discuss morality and politics, but the true source of anxiety was the hordes of young educated people and readers, let’s call it “democratization.” With the Tarnac case, we talk about terrorism, but it’s a trial that pulls us back to the question that Kant famously asked in 1790: “What is a book?” And it’s true, after all: What is a book? What is a book that Glenn Beck waves at us on a television set? What is a book when we’re reading its unauthorized translations in the middle of a coffee shop? What is a book that leads to the arrest of nine people? These questions are not at all insignificant, because their answer depends on how we think about the collective body, about politics, and about democracy.

    I might be moving too fast, and if you aren’t already familiar with the case, I can quickly go over its main cadences. The starting point was nothing out of the ordinary: a book, called The Coming Insurrection, and some criminal intrigue: someone sabotaged several train lines. The two are linked by a series of readers: the police, the legal system, and the political world, which I’ll call “bovaryan” because…ok, let’s put it in the most simplistic terms, they have a tendency to confuse what is real with what is fiction. The book in question, The Coming Insurrection, the one that worried Glenn Beck so much before he even read it, thus became the sole evidence in a trial by media, and an important one, as its principal actors were the then-Minister of the Interior and the still-acting head of the SNCF (the French National Railway Corporation), and it was broadcast during primetime on the most-viewed private national French television channel. And the book continued to act as evidence in a protean, constantly shifting legal trial that lasted for ten years, until the French Supreme Court finally dismissed the false charges of terrorism. But even now, we can’t help but feel that it will never truly end.

    So if there was no real legal basis for the case, what was it actually about? In my opinion, it was about the following: that the book has no official author, except for an invisible collective. And it is this fact that calls into question the entire modern structure of literature. What is a book? What is a book without an author? Without visibility? Without rights of ownership? How can we use such a book? Can a book be evidence? Because the modern structure of “the literary” is none other than the modern structure of ownership, or put differently, capitalism’s raison d’être. These are the actual questions that the Tarnac case poses. And they are the fundamental literary questions of the new millennium.

    *

    If we’re talking about the actual nature of the book, there is another imaginary collective—a collective that is a sort of cousin of the Invisible Committee, that definitely shares some of its authors, it is a collective that is truly literary—I’m talking about the Tiqqun collective, which was making itself heard, and emphatically, well before The Coming Insurrection and the start of the Tarnac case. In November of 1999, they sent a letter to Eric Hazan, the director of the publishing house La Fabrique, which would later publish the Invisible Committee in France. Here’s what they wrote. “Dear Eric, You will find enclosed the new version, largely augmented and divided into sections, of Men-machines, Directions for Use. Despite its appearance, it does not behave like a book, but like a publishing virus.” It’s 1999, the internet’s prehistoric period, before social networks, before blogs, before there was even Myspace. In this prehistoric universe, the 20th century’s nineties, viruses play the starring roles, inhabiting our dreams and our nightmares, they embody a threat, of course, but also a source of liberation; they’re a bit, if you want to think of it this way, like an equivalent to today’s Dark Net. But our imaginary pertaining to the virus is also part of the history of the book, and of literature. For since the sixteenth century, since the Bible materially came to be a printed book, since the development of what historian Benedict Anderson termed Print Capitalism, we have been thinking about the book as an organism, as a healthy or “good” body. And we did this because we were scared of this organism’s other side, which we had since begun to see and to dread. A side that might line up with what Tiqqun calls viruses. Of course, in the 16th century the term virus was not yet in use, but the threat is already there. It’s the threat of what’s underground and disquieting. The fanatic Glenn Beck might even say that it’s devilish. We can already use the word virus in this context because in these early modern times, with the advent of a new technology, the organism could circulate, it could spread, and we didn’t know how to stop it because it was almost beyond all control. We needed a concept to organize all of this. Let’s name it then: It has to do with the book, but not just any book, because there are as many concepts of books as there are concepts of the world. It has to do with the modern version of the book, which is an institution as much as it is an ideology.

    It’s in this sense that we can understand the following sentence: “The book is a dead form, in so far as it was holding its reader in the same fraudulent completeness, in the same esoteric arrogance as the classic Subject in front of his peers, no less than the classic figure of ‘Man’.” The book, the subject, and Man, connected in the same network. The Tiqqun writers could say that they are referring implicitly to a text which solidified the modern imaginary of the book, in two pages that are as enlightening as, a priori, they are problematic. A heroic text, as it were. Released more than two hundred years earlier, in 1790. Kant is the author, it is called “What is a book?” and it is part of his work The Science of Right. It is a fascinating text.

    It’s not that Kant revolutionizes everything by himself; he draws from a century of shared reflection. But he condenses and crystallizes. He produces a doctrine of rights intended to put an end to the anarchic situation. Of course he does not want things to go back to the way they were before print capitalism, but he is not at all happy with the way that things are going. It’s all looking too much like the fire that Glenn Beck loves to broadcast at us. Kant’s strategy is impressive in that he disguises his doctrine of rights, wrapping it in an entirely new symbolic architecture, one on which rights will eventually depend. We could say that he produces a fiction dressed up in the attributes of the obvious. For the obvious has already been there for three centuries in Europe at the time when Kant is writing: it is the obviousness of a major technological and capitalist mutation, brought about in large part by the invention of the mechanical press. But, as the historian Roger Chartier has shown, debates that attempt to seize this obviousness are contradictory, dense and disordered. While the mutation has undoubtedly already taken place, Kant is simply intervening with his text to end a debate by proposing a unitary symbolic architecture. He thus asks two questions, which become the two parts of a single legislative text, because they are two sides of the same coin, which is print capitalism. Was ist Geld? Was ist ein Buch? What is money? What is a book? At the end of the eighteenth century, no two questions are more decisive, and they maintain their importance as we move into the beginning of the 21st century. Let’s listen to our hero, here’s what he has to say: “A book is a writing which contains a discourse addressed by someone to the public, through visible signs of speech. It is a matter of indifference to the present considerations whether it is written by a pen or imprinted by types, and on few or many pages.”

    You and I, as regrettably materialist as we are, could have responded to the same question with something simpler, something like “a book is an object,” an object that I can hold up in a television studio, for example, in order to say “This is a dangerous book.” At least we could start here, before moving on to something more complex. But that’s exactly what Kant wants to avoid, his entire project is to extract the book from its materiality, and to make it into an abstraction: “It is a matter of indifference to the present considerations whether it is written by pen or imprinted by types, and on few or many pages.” A matter of indifference, therefore, to materiality, which the text only mentions in the phrase “through visible signs of speech,” and we can all agree that that is extremely abstract; as well as an indifference to length, an indifference to action, and a dissimulation of the rupture that the introduction of printing produced; a dissimulation, therefore, of capitalism’s arrival into print. Or rather our hero feigns indifference for he has a hidden agenda: he hopes to cover the book up with another notion, that of speech (“Rede”). An idea that is so central that Kant describes the very person who employs speech, the speaker, as barely anything more than a “someone” (“jemand”). Not yet an author, that will come later, but Kant is logical, first he needs to render abstract the very idea of the author, in order to convert it into what Michel Foucault will later call a function. What is striking here is that he quickly imposes another idea, one that is essential to the creation of the concept of the author: the public.

    Here the text does something truly new, as up until this point “the public” referred to only two things: a political entity or the people in attendance at a performance. This new public organized around the book is a strange thing; it is connected to this person, the “someone,” and we still have no idea who this could be. Kant is getting to that. “He who speaks to the public in his own name is the author. He who addresses the writing to the public in the name of the author is the publisher.” Kant certainly knows how to save some of the best things for last. He said “someone” because he had a surprise in mind. “Someone” is not one but two people, both of whom assume speech: the author, but also the publisher who speaks for the author, who is in fact this text’s great conceptual innovation. Or to put it more precisely, Kant invented a symbolic triangle to stand in for the book, a triangle composed of three conceptual figures that were entirely new at the time: the author, the publisher (“Verleger”), and the public. And their relationship was also entirely new, because none of the three could exist without the others, and it is here that we see Kant’s main conceptual invention.

    It is significant, because it is an innovation that assumes a unity that stands in opposition to the proliferation of texts, of authorities, and of viruses. The author, the publisher, the public, and the book. We know that until the eighteenth century, literary works in particular were seen as miscellaneous collections that grouped several authors’ contributions together into a single object. One that we could plunder, copy, dismantle, take over. It was rare to associate one author with a text and a book. And if occasionally this did happen, either accidentally or intentionally, then it was vertiginous, like in Don Quixote where the prescience as to what a modern book would be comes from a combination of its obsessive fear, its distancing, its critique. A book was made of multiplicity; a book was a multiplicity that sometimes turned viral. But with Kant, with the move into modernity, with the move away from a caste-based society, in which the political subject is just one specimen of the larger multiplicity, and into a class-based society, in which the political subject is capable of fabricating its own destiny, it was necessary to suppress this proliferation and to impose a unity. So that multiplicity could become profitable, in the economic sense of the term. For the stakes are as much economic as they are philosophical, as it was necessary to transform the book into capitalism’s perfect object. “When a publisher does this with the permission or authority of the author, the act is in accordance with right, and he is the rightful publisher; but if this is done without such permission or authority, that is contrary to right, and the publisher is a counterfeiter or unlawful publisher. The whole of a set of copies of the original document is called an edition.” It’s easier if we read the sentence backwards. Our target is the “set of copies,” now attributable to a sole beneficiary, or more like two beneficiaries, a producer, also known as an author, and the economic agent who enhances the production’s value. We often say that Kant aimed to establish a system of literary ownership, and it’s true, as long as we do not confuse literary ownership with author’s rights. We have a tendency to be blinded by author’s rights, which conceal the rights of yet another agent, the economic agent, the editor. Who nonetheless is never just an economic actor. All of this is, in fact, derived from a certain authority, and an authorization. The economic agent is not just the intermediary in the new symbolic construction around the book, but he is also an agent of authority, because he guarantees authorization. We owe him for the magical transaction that transforms writers into authors and manuscripts into books. He authorizes, he is the author of other authors, the author of authority. Keeping in mind that authority in the context of literature is the expression of a single individuality that brings together a multiplicity. The economic agent is thus much more than we thought: he is a symbolic agent. He is the guardian of capitalism’s magical power, or of the fetishism of merchandise, if you will. And because the book is going to become capitalism’s most fetishized object, the publisher is going to become the book’s head magician.

    Do you think I’m exaggerating? Here is Kant again: “A writing is […] a discourse addressed in a particular form to the public”; “and the author may be said to speak publicly by means of his publisher. The publisher, again, speaks by the aid of the printer as his workman (operarius)” and here we need to distinguish between “means” and “aid,” where “aid” refers to the mechanical operation of what has become an entirely immaterial process, “yet not in his own name, for otherwise he would be the author, but in the name of the author; and he is only entitled to do so in virtue of a mandate given him to that effect by the author. Now the unauthorized printer and publisher speaks by an assumed authority in his publication; in the name indeed of the author, but without a mandate to that effect (gerit se mandatarium absque mandato). Consequently, such an unauthorized publication is a wrong committed upon the authorized and only lawful publisher,” and here it is, we understand it now, this “a wrong committed upon” is precisely where the danger is located because dangerous books are above all those that have committed this terrible wrong, “as it amounts to a pilfering of the profits which the latter was entitled and able to draw from the use of his proper right (furtum usus).” A wrong committed against profits, against the very nature of capitalism.

    The book is simultaneously material and immaterial; its two-sided nature is the same as that of capitalism, which invests objects with magical qualities by fetishizing them. But thanks to the idea of authority, the book occupies a position at the very top of the hierarchy of merchandise. The book constitutes a separate universe, one that is entirely distinct from action, one without an exterior, its own island of intensity. Following this text’s publication, a debate began among German philosophers who detected a flaw in Kant’s reasoning. How can you determine the owner of a speech? Could ownership be based on the ideas that a speech develops? No, the philosophers will say, ideas belong to everyone; an authorized speech is characterized only by its format. Its “format,” which means style, or the expression of an individual genius. Here we come full circle: the magical unity of this object that is already no longer an object is based on the most immaterial act of appropriation possible, that of style, of individual expression.

    *

    Now we have a better understanding of Tiqqun and the Tarnac case. We understand why it’s really a literary trial about the very nature of books, which unfolds in the middle of a period that endlessly declares its own crisis. Because a large part of the trial revolved around a question that seems, nonetheless, unfounded: Are you the authors of this book? We also have a better understanding of the irony expressed by a letter to the editor that begins like this, “Despite its appearance it does not behave like a book, but like a publishing virus.” We’re not really talking about moderates and we know it: “The book is a dead form, in so far as it was holding its reader in the same fraudulent completeness, in the same esoteric arrogance as the classic Subject in front of his peers, no less than the classic figure of ‘Man’.” The structure built on unity and completeness trembles, this structure which associates subject, man, and the individual; as Tiqqun’s authors tell us, this structure which is not classic but modern will not hold if its ultimate symbol, the book, loses its identity as a dense block, enclosed, locked, and utopic… if the book opens, instead, to propagation. What follows in the letter is no less suggestive: “The end of institution always perceives itself like the end of an illusion,” rightly characterizing the book as an imaginary institution that is nothing less than the establishing force of the imaginary. “And indeed, it is also the content of truth that causes this outdated thing to be determined a delusion, which then appears as such. So that beyond their character of ending, the great books have never ceased to be those which succeeded in creating a community; in other words, the Book has always had its existence outside of the self, an idea which was only completely accepted fairly recently.”

    And here we arrive at the center of what Glenn Beck was so worried about, these weird communities of readers who meet in order to translate The Coming Insurrection or to read it out loud in a coffee shop. These communities that might have, why not?, read the passage in The Coming Insurrection that potentially inspired the sabotage of the train lines, a passage that talks about flows of communication.[1] There are no more clear borders, and this is terrible for Glenn Beck and those like him. By the way, he talks about borders in his sermon, you know the ones, the borders that nice New York liberals want to abolish. The modern book (its enclosed nature as Tiqqun’s writers put it; this stable, institutional and closed site, as Jacques Derrida writes), was designed to be a border between an inside and an outside, between the body and the mind. Within a reality that was a parallelepiped and symbolically triangular, the book formed a world that belonged to it alone, a world that was perfectly symmetrical, where communication, which had become abstract, was a process that took place between an author and a public, with the publisher as its intermediary. According to Tiqqun’s writers, in fact, reality, this cannot hold any longer. It is not the book itself that can no longer hold, but a certain configuration of the book, one that must be reprogrammed. “You are well placed to ascertain that the end of the Book does not signify its brutal disappearance from the social circulation, but on the contrary, its absolute proliferation […] In this phase there are indeed still books, but they are only there to shelter the corrosive effects of PUBLISHING VIRUSES. The publishing virus exposes the principle of incompleteness, the fundamental insufficiency that is in the foundation of the published work. With the most explicit mentions, with the most crudely convenient indications – address, contact, etc.—it increases itself in the sense of realizing the community that it lacks, the virtual community made up of its real-life readers. It suddenly puts the reader in such a position that his withdrawal may no longer be tenable, a position where the withdrawal of the reader can no longer be neutral.” The authors of Tiqqun bring out the big word, community, to tell us something: the book was neutralized during modernity in order to found a community of citizen-consumers of representative democracy. Tiqqun wants to detach the book from this neutralization, to rediscover the savagery characteristic of the end of the eighteenth century.

    *

    And they succeed in doing this, even before they launch their ships full of explosives, their lead bricks aimed at literature’s soft parts, I mean their three books, The Coming Insurrection, To Our Friends, and Now. In the end maybe Glenn Beck does have the kind of understanding that strikes in dazzling and temporary intuitions. But as he hadn’t read the book yet when he did his broadcast, he couldn’t possibly have known that one of the book’s most scandalous possibilities is the association of the ideal identifier of a literary style, which is to say the idealized expression of a coherent unit, with an imaginary and collective authorship. As if from now on community were possible. This is what makes The Coming Insurrection a dangerous book.

    But it wasn’t so visible, when this savagery, this malfunctioning of the modern book, its absolute proliferation became more and more obvious near the beginning of the twenty-first century, as though it was a question of an increasingly natural environment in which we were evolving. Something in the spread of texts and data changed. Like at the end of our hero’s eighteenth century, remember when anarchy reigned, they published anything and everything, translated hastily, borrowed and copied: books become dangerous, they are real viruses that contaminate the sick bodies of traditional monarchies. Books emerge from the body of books, reach public spaces, digital environments, panic-stricken minds.

    I don’t know what you’ll think about this but I recently read a statistic which I found far-fetched but also extremely significant. There may be more people who have published something in the twenty years surrounding the new millennium than there have been people published in the entire history of humanity. The fantasmatic bubble of the modern book, that which we owe to Kant, has burst. But, needless to say, the book has survived as it has for the past three thousand years. And it will continue to. In this new millennium, it is less autotelic, it is being reconfigured outside of itself, it is spreading, it is coming back to what it is, a temporary capturing of data, of memories, of imaginaries, of fictions, open to all possible uses. A capturing, a treatment, a production of flows, in a world that is no longer what it was, and that hardly disguises itself in different clothes, state, nation, democracy, but not what brings us together, from European post-democracies to illiberal democracies, from authoritarian regimes to populist democracies, this is what the Invisible Committee stated in To Our Friends, their second book, that used a slogan from the movement against CPE, a proposed liberalization of labor laws targeting young people in 2006: “It’s through flows that this world is maintained. Block everything!” It’s so beautiful that it is hard to believe, especially when we remember the passage from The Coming Insurrection that set off the so-called “Tarnac” case.

    Reread the footnote from before: “The technical infrastructure of the metropolis is vulnerable”… The police state wasn’t mistaken when it isolated this passage of the book to get its operations off the ground. The Invisible Committee took hold of the message and shifted the heart of its political analysis from the question of insurrection to the question of flows. “Power is Logistic, Block Everything!” is the title of one chapter in To Our Friends, but this idea comes back all the time, for example here: “There is no world government; what there is instead is a worldwide network of local apparatuses of government, that is, a global, reticular, counterinsurgency machinery.” From one book to another, our political gaze is shifted from the question of democracy to the question of what literary theorist Yves Citton calls mediocracy. Mediocracy or taking over the power of flows, their orientation, their management. Democracies are perhaps nothing more than stories told by mediocracies and fictions are perhaps nothing more than the production of flows. Mediocracy and mythocracy are predicated on each other. And let’s say it, this thing isn’t even new, which doesn’t make it any less interesting. Whenever the Invisible Committee brings up contemporary metropoles, one could just as easily go back 5000 years to when the first cities came into existence, and with them the first writings, and the first totalizing fictions (religions, economies, politics, arts) because the urban world is by nature mediocracy, management of flows, of data, externalization of a memory, quantification, and fictionalization of exchanges in order to produce ties and to maintain order. The whole paradox of literature is that it uses these same tools, that it is exactly pharmakon, poison and antidote. Literary history doesn’t stop telling it to us, telling this story of literary fiction that can save us from fictions of power, but that functions with the same data. One finds it in One Thousand and One Nights, in The Decameron, in Don Quixote. Each one of these works brings to mind a particular moment of mediocracy in which literary fictions are presented as counterfictions. But how do things stand when the mass of flows, of data, is no longer the means by which regimes function but the very heart of governance? How do things stand when media and fiction are developed to such a point that there no longer seem to be any exteriorities?

    What happened next proved it. We have found nothing better for this than books, or rather than literature, whether it appears in the guise of books, of publishing viruses or mutant ancient matter. We have found nothing better than counterfictions because, across from them, fiction reigns, whether it feeds itself with the flows of high-speed trains, notes from intelligence agencies or news broadcasts. The so-called “Tarnac” case states code names like hardboiled fiction titles, far-left, anarcho-autonomists, terrorists, interior enemies, these code names soon become government techniques. They invade news broadcasts, mainstream press and bewitch it. But across from them, the look-outs are watching closely. This time, they are called Tiqqun or the Invisible Committee, and their fiction is no less effective. They begin by interrupting flows, then they state their counterfiction, they say that the insurrection is coming, that they are countless and that they do not take the form of a body, but of a virus. Poison versus virus, that’s the equation that is the basis for literary fiction and that justifies it. Power is panic-stricken and reacts violently because nothing terrifies it more than publishing viruses that are opposed to the poison that it instills. Nothing makes it panic more than this multiplicity. In ten years, the look-outs have let go of nothing, in one thousand and one nights of instruction they will have made the fiction of these contemporary Shâriyâr visible and will have made fools of them.

    That’s where we were. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the flows were out of control and it was up to us to invest the dangerousness of books and of literary fictions, at times to stop them and to capture them, at times to spread them. To have stated that, and stated it in a book, is what sent nine young people to prison, without any valid motive.

    _____

    Lionel Ruffel is the author of Brouhaha: Worlds of the Contemporary (Trans. Raymond MacKenzie. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2018).

    Notes

    [1] “The technical infrastructure of the metropolis is vulnerable. Its flows amount to more than the transportation of people and commodities. Information and energy circulates via wire networks, fibers and channels, and these can be attacked. Nowadays sabotaging the social machine with any real effect involves reappropriating and reinventing the ways of interrupting its networks. How can a TGV line or an electrical network be rendered useless? How does one find the weak points in computer networks, or scramble radio waves and fill screens with white noise?”

  • Arne De Boever – Naked Painting (On the Work of Becky Kolsrud)

    Arne De Boever – Naked Painting (On the Work of Becky Kolsrud)

    by Arne De Boever

    1/

    Becky Kolsrud does not paint nudes.

    In “Bather With Red Shoes” (2018), for example, the red parts—the shoes, the nailpolish, and the lipstick—stand out too clearly for anyone to comfortably call the painting a nude. If the bather from the painting’s title is possibly nude underneath the water, it should be noted that the painting pointedly does not tell us whether this is so. Instead, dark blue water, which is supposed to be transparent, veils the bather’s body and turns the painting into something else—not a nude. In fact, the water veils the body to such an extent that one begins to doubt whether there is an actual body present, underneath the water. The head, arms, and legs feel dismembered, not quite connected into a larger (underwater) whole. For further proof, just consider “Floating Head” (2018), which intensifies this feeling: there might not be a body, let alone a naked body, under the water. This might just be a floating head.

     

    Bather With Red Shoes
    Floating Head

    This point about nudity is made even more starkly in “Resting Bather” (2018), where light blue water confronts the viewer like a block: opaque, material, it appears like something solid onto which the bather—possibly nude, but again there is no way to tell—rests her arms and her head. This water is so hard, the painting seems to say, that you can lean on it. Once again, there is no nudity here. Or if there is, it is not the nudity of the bather. I would propose, instead, that “Resting Bather” shows us naked painting. What else to call the vertical, rectangular slate of blue that covers most of the painting? It is naked painting, rather than a painting of a nude.

    Resting Bather
    The Three Graces

    “The Three Graces” (2018) bathes in the same light blue of “Resting Bather”, but this time the blue actually marks a piece of clothing, a kind of hooded cloak for triplets (if such a thing exists). Of course by now, one doesn’t so much see clothing but water, as if “The Three Graces” are bathing even if they are clothed. Covered when one is supposed to be naked, as in “Bather With Red Shoes” and “Resting Bather”, and naked when one is supposed to be covered, as in “The Three Graces”, Kolsrud’s painting seems to play with nudity and the painting of nudity rather than to deliver it, offering us a kind of naked painting instead.

    Nude in Snow

    This is so even in a work that comes closest to being identifiably a nude. Titled “Nude in Snow” (2018), it shows a naked female body that appears to be bathing in what one imagines to be ice-cold water. The body is naked, and visibly naked in the water, but even here it is partly hidden from view by snow, “in snow”, as the painting’s title puts it. Due to how the snow has been represented—as crude dots of white applied across the painting’s canvas—the viewer once again gets the sense that they are not so much seeing a nude, or even a nude in snow, but a nude in paint or a kind of naked painting. If this painting comes closest to showing an actual nude (even if it is a nude that is partially covered), it is also a painting that through its crudely painted dots of snow shows painting itself, and shows it quite nakedly. It is probably worth noticing that the snow, or the paint, is in the foreground here. The nude in the background may in fact be a distraction. The painting shows, rather, painting itself. Naked.

    Kolsrud does not paint nudes, then, but she does paint naked painting.

    2/

    Allegory of a Nude II
    Bather In Red

    In 2017, just one year prior to the already discussed works, Kolsrud titles one painting “Allegory of a Nude II”. Not quite a nude, but an allegory of a nude—a work in which, if we follow Walter Benjamin’s understanding of allegory, the nude would lie in ruins and the passage from nudity to its allegory would not quite be accomplished. Light blue water appears to swirl up here like Marilyn Monroe’s dress in that famous photograph, billowing around a female figure’s body like a piece of cloth in the wind (but note the difference between this female figure and Monroe—I will come back to the figure’s expressionless face later on). Supposedly transparent—and a trace of its transparency indeed remains; note the patch of water covering the figure’s upper right thigh–, water already appears opaque and material here as it does in the later paintings, even if it does not have the block-like feeling of solidity yet (as in “Resting Bather”). “Bather in Red” (2017) anticipates “Bather With Red Shoes”, but here too Kolsrud hasn’t gone quite as far yet in her materialization of painting: some of the bather’s body still shines through, more so in any case than in the work from 2018.

    Clear Boot Diptych
    Underwater Boot

    Water covers the body in “Clear Boot Diptych” as well, its opacity and materiality emphasized not only by the contrast between the light blue water in the canvas on the left and the dark blue water in the canvas on the right but also by the fact that the one item of clothing in the painting, the one thing that is supposed to cover up, is transparent or “clear”. One can see through it. The foot thus becomes strangely naked, even if it is covered—perhaps even more so than those naked parts of the body that are visible in the painting (the legs, the arms, the head; again, they feel dismembered, as if the cut in the middle of the painting were the sign of one of those magic tricks in which a woman’s body is cut in half and then miraculously restored to a whole afterwards). When the boot returns in “Underwater Boot” (2017), it is in a painting in which bodies and faces are almost entirely hidden from view by stormy waters. The painting gives the nude, the traditional nude, the boot, to speak in a kind of half-rhyme: it puts the naked body under water—and the underwater boot does look like it’s kicking, in the painting—and all it shows is the water, crudely painted, naked, not as water but as paint. “Underwater Boot” is, in its simplicity, over-painted. It gives nudity the boot in favor of naked painting.

    Allegory of a Nude I
    Covered Nude

    “Allegory of a Nude I” and “Covered Nude” make this point in a more complex way, a complexity that—in my view—the more recent work overcomes in favor of a simpler, more unapologetically straightforward painterly statement. Here, female figures are pictured to hold up, as if to show the viewer, what appear to be pieces of cloth—a shawl, perhaps, in “Allegory”, or a towel (in “Covered”). But those pieces of cloth are held up like a canvas that in the former work appears to be transparent but is obviously painted, and in the latter work appears to reveal the shapes of the naked body underneath—but the shapes obviously do not match the hidden body. In “Allegory”, and here again we can follow Benjamin, the passage from one level of reality to the other is not quite established: it’s either the naked body that is painted onto the shawl or the shawl that has been painted onto the naked body. The painting does not quite let us decide. In “Covered”, it seems quite clear that the towel was painted: light blue paint can be seen dripping off the towel in the lower, dark blue part of the painting.

    Three Women

    “Three Women” is the work from 2017 that is the farthest ahead in this series, very close already to works like “Bather With Red Shoes” or “Resting Bather” from just a year later (and anticipating as well, obviously, the figure of three that will appear in “Three Graces” as well and that I will follow here in the structure of my text). “Lady Underwater” is, within this narrative, a transitional work—it paints water as transparent, as not covering the naked body. It stands in between the more traditional nudes from 2017—“Nude Ascending”, “Bathers with Backdrop”–which need to be read in opposition to the non-nudes from 2018. I read “Double Mountain/Backdrop” also as a transitional piece: removing the traditional nude from the center of attention, the work foregrounds the crudely painted double mountain—and doubled, for those viewers for whom a single mountain wouldn’t have quite gotten the message across—, an emphatic brushstroke that is further emphasized by the elaborately painted, wallpaper “backdrop” from the painting’s title. If Kolsrud moves away from the nude here to the foregrounding of painting itself, but at the cost of painting the nude, the brilliance of the more recent work is that it manages to combine the two and keep the nude in the center while at the same time offering us naked painting. It is a remarkably fresh, unapologetic embrace of painting and at the same time an intervention (by a woman painter, one might note) in art history’s long and in many ways problematic history of painting female nudes (mostly done by men, one might further note).

    Lady Underwater
    Nude Ascending
    Double Mountain/ Backdrop

    In an article titled “Nudity”,[1] which starts with a discussion of a performance by Vanessa Beecroft, the Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben criticizes how in Western thought “nudity” has always been marked by a “weighty theological legacy” (65). It is due to this legacy that nudity has always only been what he describes as “the obscure and ungraspable presupposition of clothing”, something that only appears when “clothes … are taken off” (65). Nudity, within such a theological optic, is nothing but the “shadow” of clothing (65). Agamben’s project in his text is to “completely liberate nudity from the patterns of thought that permit us to conceive of it solely in a privative and instantaneous manner”, and therefore the focus of such a project will have to be “to comprehend and neutralize the apparatus that produced this separation” (66) between nudity and clothing. He considers such a project to be realized in Beecroft’s performance, in which “a hundred nude women (though in truth, they were wearing transparent pantyhose [and in some instances also shoes, as he points out later]) stood, immobile and indifferent, exposed to the gaze of the visitors who, after having waited on a long line, entered into a vast space on the museum’s ground floor” (55). There are obviously naked—or sort of naked—bodies here, but Agamben’s perhaps surprising conclusion at first (which I sought to echo earlier on) is that in Beecroft’s performance, nudity did not take place: instead, everything was marked by that theological legacy that renders nudity into a presupposition of clothing.

    And yet, Agamben finds in the performance something that might also neutralize this legacy, and more broadly the separation between nudity and clothing, and that is the indifferent and expressionless faces of the women in the performance. He argues, towards the complicated end of his text, that these faces practice a “nihilism of beauty” (88) that shatters this theological machine. It is the beautiful face that marks this machine’s limit and causes it to stop by “exhibiting its nudity with a smile” and saying: “You wanted to see my secret? You wanted to clarify my envelopment? Then look right at it, if you can. Look at this absolute, unforgivable absence of secrets!” (90) Nudity can in this sense quite simply be summed up as: “haecce! there is nothing other than this” (90). Agamben goes on to describe the effect of such a stop as a disenchantment that is both “miserable” and “sublime” due to how it moves “beyond all mystery and all meaning” (90). There is no mystery to dispel, no meaning to uncover, no secret to be revealed. In nudity, all there is is the beautiful face—and by “beautiful” he is not proposing an aesthetic judgment but marking precisely the indifferent appearance that is being described. It is, in this way, the beautiful face that frees nudity from its theological weight and lets it be, quite simply, naked.[2]

    If art history and the ways in which it has shown nudity, often through the veiled, partly unveiled, or fully unveiled bodies of women, is evidently burdened also by the theological weight that Agamben describes, then Kolsrud’s paintings can be read as participating in Agamben’s project. It seems clear that Kolsrud is aware of how nudity exists in the shadow of clothing—indeed, her paintings stage reversals of nudity and clothing so that those figures who are naked in her work (I am thinking of the bathers) appear to be fully covered whereas those figures or elements that are supposed to be clothed—the “Three Graces” for example; the foot in the boot—appear to be naked. Such reversals recall the kinds of reversals that Agamben discusses in relation to Beecroft’s work, where he references paintings of the Last Judgment, for example, in which the angels are clothed and those awaiting judgment are naked, in an exact reversal of the situation in Beecroft’s performance where the performing women/angels appear to be naked and the spectators awaiting judgment appear fully clothed, having just walked in from the cold Berlin streets. Even the faces of the figures in Kolsrud’s paintings recall those expressionless faces that Agamben writes about, where a kind of halt to the infinite, theological striptease of denudation is enforced.

    But Kolsrud’s brilliant contribution as a painter is that she turns painting itself into an ally in this context: indeed, I would argue that the possibility of calling a halt to the theological logic of denudation is at least equally shared between her figures’ expressionless faces (I will leave it in the middle whether they are beautiful or not), and possibly even presented first and foremost by painting itself—by the fact that what her paintings ultimately show us is not a nude, but naked painting. In this way, Kolsrud ultimately does not need Agamben’s “beautiful faces” (and even less the “choirboy’s ‘white’ voice” which makes an odd appearance in the closing line of Agamben’s text) to block the theological machine. It is painting, rather–naked painting–that steps in here to, in a kind of miserable but simultaneously sublime way, declare the absence of all secrets, the void of meaning. There is nothing to denude here, Kolsrud’s paintings seem to say. Painting—naked painting–marks an end to denudation. In this sense, painting, for Kolsrud—naked painting–becomes a kind of weapon against the ways in which human beings, but in particular women, have been violently caught up in the painting of nudity.

    3/

    And one can trace this argument even further back in Kolsrud’s work.

    Heads and Gates 
    Heads and Gates 

    For if Kolsrud, some time in 2017, shifts to painting nudes (thereby situating herself critically in an art history of the nude), I am inclined to read this shift as a logical development from the faces or rather heads she was still painting during that same year. These need to be read, with some of Kolsrud’s even earlier work (from 2016), in relation to the genre of the portrait that, like the nude, makes up a celebrated art historical topos, this time perhaps with men featured more frequently in portraits than women. I write heads, and not faces, because that is what Kolsrud calls them: they appear like decapitated, slightly disfigured, women’s heads (painted on what looks like a painter’s palette), leaning against each other on a wooden beam mounted against the gallery wall, in one case. In another, different set-up they don’t lean but hang, separate from each other, on the gallery wall. One of those latter faces, or rather heads, appears to be doubled (a doubling to which I will come back later on); another has the shape of a face, or rather a head, but is not recognizably a face—it is really just colors. A head.

    Kolsrud’s preference for the word “head” rather than “face” recalls, whether intentionally or not, Gilles Deleuze’s writing about Francis Bacon.[3] In his book on Bacon titled “Logic of Sensation”, Deleuze argues that Bacon, “as a portraitist … is a painter of heads, not faces, and there is a great difference between the two” (19). Whereas the face, and in particular the traditionally beautiful face, refers to a “spatializing material structure”, a “structured, spatial organization” that for example the bones also bring to the body, the head is the culmination of what Deleuze describes as “the body as figure”, and more precisely “the material of the figure” (19). As such, the face “conceals the head”, and Bacon’s project as a portraitist was precisely to “dismantle the face, to rediscover the head or make it emerge from beneath the face” (19). To do so means to open up a “zone of indiscernibility or undecidability between man and animal”, Deleuze suggests, and he ties this particular zone back to the body, but specifically the body “insofar as it is flesh or meat” (20). Here, he has in mind something that is no longer “supported by the bones”, a state where “the flesh ceases to cover the bones, when the two exist for each other, but on each on its own terms: the bone as the material structure of the body, the flesh as the bodily material of the Figure” (20). Before one reads such materiality in a vulgar way, Deleuze is quick to emphasize in his text that it does not lack “spirit”: the head is in fact “a spirit in bodily form, a corporeal and vital breath, an animal spirit. It is the animal spirit of man: a pig-spirit, a buffalo-spirit, a dog-spirit, a bat-spirit…” (19). It is partly for this reason, it seems, that Deleuze can suggest that Bacon is a butcher, but a butcher who “goes to the butcher shop as if it were a church, with the meat as the crucified victim” (21-22). “Bacon is a religious painter only in butcher shops” (22), he writes.

    Kolsrud’s heads share something with this Deleuzian reading of Bacon and with Bacon’s project as a portrait painter in that they participate in the painterly brushing out of the clearly identifiable features of the face. But Kolsrud is not quite as universalist as Deleuze, who in his insistence on the head appears to gloss over the fact that Bacon is painting mostly men. Kolsrud, on the other hand, is painting women. She may be painting women’s heads rather than faces, but they are still, in almost all instances, identifiably the heads of women. Perhaps something important is being said here about Deleuze’s head and meat and the limits it poses for art historical analysis, or even the analysis of our lived experiences in the world, in the sense that it does not account for sex or gender, or also race or class. The head and meat are beyond those, for better or for worse. Deleuze is post-identity.

    As a materialist painter, a painter who foregrounds the materiality of painting, Kolsrud also retains something of what Deleuze calls “the spiritual”. Going back the most recent work from 2018, one should pay attention to scale specifically in terms of how the female bodies are situated in the landscape: it appears as if those bodies are bathing in large bodies of water—lakes rather than swim-holes—and thus the bodies appear unnaturally large compared to the landscapes in which they are situated. This appears to partly cast Kolsrud’s female figures as spiritual or divine, bathing in a large body of water over which they don’t so much rule but with which they become one. If I hesitate to fully associate these figures with “Mother Nature” or “Mother Earth” it is not only because women have suffered this association for long enough already (and for better and for worse) but also because there are elements—shoes, nailpolish, lipstick—that also prevent such a full identification. The female bodies flow into the landscape and the landscape into the female bodies in the paintings, but Kolsrud’s line nevertheless remains quite distinct, marking a clear limit between the landscape and the female body, and thus at the very least drawing such an association in question. Still, there is spirituality in Kolsrud’s material paintings.

    When considering Bacon’s intervention in the history of portrait painting, the politics of it appears to be clear: Bacon’s heads mess with the practice of identification that the portrait participates in, as is evident for example in the portrait’s legacy in the passport photograph. Although a trace of identification remains in Bacon’s heads—they are, for example, all men’s heads, something that Deleuze does not insist on enough—it is clear that Bacon’s heads are trying to go beyond identification, to leave identification behind (this is what Deleuze refers to as becoming-animal, becoming-woman, becoming-vegetable, and so on). Kolsrud, too, seems to have identification and its political history in mind.

    Double Portraits

    When she paints portraits in 2016, she paints “Double Portraits”, in other words: identifications that, because they are always already split, tend to make identification (which operates according to the logic of the one) impossible. A face becomes two, becomes a head, and even a moon (“Double Portrait (Moon)”). In another double portrait, the eyes are painted over and the focus appears to be on the hands holding what is an image of a face (“Double Portrait (Pink Hands)”). This last element in the painting anticipates those works from 2017 in which female figures are shown to hold up a shawl or a towel for the viewer. In yet another of her double portraits, one of the portrayed faces is shown to be partially hiding behind its other (“Double Portrait (Hiding)”). Clearly, all of these works, as portraits, frustrate the process of identification and in that sense are part of the broader realm of what Deleuze has theorized as Bacon’s heads.

    That this frustration might be partly political, and intentionally political, is revealed by Kolsrud’s other paintings from 2016, in which eyes, heads, and full bodies are largely blocked from view by what the painter explicitly calls “Gates” and “Security Gates”.

    Heads and Gates

    These “gated” paintings strike me as overpainted, even more so than “Underwater Boot”, in that their gated representations ultimately show nothing more than paint, than painting itself—and this in spite of the fact that they create the desire to see through the gate. The gates function, in other words, as a kind of clothing: they set up the presupposition of nudity behind or underneath the clothing, but Kolsrud’s painting blocks that search for nudity which (once again) is particularly intense around the bodies of women. The dynamic of denudation stops at the gated painting, at the painting’s gate which is a kind of security gate not so much in that it would imprison the eyes, heads, or full bodies behind it. The temptation then would be to conclude that instead, the painting allows those eyes, heads, and full bodies to simply be—and that may certainly be part of their point, a point that Agamben makes as well about “the beautiful face”. But I have suggested that Kolsrud’s painting actually goes further and does not so much allow the eyes, heads, and full bodies to simply be—and to simply be naked—but foregrounds painting and ultimately allows painting to simply be. The search for nudity is not so much blocked here by the naked body, but by painting itself. Painting, in its spiritual materiality, brings that search to a halt and forces the viewer to rest with its surface, in the absence of secrets and the void of meaning. In that sense, one can call it naked—but naked only insofar as that nudity is a clothing liberated from anything that is supposed to be hiding underneath.

    It shouldn’t come as a surprise, finally, that some of Kolsrud’s even earlier work from 2014, focuses on clothing. It shows faces, or rather heads, as part of clothed bodies, or bodies in the process of being clothed (“The Fitting”; “We Alter and Repair (Shoulders)”; “We Alter and Repair (Back)”).

    The Fitting
    We Alter and Repair (Shoulders)
    Storefront

    It shows security gates, which are now revealed to be the fronts of sewing stores (“Storefront”, two paintings), where clothes get altered and repaired (“We Alter and Repair”).

    We Alter and Repair

    Anticipating the later portrait work, there is a “Seamstress” and a “Woman with Sewing Machine”, two figures that must, following the larger trajectory that I have laid out, be read not only as such but also in association with the painter herself who treats canvas and paint as clothing.

    Seamstress
    Woman with Sewing Machine

    Thereby, Kolsrud paradoxically puts on display a nudity beyond denudation, a simple nudity that is not so much the nudity of the naked body but the nudity of naked painting, of a painting that materially and spiritually calls a halt to the theological and art historical striptease in which, for so many centuries, nudity has remained caught up. It is a nudity that, in that sense, paradoxically is its own clothing—and nothing more.[4]

    This text was written on the occasion of the L.A. Dreams exhibition at CFHill gallery in Stockholm in Spring 2018, in which Becky Kolsrud’s paintings were included. Many of the images featured here were lifted from the website of JTT gallery in New York. I would also like to thank the artist for generously sharing images of her most recent work with me while I was preparing this text. 

    Notes

    [1] Agamben, Giorgio. “Nudity”. In: Agamben, Nudities. Trans. David Kishik and Stefan Pedatella. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011. 55-90. Henceforth cited parenthetically in my text.

    [2] Agamben had made this point previously in: “In Praise of Profanation”. In: Agamben, Profanations. Trans. Jeff Fort. New York: Zone Books, 2007. 73-92. Even before then, this argument about the face can also be found in: Agamben, Giorgio. “The Face”. In: Agamben, Means Without End: Notes on Politics. Trans. Vincenzo Binetti and Cesare Casarino. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000. 91-100.

    [3] Deleuze, Gilles. Francis Bacon: Logic of Sensation. Trans. Daniel W. Smith. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002. Henceforth cited parenthetically in my text.

    [4] In that sense, Kolsrud provides an answer to the question about that most mysterious of terms in Agamben’s work, form-of-life, which is to dismantle the vicious dynamic between zoe (the simple fact of living) and bios (form of life) that is analyzed in great detail in Agamben’s Homo Sacer project—but also in other texts that are not explicitly a part of that project, such as “Nudity”. I cannot lay this out in detail, but readers of Agamben will understand.

  • Bruce Robbins – Thank You For Your Service

    Bruce Robbins – Thank You For Your Service

    by Bruce Robbins

    Even if they haven’t seen the movie, people above a certain age will remember Jack Nicholson’s final speech in A Few Good Men: “You don’t want the truth, because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall.” Nicholson, a colonel in the Marines, is confessing to his guilt for having had one of his men beaten to death. He confesses because he believes he was right, and he believes that, deep down in places they don’t talk about at parties, his fellow Americans know he was right. Sometimes defending the nation will require breaking the rules.  It will require getting your hands dirty.

    In the midst of America’s many high-energy debates about immigration and the building and manning of walls, there is a simple moral truth that has been overlooked.  It’s that truth, I think, that has made this maiden effort by Aaron Sorkin one of the most quoted speeches in Hollywood history.  It’s the same truth that gives such emotional sizzle to the formula “thank you for your service,” and does so even when those words sound, as they often do, and not just to veterans, shallow, ignorant, and insufficient.  The truth is that we depend on people far away over the horizon, doing and suffering unspeakable things so that we can live our more or less ordinary, more or less comfortable lives.  We are the beneficiaries of their labors.  And we know it.

    This is clear enough where the subject is the uniformed men and women who are placed, as the saying goes, “in harm’s way.” As an Air Force pilot told journalist David Wood in 2014, “There are two kinds of people: those who serve, and those who expect to be served.”  The thing is, this division of humanity doesn’t only apply to civilians thinking about what is done and suffered by soldiers. As the pilot’s words involuntarily suggest, it also applies to patrons being served in a restaurant–very likely by people who have also come from somewhere beyond the horizon.  It applies to anyone who has a cup of coffee or checks her iPhone.  We are also the beneficiaries of the people who cultivated the coffee beans and put the chips in the iPhone. Many of whom have to deal with as much harm and unpleasantness as the soldiers who serve the country overseas.

    They too get their hands dirty. Perhaps dirtier.  And again, we know it.  The rash of suicides at Foxconn, where many of the chips are manufactured, became common knowledge in 2010, as did the installing of suicide nets to stop more workers from throwing themselves off the roof and further threats of mass suicide in 2016.  Brazil, the world’s largest coffee producer, has been accused of exploiting its workers under conditions “analogous to slavery.”  When we pronounce the innocent-sounding words “global economic inequality,” what we’re talking about is violence on the other side of the wall.

    In spite of this knowledge, little is being done about global economic inequality. Why not? It’s not enough to say that poor foreigners don’t vote in American elections. They don’t but neither do many poor Americans.  Where Americans feel responsible, they are often willing to take some sort of action.  The problem is that most people don’t feel responsible–don’t feel personally responsible–for global economic inequality. And as Yascha Mounk argued in The Age of Responsibility: Luck, Choice and the Welfare State, published by Harvard last year, we have been told again and again that the only real responsibility is personal responsibility.

    That’s why it’s good to remember “thank you for your service.”

    Anyone who pronounces those words of heartfelt gratitude or resonates to them when they are pronounced by others is offering evidence that they do, after all, believe in collective responsibility. Collective responsibility: our responsibility as beneficiaries of the system to feel the weight of what is done on our behalf beyond the horizon and to make sure that those who do it are justly rewarded for it.  If we are capable of feeling collectively responsible for the actions of the military, then we should be able to expand the geographical and social scale of our gratitude. Why should it not extend from those who serve not with arms, but by their work?  Why should it not pass from Americans on the wall (whom you may still want to reserve the right to judge) to non-Americans in the fields, on the assembly lines, and sometimes trying to escape violence by passing over to our side of the wall?  Deep down, in places you don’t talk about at parties, you know you owe them, too, a debt.

    Bruce Robbins is the author of The Beneficiary, which came out from Duke University Press in December 2017.

     

  • Paul A. Bové – Misaligning Misprisions

    Paul A. Bové – Misaligning Misprisions

    by Paul A. Bové

    In 1997, Harold Bloom looked back on The Anxiety of Influence, much as I will do here.  In his then new “Preface,” Bloom gave us the ultimate authority for his own work, his own way of doing criticism.  If I count correctly, Shakespeare’s name appears on as few as two pages of The Anxiety of Influence, most importantly page 11 of the Introduction where Bloom defines Shakespeare as the limit case to his work and so off limits.  In 1997, however, Shakespeare appears on nearly every page of the new Preface, there ostensibly because Bloom has matured, learned, grown to meditate on the limit that is Shakespeare as originality.  More important, in this Preface, Bloom gives us Shakespeare as both his original and his own mask.  In 1973, Shakespeare excluded himself from anxiety because he was greater than his predecessor, whom Bloom called Marlowe, whereas by contrast, Milton confronted a great poetic predecessor, Spenser, who like all strong poets, left Milton or any successor merely traces and ruins of inspiration.  Surprisingly, Bloom had recourse to an historical explanation, making Shakespeare a Vichian primitive man who existed prior to the flood of anxiety that surfeits modernizing imaginations.  (Edward Said aspired to discredit The Anxiety of Influence by naming Goethe as another giant who suffered no secondariness, no anxiety.)  We could read the 1997 Preface then as completing the 1973 project.  What had once been unthought as the condition of reading and theorizing, after long study emerged through the optics of a Shakespeare successor and Bloom predecessor, Emerson.  What had been lost was found.  What came before returned.  Belatedness found the impossible original.  Proficient productivity had found its source and, to echo the Unnamable, could keep on going on.

    I want to exposit two passages from Bloom’s writings.  Each is very simple.  In the first, I draw attention to critical will that is all too human and craves satisfaction.  In the second, I suggest that this will’s satisfaction costs too much for poetry and the human.  The lesson I propose is that production, understood in the gesture as mapping or proliferating in the demonstration of echo—that production has no inherent value.  Compulsion requires measure and outcome requires judgment.

    The Preface to the 1997 edition of Anxiety of Influence is generically legitimating autobiography.  Cast as retrospective explanation, the preface recasts basic principles of reading now familiar to all.  Here is the first brief passage that deserves attention:  “Palpably and profoundly an erotic poem, Sonnet 87 (not by design) also can be read as an allegory of any writer’s (or person’s) relation to tradition, particularly as embodied in a figure taken as one’s own forerunner” (xiii).  As a diktat of critical appropriation, nothing is sharper, more economical, or formulaic.  Any text, no matter its design, “also can be read as an allegory.”  The passive voice intrigues me.  The Preface might have said, “I can read this allegorically.”  I can enact the figure of allegoresis.  The passive’s depersonalization hides not only the nominative, but replaces agency with capacity.  All texts, no matter their design, have no defense against allegoresis, against allegorists who show no restraint and call their violence strength.  This extremely radical claim stands only if we ignore the ‘can’ in its active form.  The critic displaces the desire to act into the weakness of a text, its inability to protect its design from the devouring reduction of its reader, who claims strength in the extension of allegoresis.  Sonnet 87, allegorically, tells the story of unhappy freedom, which really cannot describe or designate the critical joy found in such doubly legitimating discoveries of self-justification.  The result is self-justificatory because if even Shakespeare’s design cannot resist the willful allegoresis of the ‘can be read,’ then nothing exists outside the range of such mismanaged, or if you prefer, misprized literacy.  The text cannot stand, despite the normal allegorist claim that allegoresis is the sole and necessary mode of reading in ruined history.

    Opening Chapter 1 of Wallace Stevens:  The Poems of Our Climate,[i] allegoresis in its pure form reveals its own baroque intentions.  The reduction that calls for the self-employing process of decreation and recreation, a perpetual act carried out under the sign of anxiety and response.  “I begin,” the critic writes, “by proposing an antithetical formula as the motto for post-Emersonian American poetry” (1).  This 1976 designation is not as modest as it seems given that in the 1997 Preface, Emerson provides the allegorical key to reading Shakespeare.  He also appears as the imaginative ground legitimating allegoresis via idealism and transcendentalism.  The 1997 text declares, “Shakespeare largely invented us” (xiii), a claim I deny by referring to Poetry Against Torture, reserving that honor for Dante.[ii]  (This is not a sign of my siding with Eliot.)  Nonetheless, the preface elaborates this invention as a form of influence and as an influx, a word that, predictably, brings us to Emerson.  “The invention of the human, as we know it, is a mode of influence far surpassing anything literary.  I cannot improve upon Emerson’s account of this influx” (xiii-xiv).  Emerson becomes a close cousin to the author of John’s Gospel, and the place we must go for the word on the Word.  Influx and influence are more or less the same word, but we can say that influx reminds us of plurality as tributaries have influx whereas influence aspires to be an inflow, a single stream.  Influx let us read these lines, then, as saying that Emerson is only one tributary of the great stream of humanity called Shakespeare.  This is good to know because it reminds us that choosing to make Emerson the main tributary to Shakespeare leaves out others and suggests the Preface should have offered some justification of this tribute to Emerson.  Of course, the tribute is an act of mirroring for if the critic cannot improve upon the Emerson it does a small and fine task of linking the ‘can’ of reading Sonnet 87 as an allegory and the ‘cannot’ that identifies the critic with the supreme articulation of the voice that can.  All of this, you see, is the play of critical production.

    It returns us to the opening of Wallace Stevens.  “I begin by proposing an antithetical formula as the motto of post-Emersonian poetry:  Everything that can be broken should be broken” (1).  This statement aspires to be a temporal precursor that in fact follows from the violence that holds all texts can be allegorized, no matter their design.  We should not err, however, into taking this as a statement about literature, poetry, imagination, or the human.  Rather it is a programmatic extension of allegoresis to subsume the literary text to esoteric modes of meaning production, to the baroque elaboration of basic tropes that belong to a view of the world, of human history, that has dire consequences for the human, which is not itself quite the result of any influence or influx.  Modern criticism had an intensive preoccupation with the Baroque, most famously in Walter Benjamin.  In his work, we find an easy way to characterize Baroque style, the finish of the rough pearl:  “peculiarly baroque features . . . . include an exaggerated and violent bombast in their language (including a figurative tendency towards linguistic contraction), an absence of psychological depth in its characters, a preponderance of and dependency upon theatrical props and machinery, and a crude emphasis on violence, suffering and death.”[iii]  There have been few critics capable of Baroque style, despite the commonality of allegoresis.  (Speaking of Emerson, the book on Stevens says, “This multiplication of terms is more than a little maddening” [4]).  Simple allegory—national allegory, post-colonial allegory—these are simple figures of easy reproduction:  hence, the success of the then New Historicism.  Baroque allegory requires verbal and inventive skill, extraordinary spatial sense, and fabulous memory that survives by mapping itself upon the spatial structure it creates for itself.

    Calling itself visionary, it has a commonplace undergirding familiar from classical and religious traditions:  abnegation and abjection.  Its rhetorical form is the return, hence the first principle of post-Emersonian poetry, that is, of the influx to which the critic assigns the name, human.  The radical gesture has the boldness of a desperate weak stroke:  a formula as a motto for poetry.  Rivers need a channel and estuaries need gateways, but a formula that is a muttered word for all that is poetry and human?  In addition, when we remember that formula is a diminutive, we see the desperate weakness of an action trying to be bold from the already defined position of the abject.  Muttered words in a small form standing in for poetry and humanity—this sounds like the moderns and their concern for the loss of and attempt to find again myth and ritual.

    The 1997 Preface makes the claim, as we have seen, that Shakespeare’s influence results in the existence of the human.  From that starting point, esoteric visionary criticism embraces anagoges, the rhetorical mode that would make the universe as such available for literature and the recall of its readers.  The Aeneid is the best first instance of this double effect:  all the world as culture available to literature and literature as institution allied to certainty.  The esoteric mode of anagoges is also certain within a narrative that kills the human as the goal of its creation.  Its stories of decreation and recreation negate the human whose existence, coming into being, is a fall.  Shakespeare’s great original power, the power of anxiety free creativity, is not, despite appearances, an assurance of human life and value but rather the starting point only of a story of endless ruination redeemable only in the inhuman.  We know this story from Walter Benjamin.

    Wallace Stevens: The Poems of Our Climate, having begun with the ritual act of murderous reduction to a small form—remember how allegoresis ignores poetry’s design, which not accidentally in Sonnet 87 is erotic—would seduce its readers by assigning the qualities of strong imagination to the completion of this formula’s reduction of human capacity.  How does the little form become murmured sound when proposed for a poet of Stevens’ erotic sensibility?  Here is the explanation:  “in the dialectic of all Stevens’ poetry, this reads:  One must have a mind of winter, or reduce to the First Idea; one must discover that to live with the First Idea alone is not to be human; one must reimagine the First Idea” (1).   Logically, since Stevens is the paradigm of post-Emersonian poetry, the book starts by mapping the so-called ‘scene’ that summons and allows Stevens to be poet.  In short, “Emerson” stands for “poverty” represented as “imaginative need, the result of Emerson’s version of a reduction to a First Idea” (9).[iv]

    In 1977, the essay, “Wallace Stevens:  Reduction to the First Idea,” held that C. S Peirce or Simone Weil might have influenced the emergence of the trope, first idea, in Stevens.  That essay chose, because it could, to recast that trope of emergence as reduction.  Critical kenosis enacted the little formula’s motto:  decreate.  On its first page, Wallace Stevens: The Poems of Our Climate repeats a single line, admitting that the aesthetic formula is the critical first principle of visionary pronouncement.  This Gnostic apothegm anagogically links thesis and antithesis in the agonistics of the motto:  “Everything that can be broken should be broken.”  (There is a deep link here to Walter Benjamin of course.)  These pages circumscribe the poetry of Wallace Stevens as part of an agon between Wordsworth and American or Emersonian self-reliance, an aspiration for Freedom, itself another name for poverty.  This is a struggle to the death; it requires and justifies breaking all that came before so ruin might serve the ambitions of a latecomer who, supposedly, cannot stand the anxiety induced by belatedness.  (Here, one wants to think of Adorno writing on the late Beethoven.[v])  In its Gnostic aspirations it concludes that “any death is also without consequence, in the context of natural sublimity; for us, below the heavens, there is stasis, but the movement of a larger intentionality always goes on, above the heavens” (1976: 49).

    I prefer a different critical mode, one that chooses not to sacrifice the human because supposedly it cannot survive when it revisits the first look that is the condition of its culture, love, and creativity.  In 1960, another critic discussed Stevens’ ‘poverty’ with measured intelligence, and drew on Emerson as well as Bergson to explain the trope.  In 1989, however, the same critic dismissed each of those influences, especially Emerson, as unnecessary to Stevens.  Stevens’ poetry is creatively worldly, freely recollective, and creatively traditional—a poiesis that passes on without the anxious need to decreate in florid prose.  Stevens’ poverty has no tinge of messianism or its melancholy.  It is purely secular.  The critic writes in 1989, that Stevens’s “fundamental richness lay in his sense of poverty and of poetry as its quite normal mitigation, merely his vision of what everybody needs to live in the world” (xviii).[vi]  If such affection needs a name we might call it ‘gift’ and if it needs a motto, it would be this, and in the poet’s own words:  “’The words of the world are the life of the world’”[vii] (xviii).  Stevens had no anxiety, presenting poetry as always ready for the dump as time demanded its replacement.  Yet, in Stevens’ tradition, thirteen years after The Poems of Our Climate, Kermode showed that worldly, humanistic, and historical critical reading, comment, and enthusiasm could sustain understanding, communication, and love across spaces and generations.  “’The words of the world are the life of the world’” is the motto for criticism that sustains the human and its creativity by passing on the enthusiasm of words for the needs of our world.  Mottos assigned to poets are merely slogans.  The critical motto must always turn back to words in and for the world, which is where poets and their works reside doing the work they design.

    [i] Bloom, Wallace Stevens:  The Poems of Our Climate, especially pp. 2-26.

    [ii] Bové, pp. 47-49, which discusses Auerbach and Dante together to propose the creation of the literary human in The Inferno.

    [iii] Osborne, Peter and Matthew Charles. 2012. “Walter Benjamin.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta.

    http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2012/entries/Benjamin/

    [iv] “Poverty” is a fundamental term in Stevens’s poetry, appearing at least 24 times in his Collected Poems.  “In a Bad Time,” from The Auroras of Autumn (1950), offers a good example of Bloom’s Emersonian tinge in Stevens’s language:  “He has his poverty and nothing more. / His poverty becomes his heart’s strong core” (367).  Of course, one must take lines such as these as meta-verse keys to allegorize the works and career.

    [v] Adorno, Theodor. 1998. “Text 3:  Beethoven’s Late Style,” in “The Late Style (I),” in Beethoven:  The Philosophy of Music, Fragments and Texts, edited by Rolf Tiedemann and translated by Edmund Jephcott. Redwood City, CA: Stanford University Press.

    [vi] Kermode, Frank. 1989. Wallace Stevens [1st ed., 1960; 2nd. ed., 1989].  My citation comes from the Preface to the second edition.  Kermode studied Stevens’s interest in ‘poverty’ over nearly thirty years and after Bloom’s monumental book on Stevens, proposed a very different understanding of poverty and so of Stevens’s poetry.  It should be noted that Kermode had praised Bloom’s book on Stevens in a long review:  “Notes Toward a Supreme Poetry,” New York Times, June 12, 1977, http://www.nytimes.com/books/98/11/01/specials/bloom-stevens.html.

    [vii] Kermode quotes Stevens’ late poem, “An Ordinary Evening in New Haven,” which is also one of Bloom’s touchstones for thinking about Stevens and all poetry.

    XII

    The poem is the cry of its occasion,

    Part of the res itself and not about it.

    The poet speaks the poem as it is,

    Not as it was: part of the reverberation

    Of a windy night as it is, when the marble statues

    Are like newspapers blown by the wind. He speaks

    By sight and insight as they are. There is no

    Tomorrow for him. The wind will have passed by,

    The statues will have gone back to be things about.

    The mobile and immobile flickering

    In the area between is and was are leaves,

    Leaves burnished in autumnal burnished trees

    And leaves in whirlings in the gutters, whirlings

    Around and away, resembling the presence of thought

    Resembling the presences of thoughts, as if,

    In the end, in the whole psychology, the self,

    the town, the weather, in a casual litter,

    Together, said words of the world are the life of the world.

  • Pierre Joris – A Nomad Poetics Revisited: Poetry and Translation in a Global Age

    Pierre Joris – A Nomad Poetics Revisited: Poetry and Translation in a Global Age

    by Pierre Joris

    [presented as keynote address at the International Poetry Seminar

    Moving Back and Forth between Poetry as/and Translation:  Nomadic Travels and Travails with Alice Notley and Pierre Joris

    on 7-8 November 2013, Université Libre de Bruxelles, convened by Franca Bellarsi & Peter Cockelbergh.]

     

    1. “Who among us has not had his promised land, his day of ecstasy and his end in exile?” — signed: Amiel (with one “m” — the one with 2 “m”s will come in later). Thus begins or rather pre-begins Joseph Conrad’s novel Almayer’s Folly: A Story of an Eastern River (1895). The epigraph comes from Henri-Frédéric Amiel’s collection of poems & prose meditations Grains de Mil (Grains of Millet) (Paris 1854). This exergue stands at the head of, or, more accurately, stands before his first novel, thus before the vast oeuvre to come. Introïbo ad altarem Conradi.

    The world-weary and wandering sailor from Poland I often confuse with my own grandfather, Joseph Joris, also a sailor, though in the early parts of his life & of the 20C when Conrad had already abandoned ship to take up the pen. Joseph Joris’ writings — mainly a large correspondence with major scientists & politicians of his era, or so my father told me, and some notations of which only one 3 by 4 scrap of astrological calculations remains — went up in flames during the Rundstedt offensive when his house in Ettelbruck, Luxembourg — living quarters plus confiserie fine plus the ineptly, for its time, named Cinéma de la Paix — was shelled & burned out by advancing US troops liberating us from the Germans. Joseph didn’t live to see this: he had died 2 years earlier from an infected throat — but that is another story.

    So why do I begin here? Because this epigraph I came across a few days ago as I sat down to redact this “keynote” (more on that word in a minute) came into my mind — maybe because as I was thinking about what to say today I was looking out of my window, idly, and through the red & falling autumn leaves saw the flowing waters of the Narrows, where Hudson river and East river (tho not Conrad’s “Eastern River” — & yet?) mingle with the encroaching ocean in a daily tug-of-war, ebb & flood, riverrun riverrun — if I wanted to link elsewhere in modernism, but I don’t want to right now.

    So, Conrad’s epigraph was suddenly there & I saw it not as something that stands before one book, but as something that stands before, above, in front of a whole oeuvre, a life’s work. A door all of a sudden — a gate, as in Kafka’s story. (Though Kafka, remember, couldn’t go to sea as my two Josephs did, but maybe he didn’t need to do so, for as he puts it in his Journals, he had the experience of being “seasick on firm land.”) This door or gate is not one to be waited in front of, as it is open & indeed meant for who is in front of it, & thus meant to be walked, strode through, though the crossing of this door’s threshold is something fierce & fearsome because as Amiel points out, the promised land is in the past. (“n’a pas eu…:” in the original, even if Ian Watt in his excellent comment on the novel translates — or uses someone’s version who translates this as — “who among us does not have a promised land…” present tense. Even Conrad in the 1895 first edition misquoted the lines from memory as “Le quel de nous n’a sa terre de promission, son jour d’extase et sa fin dans l’exil,” though he corrected it for the 1914 edition).

    Thus: promised land in the past, while ecstasy may be back there too or in the present — let’s keep that ambiguity going & locate ecstasy also in the present day’s labor leading (after the promised land has long vanished) into the exilic future — through the gate, the door, the pre-text, that is the text — yes, I’ll own up to it — through writing, the act thereof. Writing is this exile, h.j.r, hejr, hejira, Hagar, she, me, wandering in desert or city, that nomadicity. I am certainly staying with that concept, or better, that process.

    And so I’m home again, in the present-future (thus not the future perfect or futur antérieur of the French), no, in the present-future that is the tense of writing, an ecstatic-exilic tense. I am formulating it this way now & wouldn’t mind leaving it at that, but this is a keynote, so let me go there now.

    1. A note on “keynote,” and then a look at 10 years after. A keynote, says my wikipedia, “is a talk that establishes the main underlying theme… (&) lays the framework for the following programme of events or convention agenda; frequently the role of keynote speaker will include the role of convention moderator. (No way, Josè!) It will also flag up a larger idea – a literary story, an individual musical piece or event.” Okay, I’ve already told a “literary story,” & the events I’d like to flag are the poetry readings, which is where the work comes most alive for me. As to “an individual musical piece,” well, my love for etymologies immediately drove me to locate the origin of “keynote” in the practice of a cappella, often barbershop singers, & the playing of a single note before singing, that determines the key in which the song will be performed. I know that Ornette Coleman wrote & once told me face to face that “there is no wrong note,” but as I do not like the concept of one note setting the agenda, I will not play any such note; happily Alice Notley will also give a keynote, which will thus already make it at least two notes, maybe already a chord, & then I’ll leave the singing of many notes arranged in what they call music up to Nicole Peyrafitte later on in the program.

    But I can’t resist to play a bit more with this notion of “key” — what does a key do, as it can do at least two things, something & its opposite, open or close? Of course at the beginning of an occasion the image will be of opening the proceedings, the door, maybe the gate mentioned earlier. And yet, a key does both open and close — maybe it does both at the same time! Who knows? My time is measured today, so let me just open-close this specific Pandora’s box via a poem by, you guessed it, Paul Celan:

    WITH A VARIABLE KEY

    With a variable key
    you unlock the house, in it
    drifts the snow of the unsaid.
    Depending on the blood that gushes
    from your eye or mouth or ear,
    your key varies.

    Varies your key so varies your word
    that’s allowed to drift with the flakes.
    Depending on the wind that pushes you away,
    the snow cakes around the word.

    So the word is there, variable, but needs to be spoken & I’ll take a further suggestion on how to go about this from Celan who writes:

    Speak —
    But do not separate the no from the yes.
    Give your saying also meaning:
    give it its shadow.

    Give it enough shadow,
    give it as much
    as you know to be parceled out between
    midnight and midday and midnight.

    Look around:
    see how alive it gets all around —
    At death! Alive!
    Speaks true, who speaks shadows.

    1. And so it is now “ten years after.” After what? One of the rock groups I liked in the 60s supposedly took that name from an event that had taken place ten years earlier, namely Elvis Presley’s breakthrough year of ’56. Lines from one of their songs still play in my mind from time to time: “Tax the rich, feed the poor / Till there are no rich no more.” And then the defeatist refrain: “I’d love to change the world / But I don’t know what to do / I’ll leave it up to you.” Has anything changed?

    Ten years ago I published a volume of essays under the title A Nomad Poetics, core to which was the piece of writing called “Notes Toward a Nomad Poetics,” which — though the central concern had been with me even longer, much longer — I had started giving expression to even before 1993 & which had been published in an earlier form as a chapbook called Towards a Nomad Poetics by Allen Fisher’s Spanner Books. Note the tentative titles: “towards a…” & for the final version even just “Notes towards a Nomadic Poetics.” I said “piece of writing” purposefully just now, because one of the small misunderstandings regarding A Nomad Poetics I have encountered from time to time is that this piece of writing has been called a “manifesto” — with all the stern-brow seriousness & raised fist ardor the term suggests. I would like, 10 years after, to nuance this take a bit.

    The manifesto, I’ve written elsewhere, is indeed one, if not the only new literary genre of the 20C, & I do draw on it to some extent — but I am very conscious of the fact that what I am trying to do is to write propositions for the 21C & to find a form that is both open & collaborative, that is culturally & politically critical, but not ideologically over-determined, as manifestos tend to be. It is neither an anonymous revolutionary pamphlet (as many of the Situationist manifestos were at a certain time), nor a synthetic piece with a number of signatures attached to it (from Marx & Engels, via the Surrealists, say, to the Manifeste des 120, for example, no matter how much I may like these). The proposition is different: it is a piece of writing I take full responsibility for, but to which I invite people to contribute — few have bothered to do so, though the 1993 text has at least the exemplary contribution of Brian Massumi, the excellent Deleuzian scholar & thinker.

    But — & I can only briefly mention it in this context — the idea of collaboration has opened up since then in a different manner & place,  namely as what Nicole Peyrafitte & I call “Domopoetics” & which finds its expression in performances that involve the two of us, in a combination of poetry, reflection (with it’s propositional moves, such as extensions of my rhizomatic moves & Nicole’s more “seepage” based processes), music & visuals, a project that also touches on something I will come to a bit later, ecology, be it as in Domopoetics, centered on the “household,” or in a wider in- & out-side sweep.

    Now, in that core essay I do make “manifestish” moves, like the über-title, THE MILLENNIUM WILL BE NOMADIC OR IT WILL NOT BE, a tournement of a well-known citation leading back to Foucault & Deleuze; then there are the various definitions of concepts & the oracular pronouncements… but if you take these together with the willed heteroclite manner of the piece that ends with the (possibly incongruous) inclusion and commentary on a translation of a pre-Islamic ode, you may also note the tongue-in-cheek, not to say cheekiness of the collage (more dada than surrealist manifesto, playfulness is meant to trump, no not trump, that’s wargame talk, — is meant to poke fun at and possibly deflate dour revolutionary literary ardor). What I wanted was in fact to create a new genre, post-manifesto, something I did then call the “manifessay.” I don’t know if I succeeded beyond giving expression to my own poetics, i.e., if it, the form, has become available or is of any possible use beyond me. I’ll return to the notion of a new genre or of post-genre writing toward the end of this talk.

    1. I now want to address two or three points that I opened up but probably not enough in the 2003 manifessay, & that, it seems to me, need either clarification or extension. The first one of these arises from a quote by Muriel Rukeyser who writes: “The relations of poetry are, for our period, very close to the relations of science. It is not a matter of using the results of science, but of seeing that there is a meeting place between all the kinds of imagination. Poetry can provide that meeting place.” So, this notion that science & poetry can, have to connect, that, in fact, “open-field” poetry may be the ground where those two discourses can enrich each other. Unhappily that was the only occasion “science” came up in the 2003 version to which I had given the version number 4.0. In a 4.1 version I would insert more reflections concerning this matter, as it seems to me to be getting more & more urgent (see the next section). To begin with I would quote Robert Kelly’s take of:

                                                 a scientist of the whole
    the Poet
              be aware from inside comes
                     the poet, scientist of totality,
                            specifically,
              to whom all data whatsoever are of use,
    world-scholar

    Which means that all data not only can but should enter the arena of the poem. Each poet can of course only bring her own knowledges & experiences into that field —  though the understanding that such a wide open field of possibilities does exist, right there in front of us, on the page or screen, with no restrictions imposed by pre-existing notions of form or content,  an understanding that has to function as a major incentive & goad.

    Scientific data as such, & in suspension with other information, would be central here as unhappily we have returned to an area where science is not only rightfully questioned for its excesses (in medicine, food-“science,” or its 19C underlying ideology of “progress,” etc.) but is also challenged in totally asinine but extremely dangerous ways by what may be the most disastrous unfolding event, namely the violent return of the religious (from the various US evangelical Christian fascisms to the Islamic totalitarianism of its Fundamentalist movements & beyond) & its denials of any scientific data, be that Darwinian evolution, the genetic egalitarianism of races, or what have you. This “return of the repressed” can however not be addressed by the same pious & self-righteous means used by positivist 19C determinism & traditional “atheistic” formulas.

    An investigative poetics (& that is one mode of a nomadic poetics) addressing this problem could well start with thinking through the rather odd but useful book by Peter Sloterdijk, You Must Change Your Life (note that the title is a quote from a poem!). For example, one may have to rethink certain poetic practices after reflecting on the following from early on in the book, where Sloterdijk has been talking about Rilke’s poem “Archaic torso of Apollo:”

    That this energized Apollo embodies a manifestation of Dionysus is indicated by the statement that the stone glistens ‘like wild beasts’ fur’: Rilke had read his Nietzsche. Here we encounter the second micro-religious or proto-musical module: the notorious ‘this stands for that,’ ‘the one appears in the other’ or ‘the deep layer is present in the surface‘ — figures without which no religious discourse would ever have come about. They tell us that religiosity is a form of hermeneutical flexibility and can be trained.

    Unhappily there have been rather few poets who have worked along those lines, i.e. bringing scientific discourse into the field of poetry to test & extend its possibilities. Of my generation, except for the use of scientific, mainly mathematical concepts in formal decisions, such as the great oeuvre of Jackson MacLow, or the OULIPO poets or, say, Inger Christensen or Ron Silliman using the Fibonacci series as formal compositional procedures,  I can only think of two poets deeply involved in that way & bringing actual scientific data into the work: Allen Fisher & Christopher Dewdney. The latter has put his relation to science very clearly. “My poetry,” he says, “is warped out of science. I think I’m a frustrated scientist in poetry and a frustrated poet in science. A lot of poets have an anti-science bias, a vision of themselves as romantics in a tower, but I don’t. I’m a naturalist, I believe that science and nature are one, that science is a perceptual tool which allows us to define nature more specifically. Science has to incorporate and mythologize as it happens. All poetry deals with information, finally.”

    Concerning Allen Fisher, I did say enough, I believe, in version 4.00, but let me re-quote a bit from his Introduction of Brixton Fractals::

    Imagination and action. My knowledge of the world exists validly only in the moment when I am transforming it. In this moment, in action, the imagination functions, unblocks passivity, refuses an overview. Discontinuities, wave breaks, cell divisions, collapsed structures, boundaries between tissue kinds: where inner workings are unknown, the only reliable participations are imaginative. The complex of state and control variables. The number of configurations depends on the latter: properties typical of cusp catastrophes: sudden jumps; hysteresis; divergence; inaccessibility. Boiling water’s phase change where the potential is the same as condensing steam. Random motion of particles in phase space allows a process to find a minimum potential. What is this all about? It’s a matter of rage and fear, where the moving grass or built suburbia frontier is a wave prison; where depth perception reverses; caged flight. With ambiguous vases it’s as if part of the brain is unable to reach a firm conclusion and passes alternatives along for a decision on other grounds. The goblet-and-face contour moves as it forms in your seeing.

    The result of which is a poetry of use, though the uses be not your usual aesthetic jouissance and/or socio-political alibis:

    Brixton Fractals provides a technique of memory and perception analysis. It can be used to sharpen out-of-focus photographs; to make maps of the radio sky; to generate images from human energy; to calculate spectra; to reconstruct densities; to provide probability factors from local depression climates. It becomes applicable to reading; to estimate a vector of survival from seriously incomplete or hidden data, and select the different structures needed. It can provide a participatory invention different from that which most persists.

    Among a younger generation, I fear I have not come across much work incorporating the discourse of science. This may be my own lack, the fact that I can no longer keep up with the incredible avalanche of poetry coming down on us. But I do want to mention at least one of the younger poets, namely James Belflower, who after a brilliant first book, Commuter, has just published a second book The Posture of Contour, rich in exactly those materials & thinking involving science & scientific discourse. This is excellent explorative work that is truly experimental without being gimmicky or surface “avant-gardist.” Belflower, by the way, is also presently at work on a translation of a book by our next presenter, Jan Baetens’s rewriting of a Jean-Luc Godard’s script, for which he has also corralled  Peter Cockelbergh help. But let me move on.

     

    1. The one word or concept I now see as most grievously underdeveloped is that of ecology. I do think of it as present in version 4.00, however, in that it is inherent if unspoken in the vision of a nomadic figure: the nomad’s life is based on a clear and sharp perception and discrimination of environmental factures. (I had first written “fractures” — which might be the right word). For the desert inhabitant it is of course a matter of survival. In the same way nomadic art is an eminently environment-conscious art: portable, spare, it clings to or arises from the everyday objects of perusal: embroidered & engraved saddles or bridles, painted portable utensils or inscribed, i.e. tattooed parts of the body; the core elements of the dwelling: rugs and carpets — all these are pure expressions of art, & the most formal and richest artifact is also the lightest as behoves a continuous traveler: the poem, no matter it’s size or weight, carried in mind or, as they say, by heart. A nomadic poetry was thus, for me, an obviously highly environment-conscious art.

    My own sense of the ecological question goes back to the late sixties  and, in poetry, the discovery of Gary Snyder’s work as poet and essayist.  It was clear back then already that environmental problems needed to be thought & written about, & indeed they were, even if as yet mainly or only  in the underground press, & entered into one’s daily practice in terms of food (first organic food movements, macrobiotic diets & restaurants, etc.) clothing, and as a political direction to be incorporated into any progressive ideology.

    But it is now clear, “ideology” or rather ideology-critique, though necessary, also became a hindrance later on. During those years (70s into 90s) of the “postmodern”, that stance entailed the deconstruction of what Jean-François Lyotard & others called the “grand narratives,” from Christianity to Communism, i.e. all single-centered soteriological utopian systems. The fervent yet cool-headed desire was: never again such eschatological, transcendental movements in the pursuance of whose aims all means are justified and thus all crimes permissible, from the grand medieval inquisitions to the Stalinist & Nazi exterminations. Politics, we now thought, have to become local, momentary, situationist, etc. What Félix Guattari & others called Micropolitics. Under this premise, one angle, one line of flight, one momentary territorialization of our space would be or could concern itself with the environmental problem.

    I’m putting all this very schematically as I don’t have the time to develop it in detail, but it now seems clear to me that the time has come to make ecology (oeco-logos, the logic of the house, of our house earth, of our earth-house-hold, to use Snyder’s term), to make ecology the engine of a new grand narrative. Such a grand narrative would differ from the old ones (& thus hopefully avoid the disasters provoked by human hubris that thought of this world as, or tried to force it into a scheme of the anthropocentric). It would not be anthropocentric, human-centered (as the Christian or Communist one were) but anchored, or come from, outside the human sphere, the earth, & thus restate, refocus,  the human in relation to the world it lives in. A world in a new age, an age that has come to be called the “anthropocene” to point to the overwhelming influence human actions now have on the earth. A non-transcendental, immanentist situation that does not have future perfection (paradise in heaven or on earth) as its aim but survival of life in all its rich & diverse forms (with the human only one such, and important only as the major danger to survival) in the contingent environment of this planet. Which also entails, despite the fact that the name of us, “anthropos” now glows radioactively in the age’s name, to start from the realization that homo sapiens (that misnomer!) is not outside, beyond creation; there is not a “nature” outside or surrounding us nature is us & the rest, the world with us included. “Nature” is everywhere, as Spinoza said of god.

     

    One way into this would be through a book I’d like to draw your attention to, namely Michel Deguy’s Écologiques, the quatrième de couverture of which states: “Geocide is in process; not “a” geocide, but “the geocide:” there will not be two. Ecology, a ‘logie’ [thought, word, saying] of the oikos [house, dwelling, terre des hommes] is not optional. If it is not radical, it is nothing.” This book, a series of small essays, notations, reflections, he himself calls it “a sort of witnessing,” is also formally fascinating in that the urgency & radicalness demanded eschew the scriptural “manifesto” form of the old grand narratives, but belongs exactly to the extrême contemporain in its assemblage form (& contains reflections on that form). Here are a few hints (in my translation):

    Another romantic leitmotiv, and thus to be transposed for us, come down to us from Hölderlin through Heidegerrian conduit — can it help — for a long time translated as “What remains is what the poets create.” [“Was bleibet aber stiften die Dichter”] and that our era (this mutation of “the crisis,” if you want) forces us to read thus: “the remains, art plays them again.” Even better to understand it thus: the remains we are left with, the relics, is it possible that the artists, those who work in language, philosophers and writers together with all those who work in other “arts,” including those that technique has added, will relaunch them. …Is a last chance called ecology?

    The poet Edward Dorn pointed out some few years back that one of our problems is that “we do not even yet / know what a crisis is.” Interestingly, Deguy in this books develops a notion of “crisis” that may answer Dorn’s slight, when he writes “this exercise in thinking (this ‘experience in thought’) has to rise to ‘its last consequences,’ in its hyperbolic paradoxical amplification,” where it will risk this: “…what is called the crisis offers the chance of a parabolic ‘rebroussement,’ a parabolic turning back. [Note that “rebroussement” is a term also used in geology where it means the ‘Torsion localisée des couches, due au frottement le long d’un contact anormal et montrant le sens du mouvement /torsion localized in the strata, caused by friction along an anormal contact and showing the direction of the movement/’ (Fouc.-Raoult Géol. 1980). Further in math it refers to the point where a curve changes direction; you also speak of an ‘Arête de rebroussement.’”

    How to translate this last phrase? “Arête” immediately rhymes for me with the Greek “arete” — & I’ll come to that soon enough. But interesting to note how problematic the translation from natural language to another, French to English here, a concept in mathematics, a so-called “universal” language can be. As a footnote on page 435 of Augustus de Morgan’s The Differential and Integral Calculus puts it:

    One sound writer on this subject (and perhaps more) has attempted to translate the words arête de rebroussement into English by edge of regression, which seems to me a closer imitation of the words than of the meaning. Many words might be suggested, such as the ligature of the normals, or their osculatrix, or their omnitangential curve. Also with reference to the developable surface, the arête, &c. might be called the generatrix, or the curve of greatest density, &c.

    Deguy concludes by defining it as “la ligne formée par les points d’intersection des génératrices rectilignes consécutives de la surface / the line formed by the intersection points of successive rectilinear generatrices of the surface.”

    So Deguy’s rebroussement is not a simple turning back on itself, not a return to the past, but another, a further, torque. He goes on: “A politician is someone who cannot understand, admit, that the crisis, from Hesiod to Husserl, from Sophocles to Valéry, names historicity itself. It is crisis forever. The ‘solution’ of the crisis is a new critical phase, of sharing — of the relation in general, of societies among themselves, of one society in relation to itself, of one subject to himself.”

    Deguy sees three movements in the overcoming, the coming out of the crisis: “an uprising, a revolution, reforms.” Which he then calls “by one of its great names, utopia.” And to suggest that “précisément l’utopie aujourd’hui, c’est l’écologie. / Utopia today is precisely ecology. There is no other one.” Fascinating too, how Deguy begins usefully to think through other rebarbative aspects of our relation to world. He thus suggests that “ecology does not concern the environment, literally what environs, what surrounds, (the “Umwelt” of the ethnologues) but the “world” (the “Welt” of the thinkers). It is the difference between those two that needs to be rethought from the bottom up, he suggests, because of the profound oblivion into which the world and its things (les choses), or “the oecumene” have fallen. Thus globalisation (in French la “mondialisation”) would be in truth an end of or to “le monde,” the world, a loss of world, because “the world worlds in things and its ‘worlding’ has to be entrusted not to technoscience, but to the philosophers and the artists — to all the humans in the arts (les hommes de l’art), and, specifically to the poetics of the works.”

    These formulations not only show the importance of Deguy’s writings in Ecologiques and thus the need for its translation — but also the difficulty this translation entails given the nomadicity between his philosophical logos & the poetics, which you can glimpse in the needed and relished neologisms above. And now, beginning to run out of time, let me turn to certain questions in regard to translation that have been haunting me since the publication of version 4.00 of the manifessay.

    1. And thus to the second Ammiel — but this one with two m’s — I mean Ammiel Alcalay and some parallel thinking we have been doing on the subject of translation. In the Nomad Poetics manifesto, the work of translation is only liminally mentioned when in fact it has been central to my endeavors from the beginning — though obviously it gets more thought & analysis in other essays in the Nomad Poetics volume. What I would like to add in a putative 4.1 version (why putative? — this is that version, probably) is an exploration of the limits of translation.

    Why limits? A strange term to use for someone who has always equated translation & writing itself, who has claimed (& stays with this claim) that all writing is translation & that therefore the traditional differences between the two have to be abolished as they are false “class” barriers. Over the last 10 years, I have been involved in two major but very different translation projects: first, the translation of the historico-critical edition of Paul Celan’s The Meridian, a volume that gathers all the various drafts, versions, notes, scraps, letters, even a radio-play, with all the (carefully reproduced) strike-outs, inserts, marginal marks & so on, that we have between the moment Celan was informed that he had been given the Georg Büchner prize and the date on which he had to give his acceptance speech.  The original editors, Bernard Böschenstein and Heino Schmull did an incredible job gathering these materials & devising a book structure to contain them. If I have one doubt about the book, it is this one: the book opens with the 18-page essay in its final, definite form, then proceeds backwards through the various drafts to the earliest scrap of paper. This makes for a very attractive book, though I now wonder if it wouldn’t have been more instructive to build the volume in the genetic sense, i.e. from the first idea to the final essay, so that a reader would be able to witness the creation of context & text in its / as a historical process. Be that as it may, the essential thing this translation taught me was the importance for a deeper textual understanding of involvement with and thus knowledge of its contexts, its process.

    During the years I put together Poems for Millennium vol 4: The UCP book of North African Literature, or Diwan Ifrikiya as I prefer to call it, the question of how to present over 2000 years of a literature to a major part unknown to Western readers (I first wrote “raiders” — which is also an accurate way of describing what the West did & still does to the Maghreb), that question came up, of course. Happily the “grand collage” format elaborated by Jerome Rothenberg & myself in the early volumes of the Poems for the Millennium series — chronological galleries, thematic “books,” individual commentaries, intros to all the sections, etc. — allowed for a presentation of actual contextual matters, from maps to alphabets, from images to amulets, that serve as a matrix for the poems. For example, the second diwan, El Adab or the invention of prose, endeavors to gather texts from historical literary treatises, history & geography manuals, philosophical meditations, erotic manuals etc.

    Despite what I think of as a rather successful if incomplete handling of these matters of context, I do agree with Ammiel Alcalay when he writes, after bringing up such different events as 9/11 & the ensuing sudden interest in Arab matters & translating from that language, followed by the Iraq war & the ‘official’ writing that has ensued from that catastrophe:

    How are those of us involved in transference and translation to respond to such circumstances? What is our role in the politics of imagination and transmission? Have we reached a point where NOT translating, providing access to, handing down works from the Arab world might be more legitimate? When we decide to participate, how do we insulate and protect such works and ourselves, not merely from assimilation, but from collaboration… Writers and translators often wind up playing someone else’s game, and become complicit, perpetuating the same rules with new players.

    Which leads Alcalay to conclude that no act of transmission is innocent and therefore demands utmost vigilance, a kind of vigilance, he goes on, “that recognizes, as the American poet Jack Spicer once put it, that ‘there are bosses in poetry as well as in the industrial empire.” As writers, translators, commentators in the area of what Michel Deguy called “le culturel,” — to be differentiated from “la culture,” but inescapable as the sphere in which we as ‘travailleurs du symbolique’ labor today — we have to be aware that, for example, translating a major novel by a third world author wrenches that work out of its natural habitat, plops it into an environment where it can only be read according to the latter’s rules (say, Kateb Yacine’s Nedjma, in relation to William Faulkner’s narrative universe, etc.) Or, more viciously as in the case of my translation of Abdelwahab Meddeb’s essay THE MALDAY OF ISLAM which was nearly hijacked by DC rightwing think tank people when Daniel Pipes asked the NY publisher for first serialization rights and the right to “subedit” the extracts — I managed to fight this off after investigating who those people were.

    So, there is also a need, a duty to provide contextual materials, to try to change the very framework of the translation activity, so that the act of translating can be “an act, a way of erecting a picket line against the bosses,  to reclaim some part of our suppressed and isolated humanity and participate in it in new ways.” Alcalay concludes that “ to protect against assimilation and collaboration requires more than fitting newly introduced and revived texts into existing frameworks. Defining what information is for us, where it comes from, and where to find it becomes an essential survival kit.”

    Thus part of such a watchful & critical process of translation is also what I like to call an ‘investigative nomad poetics,’ because ideological cons can go so far as to actually corrupt the very language. Take the example of the so-called “Confucius Institutes” which are under the supervision of the Chinese Language Council International (known as Hanban). These Institutes teach Chinese language and culture after setting up shop in Universities in the West. I’m drawing on an excellent investigative article by Marshall Sahlins that appeared in this week’s Nation. Hanban is an instrument of the PRC’s party apparatus operating as an international pedagogical organization. This means that its agreements with the foreign, including many American, institutions of higher learning, include non-disclosure clauses, making the terms of the agreement secret. US universities sign on to this— which is most likely totally illegal under US law — eager as they are to get an all-paid for “Confucius Institute” & the ensuing prestige. Besides such basic no-nos as being prohibited to mention the Tiannamen Square massacre, or Tibet, the Dalai Lama, or human rights, etc. the actual core problem, if you look closer, are the language teaching methods, in fact the very language taught. This looks innocent enough according to the bylaws, which state: “The Confucius Institutes conduct Chinese language instructions in Mandarin using Standard Chinese characters.” But, as Sahlin details, this is the “simplified script officially promulgated by the PRC as a more easily learned alternative…” This means that what is available in this script & thus what the CI students are taught to read are only those texts or revised texts the PRC allows you to read & has prepared & altered, and thus for example no Chinese texts from other parts of the world, Taiwan, or even Hong-Kong can be deciphered by people trained in the CI’s! Totalitarian censorship effected via creating & imposing a new language allowing for the rewriting of all cultural documents… 

    1. Finally, I’d like to speak to my current practice: what I want to do from now on is continue to some extent with nomadizing my writing as much as nomadizing in my writing, while moving toward some new trajectories, other complex meandering orbitals. You see, when I sit down & let the process of writing happen, it tends to come out as a recognizable “poem,” & I am by now somewhat bored by this. Ah, I say to myself, here’s another poem — couldn’t it be some another critter, somealien, unknown form? I guess the familiarity of recognizing the poem under hand has some comforting sides (it is comforting to recognize your own face in the mirror when you get up in the morning), & I enjoy detecting a new move, or rhythm or color or line or sound in the poem-matrix, and yet, and yet. (Thinking here of a poet I admire tremendously, John Ashbery, whose production into old age — John is 86 — has gone unabated, but whose yearly new volume seems to me to have the same poem rearranged again & again, a tremendous life-long flow, flood, or maybe better ribbon of writing Ashbery snips off bits to make into books & cuts those into smaller bits to make poems — it’s tremendous & astounding & a true feat, but I have to confess that my pleasure in the work by now has become mainly aesthetic recognition rather than discovery of anything new, thought, rhythm, music, form — or maybe better, it is absolutely wonderful comfort food I can cuddle up with in my armchair when the umpteenth rerun of my fav TV series, Law & Order, is too boring. And comfort is something we absolutely need in our lives, for sure. But.)

    A more serious reason to escape “the poem” (between quotation marks) is something I have to plead guilty to, that Frankenstein monster called “creative writing” which for part of my life provided the income that permitted me to read & write. But in the US we now create something like 3 to 6000 professional diploma’ed “poets” a year who are turning out hundreds of thousand “poems” day in day out — there are now at rough glance something close to half a million published poets in the US. Now, I prefer that to be the case rather than those kids having wandered off & joined the military or the evangelical troops. At the risk of sounding elitist, I want to suggest however that most of this work does not have what my third grandfather of the day, grand-pa Ezra called the “arete,”  which he translated as “virtue”, though for the Greeks the word actually probably meant something closer to “being the best you can be”, or “reaching your highest human potential”, & which I like to mistranslate further as “arête,” as in a French fish, though not as a French stop sign, or, better even, as the arresting quality of something with spine.

    So, what do I want? In my notebooks I found this entry, as I was preparing to envisage the writing to be done now, after I stopped teaching, & with several major projects out of the way:

    “…write something that is unrecognizable as a poem, write ‘books’ [never a, one, book, always the plural] but so that they are not beholden to that late 19C form of the book so elegantly proclaimed by Mallarmé & taken up under various guises by the 20C avant-garde. This here now is the 21C. Everything — pace Mallarmé — is not meant to end up in a book, even if as we screw up the planet more & more everything that will be left of us may end up in a book if one as heat resistant as the new climate requires can be devised, once we have become extinct on this gone planet veering from blue to red. No. The books or the writing I envisage are open books that have their prolongations, their links, within the ever more tenuous world that surrounds us, but not a writing that mimetically reflects the outside (which would only increase the heat by mirror-effect & in the cave of this non-platonic book we cannot have fires heating up) but one that proposes a range of coolants —”

    To put it another way, work seems to leak — out of the book and into the world, and from the world into the book. Nicole Peyrafitte’s notion of “seepage” (see her recent writings in her book bi-valve ) enters here to play with & off & extend the rhizomes & lines of flight of my nomadics. What is at stake here is circulation: of reading that turns into writing and vice-versa, but also of people, of words, of love, of blood — printer’s bleed but also terrorists’ victims’ blood, terrorists everywhere, from the US Congress & my gun-crazed co-citoyens, to the mad mujahiddin of Daech & AQIM. These books of multiple narratives & troubled typographies, which “may be incompletely / confused” (as the young poet James Belflower puts it), asks you to be a (not so innocent) active performer as much as a reader. Take the risk —

    How to come to this writing beyond genre is of course the question I have been groping with for some time now. I can only start from what I know, i.e. from the grand-collage century I come from, some specific realizations of that century, those for example I have spent years gathering with Jerome Rothenberg & Habib Tengour in our Millennium anthologies, others too. Here is a 20C quote to go forth with into our already quite entamé (nicked, gouged out, gored, gashed, i.e. wounded) 21C. It is a quote you will know as it is well-known, often used, that I would like to put again at the head of any such new writings, thus as an epigraph here, to bring to a close the keynote that started with a 19C epigraph that led into our 20C. It comes from Robert Duncan’s HD Book, from the chapter “Rites of Participation,” a chapter that begins “The drama of our time is the coming of all men (and women) into one fate, ‘the dream of everyone, everywhere.’”  First published in Caterpillar # 1 in fall of 1967 (a month after I first set foot on the American continent) it was written a few years earlier, I believe, so dates from the mid-sixties. Half a century later it holds a more ominous, less optimistic note, given the ecologistic aspects of the new grand narrative of that “single fate.” But here is the quote I was thinking of exactly, which happens a page or so later in Duncan’s ‘book,’ after he has been talking about Plato’s Symposium:

    The Symposium of Plato was restricted to a community of Athenians, gathered in the common creation of an arete [ah, that word again!], an aristocracy of spirit, inspired by the homoEros, taking its stand against lower or foreign orders, not only of men but of nature itself. The intense yearning, the desire for something else, of which we too have only a dark and doubtful presentiment, remains, but our arete, our ideal of vital being [ah! there’s another good definition!], rises not in our identification in a hierarchy of higher forms but in our identification with the universe. To compose such a symposium of the whole, such a totality, all the old excluded orders must be included. The female, the proletariat, the foreign; the animal and vegetative; the unconscious and the unknown; the criminal and failure — all that had been outcast and vagabond must return to be admitted in the creation of what we consider we are.

    I would only like to add to Duncan’s list the orders of geology and water & air, and to amend ever so slightly the last sentence to read: “all that had been outcast and vagabond must be joined by us out there to help in the nomadic creation of what we consider we are.”

     

    SOURCES

    Conrad, Joseph. Almayer’s Folly: A Story of an Eastern River (T. Fisher Unwin, London 1895).

    Amiel, Henri-Frédéric. Grains de Mil (Joël Cherbuliez, libraire-éditeur, Paris 1854).

    Watt, Ian. Conrad in the Nineteenth Century. Vol. 1, footnote #6 p.66 (University of California Press, 1979.

    Celan, Paul. “With a Variable Key” & “Speak, You Too,” in Paul Celan, Selections, edited by Pierre Joris, p. 51 & 54. (University of California Press, 2005.)

    _________. The Meridian. Final VersionDrafts—Materials. Translated by Pierre Joris. (Stanford University Press, 2011)

    Joris, Pierre. A Nomad Poetics (Wesleyan University Press, 2003.)

    _________, editor (with Habib Tengour). The University of California Book of North African Literature (vol. 4 in the Poems for the Millennium series, UCP, November 2012)

    Rukeyser, Muriel. The Life of Poetry. p. XI (Ashfield, Mass.  Paris Press 1996.)

    Kelly, Robert. In Time, p. 25 (Frontier Press, 1971)

    Sloterdijk, Peter. You Must Change Your Life (Polity, 2014)

    Fisher, Allen. Brixton Fractals. (Aloes Books, London 1985)

    Belflower, James. The Posture of Contour. (Springgun Press, 2013)

    Deguy, Michel. Écologiques, p.23. (Hermann, Editeur, 2012)

    Dorn, Edward, Recollections of Gran Apachería, n.p. (Turtle island                      Foundation, 1974)

    De Morgan, Augustus. The Differential and Integral Calculus. (Baldwin and           Cradock, London, 1842)

    Alcalay, Ammiel. “Politics & Translation,” in: towards a foreign likeness bent : translation, durationpress.com e-books series. http://www.durationpress.com, n.d.

    Sahlins, Marshall. China U. Confucius Institutes censor political discussion and restrain the free exchange of ideas. The Nation, October 30, 2013  https://www.thenation.com/article/china-u/

    Snyder, Gary. Earth House Hold. (New Directions, 1969)

    Lyotard, Jean-François. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. (University Of Minnesota Press, 1984.)

    Guattari, Félix & Deleuze, Gilles.  Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. (University of Minnesota Press, 1987)

    Meddeb, Abdelwahab. The Malady of Islam. Translated by Pierre Joris. ( Basic Books,2003.)

    Peyrafitte, Nicole. Bi-Valve: Vulvic Space / Vulvic Knowledge. (Stockport Flats, 2013).

    Duncan, Robert. The H.D. Book. (University of California Press, 2011.)

  • David Thomas – On No-Platforming

    David Thomas – On No-Platforming

    by David Thomas

    No-platforming has recently emerged as a vital tactical response to the growing mainstream presence of the self-styled alt-right. Described by proponents as a form of cordon sanitaire, and vilified by opponents as the work of coddled ideologues, no-platforming entails the struggle to prevent political opponents from accessing institutional means of amplifying their views. The tactic has drawn criticism from across the political spectrum. Former US President Barack Obama was himself so disturbed by the phenomenon that during the closing days of his tenure he was moved to remark:

    I’ve heard some college campuses where they don’t want to have a guest speaker who is too conservative or they don’t want to read a book if it has language that is offensive to African-Americans or somehow sends a demeaning signal towards women. …I gotta tell you I don’t agree with that either. I don’t agree that you, when you become students at colleges, have to be coddled and protected from different points of view…Sometimes I realized maybe I’ve been too narrow-minded, maybe I didn’t take this into account, maybe I should see this person’s perspective. …That’s what college, in part, is all about…You shouldn’t silence them by saying, “You can’t come because I’m too sensitive to hear what you have to say” … That’s not the way we learn either. (qtd. Kingkade 2017 [2015])

    Obama’s words here nicely crystalize one traditional understanding of the social utility of free speech. In classical liberal thought, free speech is positioned as the cornerstone of a utilitarian account of political and technological progress, one that views the combat of intellectually dexterous elites as the crucible of social progress. The free expression of informed elite opinion is imagined as an indispensable catalyst to modernity’s ever-accelerating development of new knowledge. The clash of unfettered intellects is said to serve as the engine of history.

    For John Stuart Mill, one of the first to formulate this particular approach to the virtues of free expression, the collision of contrary views was necessary to establish any truth. Mill explicitly derived his concept of the truth-producing “free market of ideas” from Adam Smith’s understanding of how markets work. In both cases, moderns were counselled to entrust themselves to the discretion of a judicious social order, one that was said to emerge spontaneously as rational individuals exerted their vying bids for self-expression and self-actualization. These laissez faire arguments insisted that an optimal ordering of ends and means would ultimately be produced out of the mass of autonomous individual initiatives, one that would have been impossible to orchestrate from the vantage point of any one individual or group. In both cases – free speech and free markets – it was said that if we committed to the lawful exercise of individual freedoms we could be sure that the invisible hand will take care of the rest, sorting the wheat from the chaff, sifting and organizing initiatives according to the outcomes that best befit the social whole, securing our steady collective progress toward the best of all possible worlds. No surprise, then, that so much worried commentary on the rise of the alt-right has cautioned us to abide by the established rules, insisting that exposure to the free speech collider chamber will wear the “rough edges” off the worst ideas, allowing their latent kernels of rational truth to be developed and revealed, whilst permitting what is noxious and unsupportable to be displayed and refuted.

    A key point, then, about no-platforming is that its practice cuts against the grain of this vision of history and against the theory of knowledge on which it is founded. For in contrast to proponents of Mill’s proceduralist epistemology, student practioners of no-platforming have appropriated to themselves the power to directly intervene in the knowledge factories where they live and work, “affirmatively sabotaging” (Spivak 2014) the alt-right’s strategic attempts to build out its political legitimacy. And it is this use of direct action, and the site-specific rejection of Mill’s model of rational debate that it has entailed, that has brought student activists to the attention of university administrators, state leaders, and law enforcement.

    We should not mistake the fact that these students have been made the object of ire precisely because of their performative unruliness, because of their lack of willingness to defer to the state’s authority to decide what constitutes acceptable speech. One thing often left unnoticed in celebrations of the freedoms afforded by liberal democracies is the role that the state plays in conditioning the specific kinds of autonomy that individuals are permitted to exercise. In other words, our autonomy to express opposition as we see fit is already much more intensively circumscribed than recent “free speech” advocates care to admit.

    Representations of no-platforming in the media bring us to the heart of the matter here. Time and again, in critical commentary on the practice, the figure of the wild mob resurfaces, often counter-posed to the disciplined, individuated dignity of the accomplished orator:

    [Person X] believes that he has an obligation to listen to the views of the students, to reflect upon them, and to either respond that he is persuaded or to articulate why he has a different view. Put another way, he believes that one respects students by engaging them in earnest dialogue. But many of the students believe that his responsibility is to hear their demands for an apology and to issue it. They see anything short of a confession of wrongdoing as unacceptable. In their view, one respects students by validating their subjective feelings. Notice that the student position allows no room for civil disagreement. Given this set of assumptions, perhaps it is no surprise that the students behave like bullies even as they see themselves as victims. (Friedersdorf 2015)

    These remarks are exemplary of a certain elective affinity for a particular model citizen – a purportedly non-bullying parliamentarian agent or eloquent spokesperson who is able to establish an argument’s legitimacy with calm rationality. These lofty incarnations of “rational discourse” are routinely positioned as the preferred road to legitimate political influence. Although some concessions are made to the idea of “peaceful protest,” in the present climate even minimal appeals to the politics of collective resistance find themselves under administrative review (RT 2017). Meanwhile, champions of free speech quietly endorse specific kinds of expression. Some tones of voice, some placard messages, some placements of words and bodies are celebrated; others are reviled. In practice, the promotion of ostensibly “free” speech often just serves to idealize and define the parameters of acceptable public conduct.

    No-platforming pushes back against these regulatory mechanisms. In keeping with longstanding tactics of subaltern struggle, its practice demonstrates that politics can be waged through a diversity of means, showing that alongside the individual and discursive propagation of one’s political views, communities can also act as collective agents, using their bodies and their capacity for self-organization to thwart the rise of political entities that threaten their wellbeing and survival. Those conversant with the history of workers’ movements will of course recognize the salience of such tactics. For they lie at the heart of emancipatory class politics, in the core realization that in standing together in defiance of state violence and centralized authority, disenfranchised communities can find ways to intervene in the unfolding of their fates, as they draw together in the unsanctioned shaping and shielding of their worlds.

    It is telling that so much media reportage seems unable to identify with this history, greeting the renewed rise of collective student resistance with a combination of bafflement and recoil. The undercurrent of pearl-clutching disquiet that runs through such commentary might also be said to perform a subtle kind of rhetorical work, perhaps even priming readers to anticipate and accept the moment when police violence will be deployed to restore “order,” to break up the “mob,” and force individuals back onto the tracks that the state has ordained.

    Yet this is not to say there is nothing new about this new wave of free speech struggles. Instead, they supply further evidence that longstanding strategies of collective resistance are being displaced out of the factory systems – where we still tend to look from them – and into what Joshua Clover refers to, following Marx, as the sphere of circulation, into the marketplaces and the public squares where commodities and opinions circulate in search of valorization and validation. Disenfranchised communities are adjusting to the debilitating political legacies of deindustrialization. As waves of automation have rendered workers unable to express their resistance through the slowdown or sabotage of the means of production, the obstinacy of the strike has been stripped down to its core. And as collective resistance to the centralized administration of social conduct now plays out beyond the factory’s walls, it increasingly takes on the character of public confrontation with the state. Iterations of this phenomenon play out in flashpoints as remote and diverse as Berkeley, Ferguson, and Standing Rock. And as new confrontations fall harder on the heels of the old, they make a spectacle of the deteriorating condition of the social contract.

    If it seems odd to compare the actions of students at elite US universities and workers in the industrial factory systems of old, consider the extent to which students have themselves become increasingly subject to proletarianization and precarity – to indebtedness, to credit wages, and to job prospects that are at best uncertain. This transformation of the university system – from bastion of civil society and inculcator of elite modes of conduct, to frenetic producer of indebted precarious workers – helps to account for the apparent inversion of campus radicalism’s orientation to the institution of free speech.

    Longtime observers will recall that the same West Coast campuses that have been key flashpoints in this wave of free speech controversies were once among the most ardent champions of the institution. Strange, then, that in today’s context the heirs to Mario Savio’s calls to anti-racist civil disobedience seem more prone to obstruct than to promote free speech events. Asked about Savio’s likely response to this trend, social scientist and biographer Robert Cohen finds that “Savio would almost certainly have disagreed with the faculty and students who urged the administration to ban Milo Yiannopoulos from speaking on campus, and been heartened by the chancellor’s refusal to ban a speaker” (Cohen 2017). The alt-right has delighted in trolling student radicals over this apparent break with tradition:

    Milo Inc.’s first event will be a return to the town that erupted in riots when he was invited to speak earlier this year. In fact, Yiannopoulos said that he is planning a “week-long celebration of free speech” near U.C. Berkeley, where a speech by his fellow campus agitator, Ann Coulter, was recently canceled after threats of violence. It will culminate in his bestowing something called the Mario Savio Award for Free Speech. (The son of Savio, one of the leaders of Berkeley’s Free Speech movement during the mid-1960s, called the award “some kind of sick joke”.) (Nguyen 2017)

    Yet had Milo named his free speech prize after Savio’s would-be mentor John Searle, then the logic of current events might have appeared a little more legible. For as Lisa Hofmann-Kuroda and Beezer de Martelly have recently reminded us, in the period between 1965 and 1967 when the Free Speech Movement (FSM) was emerging as the home of more militant forms of student resistance, the US government commission Searle to research the movement. The resulting publication would eventually come to serve “as a manual for university administrators on how to most efficiently dismantle radical student protests” (Hofmann-Kuroda and de Martelly 2017). One of the keys to Searle’s method was the effort to “encouraged students to focus on their own … abstract rights to free speech,” a move that was to “shift campus momentum away from Black labor struggles and toward forming a coalition between conservatives and liberals on the shared topic of free speech rights” (Hofmann-Kuroda and de Martelly 2017). Summing up the legacies of this history from today’s vantage, Hofmann-Kuroda and de Martelly remark:

    In hindsight, it becomes clear that the “alt-right”‘s current use of the free speech framework as a cover for the spread of genocidal politics is actually a logical extension of the FSM — not, as some leftists would have it, a co-optation of its originally “radical” intentions. In addition to the increasingly violent “free speech rallies” organized in what “alt-right” members have dubbed “The Battle for Berkeley,” the use of free speech as a legitimating platform for white supremacist politics has begun to spread throughout the country. (Hofmann-Kuroda and de Martelly 2017)

    It is in relation to this institutional history that we might best interpret the alt-right’s use of free speech and the responses of the student left. For as Hofmann-Kuroda and de Martelly suggest, the alt-right’s key avatars such as Milo and Richard Spenser have now succeeded in building out the reach of Searle’s tactics. Their ambitions have extended beyond defusing social antagonisms and shoring up the prevailing status quo; indeed, in an eerie echo of Savio’s hopes for free speech, the alt-right now sees the institution as a site where dramatic social transformations can be triggered.

    But why then is the alt-right apt to see opportunities in this foundational liberal democratic institution, while the student left is proving more prone to sabotage its smooth functioning? It certainly appears that Searle’s efforts to decouple free speech discourse and anti-racist struggle have been successful. Yet to grasp the overall stakes of these struggles it can be helpful to pull back from the abstract debates that Searle proved so adept in promoting, to make a broader assessment of prevailing socio-economic and climatic conditions.

    For in mapping how the terrain has changed since the time of Salvo and Searle we might take account of the extent to which the universal summons to upward mobility, and the global promise of endless material and technological enfranchisement that defined the social experience of postwar modernization, have lately begun to ring rather hollow. Indeed as we close in on the third decade of the new millennium, there seems to be no end to the world system’s economic woes in sight, and no beginning to its substantive reckoning with problem of anthropogenic climate change.

    In response, people are changing the way they orient themselves toward the centrist state. In another instance of his welcome and ongoing leftward drift, Bruno Latour argues that global politics are now defined by the blowback of a catastrophically failed modernization project:

    The thing we share with these migrating peoples is that we are all deprived of land. We, the old Europeans, are deprived because there is no planet for globalization and we must now change the entire way we live; they, the future Europeans, are deprived because they have had to leave their old, devastated lands and will need to learn to change the entire way they live.

    This is the new universe. The only alternative is to pretend that nothing has changed, to withdraw behind a wall, and to continue to promote, with eyes wide open, the dream of the “American way of life,” all the while knowing that billions of human beings will never benefit from it. (Latour 2017)

    Apprehending the full ramifications of the failure of modernization will require us to undertake what the Club of Rome once referred to as a “Copernican revolution of the mind” (Club of Rome 1972: 196). And in many respects the alt-right has been quicker to begin this revolution than the technocratic guardians of the globalist order. In fact, it seems evident that the ethnonationalists look onto the same prospects as Latour, while proscribing precisely the opposite remedies. Meantime, guardians of the “center” remain all too content to repeat platitudinous echoes of Mills’ proceduralism, assuring us all that – evidence to the contrary – the market has the situation in invisible hand.

    This larger historical frame is key to understanding campus radicalism’s turn to no-platforming, which seems to register – on the level of praxis – that the far right has capitalized far more rapidly on emergent conditions that the center or the left. In understanding why this has occurred, it is worth considering the relationship between the goals of the FSM and the socioeconomic conditions that prevailed in the late 1960s and early 1970s when the movement was at its peak.

    For Savio and his anti-racist allies at the FSM, free speech afforded radicals both a platform from to which protest US imperialism with relative impunity, and an institutional lodestar by which to steer a course that veered away from the purges and paranoia of the Stalinist culture of command. It seemed that the institution itself served as a harbinger of a radicalized and “socialized” state, one that was capable of executing modernization initiatives that would benefit everyone.

    The postwar program of universal uplift then seemed apt to roll out over the entire planet, transforming the earth’s surface into a patchwork of independent modern nation states all locked into the same experience of ongoing social and technological enfranchisement. In such a context Savio and other contemporary advocates of free-speech saw the institution as a foreshadowing of the modern civil society into which all would eventually be welcomed as enfranchised bearers of rights. Student activism’s commitment to free speech thus typified the kind of statist radicalism that prevailed in the age of decolonization, a historical period when the postcolonial state seemed poised to socialize wealth, and when the prospect of postcolonial self-determination was apt to be all but synonymous with national modernization programs.

    Yet in contrast to this expansive and incorporative modernizing ethos, the alt-right savior state is instead being modeled around avowedly expulsive and exclusionary initiatives. This is the state reimagined as a gated community writ large, one braced – with its walls, border camps, and guards – to resist the incursion of “alien” others, all fleeing the catastrophic effects of a failed postwar modernization project. While siphoning off natural wealth to the benefit of the enwalled few, this project has unleashed the ravages of climate change and the impassive violence of the border on the exposed many. The alt-right response to this situation is surprisingly consonant with the Pentagon’s current assessment, wherein the US military is marketed as a SWAT team serving at the dispensation of an urban super elite:

    https://vimeo.com/187475823

    Given the lines along which military and official state policy now trends, it is probably a mistake to characterize far-right policy proposals as a wholescale departure from prevailing norms. Indeed, it seems quite evident that – as Latour remarks – the “enlightened elite” have known for some time that the advent of climate change has given the lie to the longstanding promises of the postwar reconstruction:

    The enlightened elites soon started to pile up evidence suggesting that this state of affairs wasn’t going to last. But even once elites understood that the warning was accurate, they did not deduce from this undeniable truth that they would have to pay dearly.

    Instead they drew two conclusions, both of which have now led to the election of a lord of misrule to the White House: Yes, this catastrophe needs to be paid for at a high price, but it’s the others who will pay, not us; we will continue to deny this undeniable truth. (Latour 2017)

    From such vantages it can be hard to determine to what extent centrist policies actually diverge from those of the alt-right. For while they doggedly police the exercise of free expression, representatives of centrist orthodoxy often seem markedly less concerned with securing vulnerable peoples against exposure to the worst effects of climate change and de-development. In fact, it seems all too evident that the centrist establishment will more readily defend people’s right to describe the catastrophe in language of their own choosing than work to provide them with viable escape routes and life lines.

    Contemporary free speech struggles are ultimately conflicts over policy rather than ironic contests over theories of truth. For it has been in the guise of free speech advocacy that the alt-right has made the bulk of its initial gains, promoting its genocidal vision through the disguise of ironic positional play, a “do it for the lolz” mode of summons that marshals the troops with a nod and wink. It seems that in extending the logic of Searle’s work at Berkley, the alt-right has thus managed to “hack” the institution of free speech, navigating it with such a deft touch that defenses of the institution are becoming increasingly synonymous with the mainstream legitimation of their political project.

    Is it then so surprising that factions of the radical left are returning full circle to the foundationally anti-statist modes of collective resistance that defined radical politics at its inception? Here, Walter Benjamin’s concept of “the emergency brake” suggests itself, though we can adjust the metaphor a little to better grasp current conditions (Benjamin 2003: 401). For it is almost as if the student left has responded to a sense that the wheel of history had taken a sickening lurch rightward, by shaking free of paralysis, by grabbing hold of the spokes and pushing back, greeting the overawing complexities of our geopolitical moment with local acts of defiance. It is in this defiant spirit that we might approach the free speech debates, arguing not for the implementation of draconian censorship mechanisms (if there must be a state, better that it is at least nominally committed to freedom of expression than not) but against docile submission to a violent social order—an order with which adherence to the doctrine of free speech is perfectly compatible. The central lesson that we might thus draw from the activities of Berkley’s unruly students is that the time for compliant faith in the wisdom of our “guardians” is behind us (Stengers 2015: 30).

    David Thomas is a Joseph-Armand Bombardier Canada Graduate Scholar in the Department of English at Carleton University. His thesis explores narrative culture in post-workerist Britain, and unfolds around the twin foci of class and climate change.

    Bibliography

    Benjamin, Walter. 2003. Selected Writings Volume 4: 1938 – 1940. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

    Clover, Joshua. 2016. Riot. Strike. Riot. London: Verso.

    Cohen, Robert. 2017. “What Might Mario Savio Have Said About the Milo Protest at Berkeley?” Nation, February 7. www.thenation.com/article/what-might-mario-savio-have-said-about-the-milo-protest-at-berkeley/

    Friedersdorf, Conor. 2015. “The New Intolerance of Student Activism.” Atlantic, November 9. www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/11/the-new-intolerance-of-student-activism-at-yale/414810/

    Hofmann-Kuroda, Lisa, and Beezer de Martelly. 2017. “The Home of Free Speech™: A Critical Perspective on UC Berkeley’s Coalition With the Far-Right.” Truth Out, May 17. www.truth-out.org/news/item/40608-the-home-of-free-speech-a-critical-perspective-on-uc-berkeley-s-coalition-with-the-far-right

    Kingkade, Tyler. 2015. “Obama Thinks Students Should Stop Stifling Debate On Campus.” Huffington Post, September 9. [Updated February 2, 2017]: www.huffingtonpost .com/entry/obama-college-political-correctness_us_55f8431ee4b00e2cd5e80198

    Latour, Bruno. 2017.  “The New Climate.” Harpers, May. harpers.org/archive/2017/05/the-new-climate/

    “Right to Protest?: GOP State Lawmakers Push Back Against Public Dissent.” 2017. RT, February 4. www.rt.com/usa/376268-republicans-seek-outlaw-protest/

    Nguyen, Tina. 2017. “Milo Yiannopoulos Is Starting a New, Ugly, For-Profit Troll Circus.” Vanity Fair, April 28. www.vanityfair.com/news/2017/04/milo-yiannopoulos-new-media-venture

    Spivak, Gayatri. 2014. “Herald Exclusive: In conversation with Gayatri Spivak,” by Nazish Brohiup. Dawn, Dec 23. www.dawn.com/news/1152482

    Stengers, Isabelle. 2015. In Catastrophic Times: Resisting the Coming Barbarism. Open Humanities Press. openhumanitiespress.org/books/download/Stengers 2015 In Catastrophic-Times.pdf

  • Olivier Roy — French elections: Catholics vote Catholic, Muslims vote secular

    Olivier Roy — French elections: Catholics vote Catholic, Muslims vote secular

    by Olivier Roy

    Two days before the first round of France’s presidential elections, a terrorist attack on the Champs-Elysées, claimed by the Islamic State, sent a shock wave through the media: such an attack would surely play into the hands of the “anti-Islam” candidates—namely, the conservative François Fillon and the populist Marine Le Pen. In fact, nothing of the sort happened. Instead, the victor was centrist Emmanuel Macron, who said that France should learn to live with terrorism. The fear of Islam did not work. But religion did play a role, though not in the way that many would have predicted.

    Since the recognition of France’s secular Republic by the Catholic Church in 1890 (Cardinal Lavigerie, on behalf of Pope Leo XIII, made a toast “A la République Française!” after an official banquet in Algiers),therehas never been an avowedly Catholic political party in France. The Church rejected the idea, instead opting to promote its values by “secularizing” them and disseminating them through non-religious political actors. For instance, to same-sex marriage was couched in the 2012 by Cardinal Barbarin (bishop of Lyon) as a refusal to change the “anthropological paradigm” on which society is based; he referred to the natural law and not to the will of God.

    But the effort to reach out to secular circles and even other religious groups, including Jews, Protestants, and Muslims, failed in this case. Even the moderate right wound up endorsing same sex-marriage. As a consequence, militant Catholics took to the streets under their own flag (and cross). The movement, called la Manif pour tous (“the Demo for all”), which took shape in 2013became autonomous from the clerical hierarchy, by entering politics. By 2016, it had developed into its own political branch, called Sens Commun (common sense), which brought together some militants of Les Républicains, the “Gaullist” center-right party, of Chirac and Sarkozy, in order to push the agenda of the Manif pour Tous inside the party. It achieved a big victory with Fillon’s primary victory over Alain Juppé, the favorite. Although Fillon did not explicitly promise to rescind the law on same-sex marriage, he pledged to rewrite it and prevent full adoption by gay couples. Fillon was the only credible candidate for the presidency since the 1958 constitution to present himself as a practicing Catholic, eager to promote Christian identity and values (conversely: De Gaulle, also a devout Catholic, was a strong defender of the separation of Church and State).

    This sudden breakthrough of militant Catholicism took place at a time when the traditional right, in France and throughout Western Europe, had more or less finally but reluctantly endorsed liberal values like feminism, sexual freedom, abortion, gay’s rights, even animal rights. Moreover, even the populist extreme right has also endorsed liberal values where family and sexuality are concerned. Neither the Netherlands’s Geert Wilders, Marine Le Pen, or the Austrian Hans Christian Strache are known for attending church, or advocating Christian sexual and family norms, or Christian teachings on love and hospitality. Their definition of Christian identity is purely ethnic and folkloric, not rooted in the teachings of the Church.

    French society is strongly secular—a fact that Le Pen wove into the identity of her National Front (FN) party some time ago. Although the FN is steeped in its anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim fundamentals, from the start of the campaign she has endorsed laïcité—“political secularism,” the official term for the separation of church and state—over Christianity, as the template for French identity. Of course, her version of laïcité is directed against Islam, including banning the veil and halal food from the public space. Le Pen has also extended her particular version of laïcité to exemplifiers of all other religions in the public space, including yarmulke and kosher food.

     Nevertheless, this approach helped Le Pen finish second. But to defeat the centrist Macron in the run off, she will have to attract the Catholic constituency of Fillon and the anti-globalization, anti-capitalist, secularist electorate of Jean-Luc Mélenchon, a neo-communist and a “third-worldist,” who has supported Hugo Chavez, Fidel Castro, and the Palestinian people; like Le Pen, he has also been accused of anti-semitism. The former might be attracted by her stance against Islam, and the latter by her anti-European, anti-establishment position.

    Mélenchon, a staunch opponent of religious signs in the public sphere, offered perhaps the first round’s biggest surprise: he was the most-popular candidate among Muslim voters, of which there are between 2 and 4 millions, depending if we refer to believers or people from Muslim origin. Some attribute this to his support for the Palestinians and his open, controversial backing of Syrian leader Bashar al-Assad and Russia’s Vladimir Putin. But Palestine did not come up during the campaign. In addition, Mélenchon backs Assad because of his war against Salafist rebels; it’s difficult to see how this would appeal to pro-Salafist French Muslims living on the margins of French society—youth of destitute neighborhoods, the born-again of all kind, and converts. Traditionally, Salafists avoid political participation. In fact Mélenchon never addressed the concerns of faithful Muslims.

    The problem in understanding Muslim support for Mélenchon is that most people tend to think that Muslims vote as a single, undifferentiated faith community. For years, the debate over Islam in France has been oversimplified, reduced to an idea known commonly as communautarisation:by returning to a conservative and normative practice of Islam, the Muslim community is enforcing its own forms of social control in “the lost territories of the republic”—namely, the destitute neighborhoods. That move would lead to some sort of separation from mainstream society. But whether this has actually occurred is far from clear.

    Muslim support of Mélenchon likely had far more to do with class and social exclusion.

    There are, of course, both well-off and less-well-off French Muslims—those stuck in low-wage jobs in the destitute neighborhoods their contract-labor forefathers settled in in the 1960s and 70s, and those who have managed to move into the middle-class. France does not collect voting data by ethnic or religious group, so we cannot say for certain how these people voted; many of these middle-class Muslims likely voted for Macron or the socialist Benoit Hamon in the first round, and are likely to vote for Macron in the second. That’s because they represent middle-class aspirations.

    We know the voting patterns of less-well-off Muslims, by contrast, because they are concentrated in certain electoral precincts. Mélenchon came first in the department of Seine Saint Denis, which has the highest-percentage migrant population in France, with 37 percent; in Dreux, another city with a high percentage of migrants, he also captured 37 percent, and a peak of 57 percent in the electoral precinct with the highest percentage of Muslims. This general pattern was confirmed by an IFOP poll after the second round, which indicated that 37 percent of the French Muslims voted for Mélenchon, far exceeding the other candidates.

    The first round of the presidential elections showed no political expression or symptoms of such a religious separatism—they voted for Mélenchon, a neo-Marxist. On the contrary, despite the ban on voting declared by many Salafists, and despite a traditional disaffection of the youth towards elections, there has been an increase in participation versus the last elections. Mélenchon, then, likely won the Muslim vote on social issues: exclusion, joblessness, and precariousness attributed to capitalism, the free market, globalization and Europe. Muslims—poorer ones, at least—voted because of their social situation, not their religious convictions, choosing a candidate that based his campaign on social issues, while supporting laïcité and opposing the veil.

     Ahead of the second round, it’s interesting that while the Catholic hardliners made a more or less explicit call to vote for the FN, Le Pen is openly trying to court Mélenchon’s electorate without making any reference to the important proportion of Muslims in his electorate. While Mélenchon made it clear that he will vote for Macron, he refused to join the “Republican Front” against extreme right and “fascism” ; and let his supporters decide. Will some poor Muslims vote for Le Pen because they support the FN’s populist agenda? A bit difficult because the FN is still racist. Will they vote for Macron to fight racism? Not necessarily because Macron embodies, according to both Melenchon and Marine Le Pen, the global world of finance. The most probable option is that they will abstain, as many of them told me in Dreux.

    Olivier Roy is a political scientist, professor at the European University Institute in Florence, Italy. His most recent book is Holy Ignorance: When Religion and Culture Part Ways (Columbia University Press, 2010).

     

     

  • Charles Bernstein — Lyric Shame

    Charles Bernstein — Lyric Shame

    by Charles Bernstein

    N.B.: In Lyric Shame (Harvard University Press, 2014), Gillian White shames those who question the jargon of authenticity in lyric poetry. White claims that active skepticism toward Romantic Ideology is a form of shaming. White fights this phantom shame with her critical shaming. See Lytle Shaw, “Framing the Lyric” in American Literary History, 2016.

     

     

     

  • Nathan Brown — The Logic of Disintegration: On the Art Practice of Alexi Kukuljevic

    Nathan Brown — The Logic of Disintegration: On the Art Practice of Alexi Kukuljevic

    by Nathan Brown

    The body is the inscribed surface of events (traced by language and dissolved by ideas), the locus of a dissociated Self (adopting the illusion of a substantial unity), and a volume in perpetual disintegration.

                            – Michel Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History”[i]

    A troubling and enabling fact about the body is that it is never exactly “here” nor “there.” The existence of the body evades its coincidence with language, with thought, with the I, such that it can be described as “the locus of a dissociated Self.” The body is the self, but it is the self as dissociated. Its existence is an index of the dissociation the self is, of the self’s non-identity with itself, with language, and with thought.

    Writing on Nietzsche’s physiological attunement to philosophical thinking, Foucault offers three determinations of the body: 1) the inscribed surface of events; 2) the locus of a dissociated Self; 3) a volume in perpetual disintegration. These determinations abjure the apparent self-evidence of the body’s organic integrity (“the illusion of substantial unity”) in order to consider it as the site of certain operations (inscription, dissociation, disintegration) and as a spatially extended object (surface, locus, volume). The body records events and it instantiates the self’s dissociation. It holds together the dissociated self with those events that traverse it, but the very site of this holding together, its volume, is at the same time coming apart, disintegrating. Language traces events inscribed on the body; ideas dissolve them. Language and ideas separate events from the body, from the surface upon which they are inscribed, exteriorizing their inscription (tracing) or absorbing them into thought (dissolution). The perpetual disintegration of the body is the process by which the surface of its volume ceases to make available such exteriorization or absorption. The disintegration of the body is the gradual coming undone of language and of thought, of the registration of events.

    How might we situate art with respect to these determinations of the body? As a practice, art takes place at the boundaries of language and thought: it is involved with language and thought, yet not (only) linguistic or ideational. To describe the body as “a volume in perpetual disintegration” is to consider it formally: disintegration implies a measure of integration, and this measure, considered as volume, is form. Can this disintegration of form be exteriorized? As the body disintegrates, can it produce a double of its disintegration? Or, if not a double, at least a counterpart, a semblable? If philosophy takes place as the conjunction of language and thinking, how can art, at the boundaries of philosophy, disjoin these by doubling the perpetual disintegration of the volume that the body is, by displacing the locus of a dissociated self?

    These are the questions that will guide my approach to the art practice of Alexi Kukuljevic,[ii] through which I hope to limn a certain science of the logic of disintegration.

    CAPUT MORTUUM

    At Caput Mortuum, Kukuljevic’s solo show in 2012, a plaster cast of the artist’s teeth, his bite, sits atop the highest plinth in the room, spray painted gold and titled The Subject-Object (Fig. 1). The cast displays a pronounced overbite, the upper incisors caving in at the center and thus protruding out diagonally at irregular angles. On a plinth behind and to the left, another cast of the same teeth is presented at the opening of the show, this time in frozen black ink resting on a neon green edition of Hegel’s Phänomenologie des Geistes. The piece is titled The Object-Subject (Fig. 2 & 3). As the duration of the opening unfolds, the frozen cast melts into a liquid black pool, soaking the book beneath and forming a minimally differentiated volume of black ink against the background of the black plinth below. Watching over this process of disintegration from the wall above is a silkscreen print of Hegel’s portrait, his forehead exhibiting an unseemly goiter of spray foam with a nail driven through its center, neon green paint seeping from the wounded brow of the great thinker, running over the left eye and down the philosopher’s face across the surface of the print.

    Figure 2, The Object-Subject (2012)
    Figure 3, The Object-Subject (melted)

     

     

     

     

     

     

    This configuration establishes a basic dialectic of the artist’s practice. A singular or signature trait of the artist’s embodied subjectivity—his irregular bite—is cast as a sculptural object and presented to the viewer’s eye coated in the color of value, gold. A frozen double of this object, cast in the color of negation and the medium of inscription—black ink—displays the impermanence of its objecthood, the temporal finitude of its form, by melting into an indistinct pool. The subject becomes object on the condition that the object becomes subject, yet the doubling of the object (molded in plaster as well as black ink) enables it to sustain its form even as it melts into fluidity. The formal and fluid excess of this doubling is suggested by the seepage of paint from the pierced surface of Hegel’s printed portrait, as if the provocation of the thinker’s absolute judgment—that “the being of Spirit is a bone” (Hegel 1977 [1807]: 208)—called for a trepanation, by way of verification. Can we find the substance-subject in the skull? In the Phenomenology’s chapter on “Observing Reason,” philosophy reaches the point at which thought thinks its unthinking substrate and thus sublates that substrate as thought. It then becomes the vocation of art to render the residue of this sublation—the persistence of thought’s unthinking body—as the obdurate, curiously inconceivable, condition of its possibility.

    Art thus inhabits the disjunction between the highest and the lowest, the spiritual fulfillment of self-comprehending life and the physical function, as Hegel puts it, of taking a piss (210).[iii] From the point of view of philosophy, it “must be regarded as a complete denial of Reason to pass off a bone as the actual existence of consciousness” (205). From the point of view of art, the materials in which consciousness is inscribed are the ineliminable ground of formal specificity. “The body” is a relay between subject and object, but one that cannot simply be “lived.” Thinking itself as a thing that thinks, the thinking thing finds its particularity in the material substrate and remainder of this operation: not just any skull, but this skull; this skull which is, impossibly, “mine.” “My body” is that which is not (quite) either mine or me, yet which is I. The being of Spirit is not just any bone. What dissolves into fluidity through the becoming subject of the object, or resolves into solidity through the becoming object of the subject, is the specificity of these teeth, the irregular contours of this bite, and it is on the condition of encountering resolutely material form that universality can include particularity.

    Within the cut between the Subject-Object and the Object-Subject, art tarries with this relay between the specificity of the material particular and its insistence, as specific, within the genericity of the universal. This is one of the rifts that art inhabits.

    RIFT 

    Absolute knowledge requires the reconciliation of subject and object. This is not an option for art. If art knows anything (this is unclear) it is that the subject can not even be reconciled with itself, let alone with the object. The art object is an unreconciled remainder of the rift between the I and the Me. “Me” is the object form of the pronoun “I.” When I say “I,” the “me” is the unfortunate residue of my enunciation. “I = I” enunciates the genesis of the subject, but, for better or for worse (for worse), the subject has a body that remains unequal to the equals sign, that is unreconciled with the I to which it supposedly belongs. There “I” am (me), just when I hoped to be “here.” The golden egg of self-equivalence is held aloft (Fig. 4), supported by the doubled singularity of the irregular bite, by the mold of the split jaw that is the ground of articulation, the structure of the mouth, the condition of enunciation, or “The Limits of Grammar” (as another title has it).

    I = I splits into the dissociation of the I and the Me, held together as the body, exteriorized as the art object — the residue of such dissociation. In A Little Game Played Between the I and the Me, Kukuljevic’s contribution to the Nouvelles Vagues show at Palais de Tokyo in 2013 (Fig. 5), the central piece titled The I and the Me consists of two formally similar but morphologically discrepant sculptural masses, one of which is placed solidly upon a pedestal while the other hangs precariously from its edge, as if having just climbed up on stage or about to fall off.

    Figure 4, I = I (2012)

    From a speaker within these asymmetrically relational forms, not-quite mirror images, a  slow, dry, tired voice emanates into the gallery space:

    I say: I, I, I. You say: me. Me say, you. You say: I, I, I. I say, me.

    You answer to human. You grind your teeth. You point with the jaundiced nub of a finger. Your jaw drops on its hinge. Your thumbs bend at the joint. You toss word upon word. Live in abstraction. Skip stones. Sip whiskey. Polish silver. Lay claim to the luxury of fine cotton. Vomit champagne. And know how to sharpen the blade.

    ….

    There is an unease in your cadence. Your pace is hobbled. Your bones lack alignment. Your stare a milky grey. That hole in your head oozes something unrefined. Something is making you reach for your nail file. Adjust your posture. (Kukuljevic 2013)

    Figure 5, A Little Game Played Between the I and the Me (2013), Installation View

    Art is a pastime, a distraction, an indulgence, or a chore, like skipping stones, sipping whiskey, or polishing silver. It is a luxury, a guilty pleasure, like fine cotton or champagne, yet also something of an impediment, a burden, a limp, or perhaps the cane a limp requires. The hangover after the champagne. It is at once a decadent practice and the tick of the uneasy, the correlate of both the hobbled pace and the easy profligacy of the dissolute aristocrat. A goiter. A gouty toe. An overgrowth. Something that makes you reach for your nail file. It can hardly keep its balance on the pedestal upon which it is placed. The I stands firm, but the Me falters. Or the Me pretends to solidity, as the I wavers. Art is the imbalance of their mutual reckoning, their teeter-totter, the milky grey substance of their self-regarding stare, the hinge upon which the jaw issues abstractions, the sharpened blade with which one arm stabs the other.

    The rift between the I and the Me is the rift within the I = I, and consciousness of this rift demands its object, “the locus of a dissociated Self,” in order to convey its dissociation. The recognition of this dissociation solicits its displacement. Yet the object into which this locus is displaced must itself be doubled if it is not merely to suggest an exteriorization of the self, but rather the exteriorization of the self’s dissociation. The doubling of the object is the double of the dissociated (rather than unified) subject. Art which knows the riven conditions of its own possibility duplicates the singular form of its object, breeds its replication, demands reiteration, refuses the originality of the origin. Art repeats.

    (C8H8)n

    Figure 6, The Subject’s Alchemical Residuals (2012), detail

    In his sculptural work, Kukuljevic’s preferred material is styrofoam (expanded polystyrene).[iv] The I and the Me, for example, is composed of rectangular polystyrene panels stacked unevenly or clumped together vertically, coated with cement, and globbed with spray foam. Kukuljevic shapes the material by cutting it, burning it with a blowtorch, or melting it away with acetone, a substance with roots in alchemical practices (see Gorman and Doering 1959). Thus, one of The Subject’s Alchemical Residuals (Fig. 6) is a curved wedge of styrofoam with a conical hole melted through its center, the pocked surface around the base of the conical hollow marking the damage done by splashes of the corrosive substance. Like The Subject-Object and The Object-Subject, this might be read as something of a demonstration piece, a formal synechdoche or concentrated reduction of the artist’s concerns and methods, a minimal unit of his practice.

    The subject makes a hole in the object, which thus becomes an art object. The hole is not made by digging, by a practice of removal that would merely shift its material off to the side. It is made by dissolution, dissipation, dispersion: the hole itself, not the material subtracted from it, is the visible remainder of its production. What is produced is not a pile but an absence, a negation. The material bears the trace of this negation without remainder; that which remains is spirited away. Thus the art object becomes the residue, the residual, of an act of negation, its damaged remnant. It is an alchemical residual insofar as, qua art object, it has acquired value. Value is acquired by the material remnant of the negation of matter; it is its immaterial companion, inscribed as an absence within the object that makes it art.

    If the production of acetone has its roots in premodern alchemical practices, the production of polystyrene (beginning in the 1930s at IG Farben and 1941 at Dow Chemical) can be traced to the emergence of aromatic polymer chemistry, predicated upon Kekulé’s modeling of the benzene ring in 1865, and thus coeval with Marx’s theory of the commodity. The coincidence is merely suggestive, yet the chemical fabrication of organic compounds (“synthesis”) shadows the history of real subsumption and the attendant rise of mass consumption like an uncanny double (see Leslie 2005). Not only industrially produced objects but the molecules of which they are composed become artificial. Marx tells us that

    If we subtract the total amount of useful labor of different kinds which is contained in the coat, the linen, etc., a material substratum is always left. This substratum is furnished by nature without human intervention. When man engages in production, he can only proceed as nature does herself, i.e. he can only change the  form of the materials. (Marx 1990 [1867]: 133)

    This remains the case, but with the rise of chemical synthesis the production of the material substratum itself becomes a matter of labor, such that the only remaining substratum “furnished by nature without human intervention” are atoms of carbon and hydrogen — not even the molecular forms in which these are combined. As if in uncanny response to the metaphorical provocations of Marx’s chemical analogies in the first volume of Capital, the commodity becomes artificial in its very substance. The abstraction of socially necessary labor time saturates not only the object produced from natural materials, but also the molecular structure of the materials themselves, such that even the latter are soaked in the immaterial substance of value.[v] “It is absolutely clear,” writes Marx,

    that, by his activity, man changes the forms of materials of nature in such a way as to make them useful to him. The form of wood, for instance, is altered if a table is made out of it. Nevertheless, the table continues to be wood, an ordinary, sensuous thing. But as soon as it emerges as a commodity, it changes into a thing which transcends sensuousness. (163)

    Synthetically produced organic compounds, such as polymers, are in this sense not “ordinary sensuous things” (“materials of nature”) but rather materials that already “transcend sensuousness,” materials that are never not already commodities. Not only the process of production but also the materials upon which it works are fully subsumed.

    Thus a styrofoam cup is a commodity made of a material that has no “natural” existence outside of the commodity form, as is a polyester dress. So is a rectangular panel or a molded form of expanded polystyrene packaging material, but in this case the relation of the commodity to its consumption is rather curious. Here we are dealing with a commodity whose use value is to protect commodities as they circulate. A consumer buys something else, and some styrofoam comes with it, a necessary if unwanted accompaniment. Indeed, styrofoam packaging is in a particularly abject position insofar as it does not even carry out the other functional purpose of packaging, that of advertising the product within, in the manner of the all important box. Styrofoam is a mere intermediary between the alluring surface of the disposable exterior and the desirable utility of the interior object. A material byproduct of circulation, expanded polystyrene packaging is both invisible at the point of sale and already waste at the point of consumption. Even the consumer’s cat, who loves to sleep in cardboard boxes, wants nothing to do with molded styrofoam once it has been cast aside. Artificial even in its molecular constitution, unwanted by the consumer to whom it is destined, expanded polystyrene packaging is the paradigmatically unnatural detritus of the capitalist transformation of nature.

    The rendering of this destitute material as art is its salvation, or one more indignity to which it is subjected. At last, in any case, it is put on display, forming the curious substance of something someone might even buy.

    PERSONAE

    In the hospital rooms on either side, objects—vases, ashtrays, beds—had looked wet and scary, hardly bothering to cover up their true meanings. They ran a few syringesful into me, and I felt like I’d turned from a light, Styrofoam thing into a person. I held up my hands before my eyes. The hands were as still as a sculpture’s.

                            – Denis Johnson, Jesus’ Son

    “From a light, Styrofoam thing into a person”: Kukuljevic’s art practice reverses this conversion. The movement from person to styrofoam thing is productive not only of sculpture, but also of personae: those artificial figures of personhood through which one presents oneself to the public.

     Spending some time at his 2012 solo show, Don’t Be a Dreamer, Mr. Me, one comes to feel an odd sense of consolation among its major pieces: An Orgy of Stupidity (Fig. 7); Idiot (Fig. 8); A Gangrenous Fop (Fig. 9). The titles suggest a shared lack of intelligence, foregrounding a common trait of cognitive degeneracy. Indeed, not much can be expected by way of sparkling conversation from chunks of burned and painted styrofoam. “Everything about the show appears to be unhealthy — mentally and physically,” found one reviewer (Schwartz 2013). It is true, a sojourn among these initially unattractive, mildly poisonous forms seems not to promise the edification of a trip to the gym or the library. Yet one nevertheless develops a certain fondness for them, this cast of characters; an improbable affection gradually accrues in their mere presence.

    Deleuze recognized that stupidity is both the enemy of and the condition for philosophical thinking. One thinks in order to combat stupidity, yet in order to begin thinking at all, one has to be stupid. There must be an interruption of the order of the given, of the already known, of what Deleuze called “the image of thought” in order for thought to encounter its own ungroundedness: in order for thought to know that it does not know, and thus begin to think. In order not to be stupid, one has to be stupid: this is a contradiction with which philosophy has been embroiled since Socrates. What Konrad Bayer called “the sixth sense,” says Kukuljevic, involves “knowing when to risk being a dummy” (Kukuljevic, 2013-2014). But Deleuze goes beyond merely knowing when to take this risk, claiming that “Stupidity (not error) constitutes the greatest weakness of thought, but also the source of its highest power in that which forces it to think” (Deleuze 2004 [1968]: 345). Just as “the mechanism of nonsense is the highest finality of sense,” he argues, “the mechanism of stupidity (bétise) is the highest finality of thought” (193).. Do these styrofoam forms impart some of their stupidity to the viewer? Do they thus solicit thinking?

    One notes their vaguely anthropomorphic aspect. An Orgy of Stupidity looks like an enormous malformed grey skull accosted by pink spray foam, brooding dull-wittedly upon its table. Holes are melted into the “front” of the piece, resembling hollow eyes, while deeper crevices puncture it behind and below, visible when viewed in the round. Deceptively simple, the formal construction of the piece is in fact carefully articulated. Positioned at the back of the room, the bulk of this sculpture anchors the space, at once drawing the gaze and looking on, surveying the assembled art without having much to say about it. The show seems to turn upon this piece, a dead-head like a humanoid boulder measuring the depth or frivolity of our contemplation, of our chatter, against the taciturn obduracy of its inorganic impassivity.

    Figure 7, An Orgy of Stupidity (2012)

    While An Orgy of Stupidity rests solidly upon its base, Idiot is propped against a load-bearing column, while the large, roughly rectangular form of A Gangrenous Fop balances upon a single dowel anchored in a styrofoam base resting on a plinth. The fragile support of the latter piece drives home the lightness of what seem to be massive forms, the interior airiness of imposing exteriors, often sealed with a layer of concrete. This counter-intuitive play between the heaviness of surface and the lightness of depth is mediated by the technique and motif of perforation running through Kukuljevic’s practice. It is enacted by his melting away of surfaces in order to bore into sculptural forms and also thematized in wall pieces involving concrete and chair caning (Fig. 10), a material he values for the concomitant complicity and cancellation of surface and depth suggested by its woven form.

    Figure 8, Idiot (2009)
    Figure 9, A Gangrenous Fop (2012)

    The surface is more weighty than the interior — that is the sort of judgment one might venture looking at a piece like A Gangrenous Fop, with its lightly balanced heft. Yet the concrete surface itself is punctuated by holes that confuse or undo this distinction, leading us into the form along its surface in pursuit of depth, which thus becomes surface. Likewise, the use of spray foam to combine sculptural masses and to fill in crevices between them suggests an eruption — or at least a slow, coagulating leakage — of the interior. Meanwhile, color mediates this formal dialectic. Synthetic, superficial fluorescent shades seep from interiors or coat their exposed crevices, highlighting absences opened by corrosion, or the white sublation of color constitutes a pure yet perforated surface through which solid grey concrete seeps.

    Figure 10, Concrete IV (2012)

    If the somewhat familiar sculptural forms (one of them is titled A Human-Like Creature) exhibited at Don’t Be a Dreamer, Mr. Me come to seem sympathetic, perhaps it is because they have been through so much. Punctured, corroded, seeping foam and stained with garish colors, carefully poised or precariously propped up, they have an air of weary endurance about them, as if about to collapse or retire yet in for the long haul by virtue of their molecular inertia and their improbable value as art. They seem fated to be tired for a long time, with no choice but to make a display of themselves. This wry anthropomorphism solicits transferential self-pity, such that a title like Idiot may come to feel like a way of insulting the audience — a rhetorical inclination to which Kukuljevic is happily prone. In the end one takes it well. There is something like a communal self-loathing to be gleaned from such a show, the circulation of self-recognition as the concession of its weary stupidity, its dissolution (Fig. 11).

    Given the dissociation of the self, its perpetual disintegration, perhaps an encounter with the stupidity of self-recognition is one among the most precious objects art has to offer — or at least its most sincere gift. It snaps one out of a bland tete-â-tete with oneself, or with another, such that one begins to think. We come to feel affection for the forms that gift takes.

    Figure 11, Even Misanthropes Grow Weary (2014)

    SMOKE

    Figure 12, One or Two Things I Know About A.K. (2012-2013)

    Having started with bone, why not end with breath? Both have been said to be spirit. Yet even as Hegel could subsume the materiality of the skull within the ideality of the concept, breath is a materialization of the ineffable. This is a recognition readily available amid a cloud of cigar smoke, which constitutes for Kukuljevic not only a medium in its own right but a method of attunement, a dissociated Stimmung:

    Trapped between index and middle finger, a cigar traces a delicate line, its stump more unseemly. However, if held with poise, a cigar is a simple and elegant machine, much like a crowbar, that provides the mind with the material impetus for prying off an impression of the soul, as one peels off a latex mold.

    “Each cigar is a snapshot,” he writes, “of the soul’s decomposition” (Kukuljevic 2014). The cigar is a prop, like a sculpture. Yet it is a prop whose substance becomes interchangeable with that of the subject who wields it, to the detriment of both the subject and the object. The cigar is the temporary site of a chiasmus whereby both the subject and the object burn down to a material remainder, the former more slowly than the latter but no less surely. The billowing form of the cloud of smoke “focuses the mind on life’s dissipative march” (Fig. 12).

    Marcel Duchamp understood the pitfalls of relating to art primarily through the figure of the object, or “the art object.” For if something is an object, how can it be art? And if it is art, how can it be an object? Implicit in these questions is the immaterial surplus exhaled by any object that comes to be called “art,” the ineffable imprimatur invisibly stamped upon that which the term designates, an imprimatur that converts it into something other than what it is. Duchamp thus focused his attention upon what he called the infra-thin: “when the tobacco smoke smells also of the mouth which exhales it, the two odors marry by infra-thin.” The two odors, he says. Yet this figure of the infra-thin involves not only a marriage of two odors, but also of the object, the subject, and the fumes it exhales, mediated by the corporeal hollow of the mouth. Here the infra-thin is a complex of the subject-object, or the object-subject, which entails not only the ephemeralization of the corporeal but the corporealization of the ephemeral, a physics of the metaphysical and a materialization of the ideal, like “prying off an impression of the soul, as one peels off a latex mold.”

    Figure 13, The Physiology of the Cigar, Photogram (2014)

    If the smoking of cigars is properly considered part of Kukuljevic’s art practice (evident in his habit of filling the gallery with cigar smoke before openings), the photogram is its saleable analog (Fig. 13 & 14). Like his silkscreen prints of coral, or his wall sculptures with chair caning, his photograms tarry with the perforations constitutive of surface and with the permeability of the object. Just as the cigar burns into ash, a fragile record of its temporal dispersion, the retentional action of the photogram gives us to see the legible transparency of material structure, the ghost of the incorporeal that haunts all bodies.

    Figure 14, Torn Vitola, Photogram (2014)

    Yet the record of the cigar’s dispersion, its ash, is also its material residue — like styrofoam packaging that arrives alongside the consumer’s commodity. It needs somewhere to end up, to repose, and thus calls not only for the light touch of the photogram but also the hospitable embrace of the ashtray (Fig. 15). The propped up body of the sculpture would then support the papery corpse of the cigar, leaving the viewer to contemplate the degree to which form follows function in the case of so fleshly a friend of the infra-thin. This is the highest form of practicality we will encounter in Kukuljevic’s practice: the making of a place, barely contained within itself, to put the leavings of disintegration. Perhaps “the object” is better understood as such a place — and this is the sort of place, indelicately distended and on the verge of collapse, that the artist might call art.

    Figure 15, Ashtray #3 (2015)

     

    Figure 16, Trading Places (2015)

     

    It is in this sense that I view Trading Places (Fig. 16) as a particularly notable piece in Kukuljevic’s oeuvre. Whereas most of the sculptural works are either tenuously propped or heavily settled, this one rests upon a stable base, yet one that is mobile. Its form is again vaguely anthropomorphic, but in this case diminutive — a sidekick of sorts, like Lear’s clever fool or an R2D2 suffering the fate of Tithonus. The figure is burned out, carved away, its interior exposed and its surface rough-hewn, yet its dominant shade is a light azure that lends it a certain celestial freshness amid the charred remains it barely holds together. At the center of the piece, the same thin wood stick that bends under the burden of supporting some of the sculptures in this case holds aloft its own offering, cradled in a bright yellow latex glove, as if in supplication of the viewer. Here, the piece seems to intimate, this is what I have for you.

    What is thus presented is a bit of ash, the stump of a cigar, cupped within an indeterminate grey residue. Perhaps this is a present, maybe a presentiment. Sculpture, trading places, offers up a volume in perpetual disintegration as if posing its own question to the viewer, to the body of the subject who is not allowed to touch it: what do you have to offer me?

    BIBLIOGRAPHY

    Deleuze, Gilles. Difference and Repetition. (1968). Translated by Paul Patton. London: Continuum, 2004

    Gorman, Mel and Charles Doering. “History of the Structure of Acetone.” Chymia. 5 (1959): 202-208.

    Hegel, G.W.F. Phenomenology of Spirit. (1807). Translated by A.V. Miller. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977

    Kukuljevic, Alexi. Audio Track, A Little Game Played Between the I and the Me. Nouvelles Vagues, Palais de Tokyo, 2013.

    Kukuljevic, Alexi. Exhibition Text for Don’t Be a Dreamer, Mr. Me. (December 6, 2013 – January 19, 2014). http://www.marginalutility.org/exhibitions/2013/alexi-kukuljevic-dont-be-a-dreamer-mr-me/.

    Kukuljevic, Alexi. “More or Less Art, More or Less a Commodity, More or Less and Object,More or Less a Subject: The Readymade and the Artist” in The Art of the Concept. Edited by Nathan Brown and Petar Milat. Frakcija 64/65 (2013): 62-70.

    Kukuljevic, Alexi. Exhibition Text for You Can’t Rely on the Joke as the Only Mode of Social Relation…. (March 14 – April 30, 2014). http://www.kunsthalle- leipzig.com/kukuljevic.html

    Leslie, Esther. Synthetic Worlds: Nature, Art, and the Chemical Industry. London: Reaktion Books, 2005.

    Marx, Karl. Capital: Volume 1. (1867). Translated by Ben Fowkes. New York: Penguin, 1990.

    Schwartz, C. “Alexi Kukuljevic Dares Not to Dream at Marginal Utility.” Knight Blog (December 10, 2013). http://www.knightfoundation.org/blogs/knightblog/2013/12/10/alexi-kukuljevic-marginal-utility/

    NOTES

    [i] Thanks to Petar Milat for drawing my attention to this passage.

    [ii] Kukuljevic’s work has been included in exhibitions at Tanya Leighton Gallery (Berlin, 2016), Kavi Gupta (Chicago, 2015), Palais de Tokyo (Paris, 2013), De Appel (Amsterdam, 2012), and has been shown in solo exhibitions at Å+ Gallery (Berlin, upcoming 2016), Kunsthalle Leipzig (2014); ICA Philadelphia (2013), Jan Van Eyke Academie (Maastrict, 2013), and SIZ Gallery (Rijeka, 2012). He holds a Ph.D. in Philosophy from Villanova University, where he wrote a dissertation titled “The Renaissance of Ontology: Kant, Heidegger, Deleuze” (2009). He was a researcher at Jan Van Eyke Academie (2012-2013). His book Liquidation World: On Forms of Dissolute Subjectivity is forthcoming with MIT Press. He is the author of an artist’s book, Cracked Fillings, available at alexikukuljevic.com.

    [iii] Hegel writes, “The infinite judgement, qua infinite, would be the fulfilment of life that comprehends itself; the consciousness of the infinite judgment that remains at the level of picture-thinking behaves as urination [verhält sich als Pissen]” (210).

    [iv] Strictly speaking, “Styrofoam” is the brand name of extruded polystyrene produced exclusively by Dow Chemical, which is used in craft and insulation applications and is usually blue or green. The term is more loosely and commonly applied to expanded polystyrene in general, such as that used for foam cups or molded packaging. Following this common usage, I will refer to expanded polystyrene and styrofoam interchangeably.

    [v] Kukuljevic has published an essay on the relationship between the commodity form, the readymade, and the figure of the artist. See Kukuljevic 2013.

     

  • Pieter Lemmens and Yuk Hui — Apocalypse, Now! Peter Sloterdijk and Bernard Stiegler on the Anthropocene

    Pieter Lemmens and Yuk Hui — Apocalypse, Now! Peter Sloterdijk and Bernard Stiegler on the Anthropocene

    by Pieter Lemmens and Yuk Hui

    ‘You really take no account of what happens to us. When I talk to young people of my generation, who are about two or three years older or younger than me, they all say the same: we no longer have the dream to found a family, to have children, or a profession, or ideals, like you did when you were teenagers. That’s all over, because we are sure that we will be the last generation, or one of the last, before the end’

    The Shock of the Anthropocene

    In the above quote from the novel L’Effondrement du temps by the anonymous writer collective L’impansable, the fifteen year-old Florian addresses the current generation of politicians and more generally of adults responsible for our world and its future (L’impansable 2006). The French philosopher Bernard Stiegler has recently quoted this statement in many of his talks and it also features prominently in his new book Dans la disruption. Comment ne pas devenir fou? (In the disruption – how not to become mad? Stiegler 2016). Florian’s remark reveals a strong sense of melancholia about the arrival of the end. For Stiegler, this is not simply rhetoric. In an interview with the French Newspaper Le Monde on 19 November 2015, shortly after the Paris attacks, Stiegler confesses that “I can no longer sleep during the night, not because of the terrorists but because of worries that my children will no longer have any future” (Stiegler 2015a). What makes Stiegler so sad, and even so pessimistic about the current situation?

    As we see it, Stiegler is not exaggerating, but rather telling the truth. It is true that he has been accused of being a pessimist, because of his statements on the future of work, automation, editorialisation, etc. The general excitement about technological developments may give the impression that the world is moving towards a brighter posthumanist or transhumanist future. Many scholars working on technology tend to be easily satisfied with the phenomena emerging out of the new digital infrastructures and hence disregard a fierce critique of technology as a gesture of a Neo-Frankfurt School. Stiegler calls this attitude dénégation (denial). In his new book, Stiegler puts Florian’s accusation on a par with the shocking revelations of global “whistleblowers” like Edward Snowden, Chelsea (formerly Bradley) Manning and Julian Assange and he characterizes it as a parrhesia in the sense made famous by the French philosopher Michel Foucault, i.e., as a “frank and free” saying things as they are, or in other words a frank and courageous speaking of the truth. In this case, the truth of our time is a truth to which, according to Stiegler, virtually everyone prefers to close their eyes since it is too traumatic, inconceivable and appalling. It speaks not just about the possible but even the rather likely and imminent end of humanity, or at least of human civilization as we know it.

    What is this truth of our time? Perhaps one can start with its causes, which are multiple: the global climate and ecological crisis, resource depletion, military development, digital industrialization and a runaway consumerism accelerating daily through the intense exploitation of people’s attention and desires – there is a whole range of phenomena that seem to inevitably lead towards an apocalyptic end. If we are not able to reverse these destructive trends, humanity may soon confront its own extinction. The principal task and first duty of philosophy today, according to Stiegler, is to give a response to the parrhesia of Florian. Let’s start by introducing the subject of the Anthropocene and the scientific debates related to it. Many climate scientists[1] talk about a large-scale shift imminent in the Earth’s biosphere whose consequences will be unpredictable but in all likelihood catastrophic, especially if nations do not get together quickly to steer the “anthropogenic impacts” on the biosphere in a more beneficial direction. This mega- or ultra-wicked problem (as it is called in policy circles) is arguably the essence as well as the urgency of what has recently become known as the “Anthropocene”. This term was introduced in 2000 by the Dutch climate scientist and atmospheric chemist Paul Crutzen to identify the new geological era that in his view we have entered at least since the Industrial Revolution in the late 18th century (Crutzen 2002). As his now widely accepted hypothesis stated, “the human” (anthropos in Greek) or at least a certain part of humanity has become the most important geological (f)actor, having more impact on the state of the biosphere than all natural factors together. The human has thereby become de facto and willy-nilly responsible for the biosphere and by implication for its own future fate.

    The so-called “great acceleration” that started after World War II is considered to be responsible for finally bringing about what French historians Christophe Bonneuil and Jean-Baptiste Fressoz have called “the shock of the Anthropocene” (Bonneuil and Fressoz 2016): the world-wide dawning of humanity’s largely destructive impact on its own planetary life-support system. The predictions of the consequences of this for humanity in the short and long run vary, but even the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), known to represent the rather cautious mainstream view, has been forced to continually adjust its forecasts to more gloomy outcomes. The most extreme predictions, like those of the American ecologist Guy McPherson, foresee a near-term human extinction event within three decades (McPherson 2013).

    We would like to address the Anthropocene from both a philosophical and a political perspective. The former concerns the existence and responsibility of humans; the latter the political struggle that we must amplify. The term Anthropocene is ambivalent, since on the one hand, it leads to the illusion that man is back in the center, as one of the scientific researchers remarked during a recent conference entitled “How to think the Anthropocene?[2]”. The researcher proudly stated for the first time after the Copernican revolution, “man” has rediscovered her/his centrality. On the other hand, this revolution is responsible for global warming, the widespread destruction of ecosystems and the alarming loss of biodiversity that some authors (like Elizabeth Kolbert) have called the “sixth mass extinction”, caused this time by human beings themselves (Kolbert 2014). In other words, if it is responsible for putting “man” back in the center, it might also lead to her/his destruction.

    But what does this “geological event” of the Anthropocene really mean? Some geologists, or authors who are aligned with the thinking of “deep time”, see the Anthropocene as an insignificant event in comparison to the hundreds of millions years of geological history. The earth is in a constant process of destruction and reconstruction, the extinction of a species is one of those contingent events that carry no significance to the life of the earth. We may want to call this attitude, exemplified for instance in the work of the Dutch geophysiologist Peter Westbroek, geo-centrism or geo-reductionism (Westbroek 1992). The problem is not that such authors are wrong concerning earth science, but rather that they are right; in fact, they are so correct about it that they don’t see the problem.

    Marxist authors like Jason Moore, Maurizio Lazzarato and Christian Parenti argue that we should talk about the Capitalocene instead of the Anthropocene since it is not so much “the human” as the capitalist mode of production that is to be held responsible for the current devastation and exhaustion of the Earth’s biosphere (Moore 2016). Like Slavoj Žižek, they promote a more class-oriented view, re-interpreting the Anthropocene as the result of capitalism’s way of organizing nature in the case of Moore, who situates the Anthropocene’s  beginning not in the 18th century but in the long 16th century of primitive accumulation and the large-scale land-grabbing by budding capitalists known as the “enclosure of the commons” (Moore 2015). McKenzie Wark, another Marxist author who is nonetheless critical about the notion of the capitalocene (Wark 2015a), develops a “labor perspective” on the epic challenge of the Anthropocene, one that is inspired by the work of early Soviet authors Alexander Bogdanov and Andrey Platonov and feminist theorist Donna Haraway and Californian writer Kim Stanley Robinson (Wark 2015b).

    Many authors contest the term Anthropocene also because it suggests the existence of one unitary subject, “the human” or “humanity”, which would be responsible for the current crisis. However, as the German philosopher Peter Sloterdijk jokingly remarked in a recent public debate with Stiegler in Nijmegen in the Netherlands on the 27th of June (Sloterdijk and Stiegler 2016), sending an e-mail to humanity@planet.earth will inevitably yield a delivery failure message: “the human” or “humanity” does not exist. It is also obvious that some parts of humanity, like those belonging to the rich and affluent societies of the West, are much more “guilty” than, say, those fractions who live in the so-called developing world, the cruel fact being that the latter are generally much more affected by the devastating consequences of climate change than the former (in India for instance temperatures have been rising to a sweltering 51 degrees Celsius and many people are expected to die due to extreme heat and drought) (Wyke 2016).

    In his 1979 book The Principle of Responsibility, the German philosopher Hans Jonas already warned for the danger of humanity’s self-destruction due to its immense technological power and ability to destroy the planet (Jonas 1985). Jonas called for a new ecological ethic of responsibility and thereby proved himself to be an Anthropocenic thinker avant la lettre. His book was published at the onset of the so-called neoliberal revolution which swept away virtually every environmental policy that had gradually gained more support in the seventies and unleashed a global economic world war in the context of which we are all forced to compete against each-other—a war that is on a fatal collision course with the earthly ecosystem. The big question is whether, and how, we can reverse this process: how we can transform our hugely destructive impact on the earth into a more constructive and responsible one in order to avert the global catastrophe of which the current global crisis is only the prelude? As geobiologist Peter Ward put it in his book The Medea Hypothesis: ‘We are in a box. Ultimately it is a lethal box, a gas chamber or fryer, depending on how things work out. If we are to survive as a species, we will have to do a Houdini act’ (Ward 2015: 141).

    Two Proposals for a Reversal: Neganthropocene and Co-immunization

    What could be the response to the Anthropocene besides emphasizing responsibility? Or is there a more primary question still: who is responsible for what? Let us look at the diagnoses of two already mentioned thinkers who have both thought extensively about the human-technology relationship in recent decades: Peter Sloterdijk and Bernard Stiegler. Both offer some insights not only into the technological but also the historical and political, and even anthropological problem of the “shock of the Anthropocene”, which could be fundamentally understood as the consequence of neoliberal globalization of technology and capital.

    Sloterdijk, who calls himself a “leftist conservative”, is gaining increased attention in the Anglophone world yet is still a relatively marginal figure in it (unlike many of his continental colleagues of the same age and stature). His philosophical perspective is decidedly Nietzschean yet he is also very much influenced by Heidegger, Foucault, Deleuze, and Lacan, as well as the German tradition of philosophical anthropology (for example, Arnold Gehlen, Max Scheler and Helmuth Plessner). He became instantly famous in Europe in 1983 with his explosive debut Critique of Cynical Reason in which he diagnosed the current Zeitgeist as one of “enlightened unhappy consciousness” (with obvious allusions to Hegel) and a systemic hyper-cynicism that he hoped to counter with a new form of non-intellectual, bodily, popular- plebeian, humorous-grotesque, dadaesque and explicitly low-brow “critique”, inspired mainly by the brilliantly shameless performances of Diogenes of Sinope. His was a “critique beyond critique” that he called “kynicism” (with a k) (Sloterdijk 1988).

    While in this huge two-volume treatise Sloterdijk still presented himself as an heir of the tradition of critical theory of his principal teachers from the Frankfurt School, notably Adorno, Horkheimer and Bloch, he was clearly a very recalcitrant and ultimately rather unfaithful one. In his 1989 book Eurotaismus. Eine Kritik der politischen Kinetik, a thesis on the postmodern condition and its discontents, he largely exchanged the Frankfurt School for the “Freiburg School” and developed a Heidegger-inspired critique of modernity’s “total mobilization” in terms of a kinetic reinterpretation of the latter’s notion of releasement [Gelassenheit]. In the later chapters of this book he too proved himself to be an Anthropocenic thinker avant la lettre by pointing toward the fragility and finitude of the Earth as the base upon which human cultural-historical projects unfolded. He proclaimed that human culture would have to be increasingly responsible for its maintenance in the future, calling for a global ecological turn of the whole human endeavor (Sloterdijk 1989).

    Yet it is only in his monumental Spheres trilogy from 1998-2004 (Sloterdijk 2004), a grand sphero-immunological reinterpretation of the evolution and history of humankind and all the religious and metaphysical systems it produced—in other words, a history that operates from the perspective of humans as self-immunizing creatures who are sphere-building, sphere-abiding and sphere-borne beings–, that Sloterdijk develops a philosophical anthropology that is able to fully account for the anthropocenic condition we are inescapably entering. In particular the post-holistic, plural spherology or polyspherology of co-isolationist co-existence that is developed in the third volume of Spheres titled Foams is eminently suited for considering the human condition in the age of the Anthropocene (Sloterdijk 2016a), as Sloterdijk’s friend Bruno Latour has justly remarked (Latour 2008).

    *

    Bernard Stiegler started his academic career as a commentator of Martin Heidegger, more specifically on the question of technology in Heidegger’s thought. Unlike Sloterdijk, who takes the question of space and topology in Heidegger’s thought further and has suggested “Being and Space” as an alternative title for his Spheres-project, Stiegler’s work centers on the question of time and time’s relation to technology through what he calls tertiary retention, a notion that completes the circle of Husserl’s theory of retentions and protentions (Stiegler 1998). The tertiary retention is the technically captured trace as well as support of both primary retention (e.g. the melody that is retained in our mind) and secondary retention (e.g. the melody that we can recall tomorrow). For Stiegler the tertiary retention is a supplement as well as “exteriorization” of memory (in the words of French paleoanthropologist André Leroi-Gourhan) through which he attempts to re-read the history of European philosophy as a history of the suppression of the question of technics – as a response to Heidegger’s critique of the forgetting of the question of Being in Western metaphysics. The history of technology for Stiegler could be described as the history of grammatization, a term coined by the French historian and linguist Sylvain Auroux, in which the organic and inorganic organs are configured and reconfigured according to the progress of technological invention (e.g. alphabetic writing, analog writing, digital writing).

    Stiegler, who became a philosopher when he was incarcerated in Toulouse for committing several armed bank robberies, is currently director of the Institute of Research and Innovation (IRI), an institute that he established in 2006 in the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris, and president of the lobby group ars industrialis. Best-known for his magnum opus Technics and Time, he has more recently dedicated himself to research on digital technologies as our new technical condition and he has developed what he calls a “general organology” (more on this below) to understand the effects on that condition of today’s consumerist capitalism (Stiegler 2010a). He has been a member of the national council for the digital in France. Stiegler’s politics consists in what he (following Plato and Derrida) calls the pharmacology of technology, namely the fact that technology is at the same time good and bad, remedy and poison. The politics of technology is to inhibit the toxicity in favor of the remedy. This also reveals his hope for the positive use of pharmakon as resistance against industrialization based on the exploitation of psycho-power, neuro-plastiticty and the capacity to take care of one’s self and of others (Stiegler 2010b).

    Of course, the immediate decarbonization of our economies and a transformation to renewable energy sources should be our first imperative. It could also be the case, as some geologists suggest, that geo-engineering will solve some of the problems that those changes would also address (Steffen et al. 2011). Others propose so-called “third way technologies” for carbon capture to reduce the atmospheric burden of CO2 during the time that is needed for the transition to a carbon-free economy  (Flannery 2016). However, what we are now facing is much more than a geo-chemical problem; and indeed it would be naïve to believe that it is only a geological question. We are facing, rather, what Stiegler calls the “entropocene”: the becoming entropic (in the sense of a world-wide exhaustion and ruination) of the biosphere due to what he calls a generalized toxification of all the systems that make up the human habitat on this planet: economic, social, technical, psychological, financial, juridical, educational, etc. (Stiegler 2017). In his view, those systems are all conditioned by a technical milieu which has been massively annexed and exploited by the capitalist industry to promote an evermore nihilistic process of production and consumption that exclusively serves the goal of profit accumulation. Since the technical milieu also encompasses the Earth’s biosphere, this leads to a massive accumulation of entropy that has reached such a scale so as to profoundly disrupt the geochemical processes of the earth.

    For Stiegler, humanity is an originally technical phenomenon that is made up of three different organ systems: the psychosomatic organs of human individuals; social organizations; and all kinds of technical organs (Stiegler 2014). Those three organ systems are intimately intertwined and evolve on the basis of changes in the technical organs. And these technical organs must be understood as compensations for an original lack of natural properties. Stiegler has developed the latter point with reference to the story that the sophist told in Plato’s Protagoras, in which the fire stolen by Prometheus is a compensation for the fault of Epimetheus, who forgot to give the human being any skill or property. Stiegler is critical of this compensation or what he also calls supplement. By taking up the concept of the pharmakon from Plato’s Phaedrus and Jacques Derrida’s “Plato’s Pharmacy” (Derrida 1981), he developed further what he calls a “pharmacology” of technology (Stiegler 2011). Technics are understood as pharmaka, i.e., both medicine and poison. New technologies, and one can think of the internet as a digital pharmakon, are initially always toxic and that is why they are in need of “therapies” which can turn the poison into a remedy. Politics, law, education, skill-based labor and professions are for Stiegler domains where such therapies can be developed (Stiegler 2013). Since technological innovation has been delegated totally to the market by neoliberalism and turned into a permanently accelerating process of “innovation for profit”, this therapeutic adoption of technology has become almost impossible, leaving only constant, frenetic, and increasingly blind adaptation. And this is for Stiegler the principal process behind the aggravation of the Anthropocene as entropocene.

    An example that may allow readers to imagine how such an entropy is produced is the use of technical organs (e.g. social networks, smart phones, automations, drones, etc.) for marketing and consumerism, which consequently destroy the psycho-somatic organs, since they produce only a drive toward perpetual consumption and no longer cultivate desire and therapeutic investment in skills and objects –– one can think of the addiction to video games or the internet and how they lead to the collapse of established social organizations. That situation systematically diverts attention away from confronting our real situation on this planet. The restructuralization of the economy as exo-somatisation oriented around the digital attention economy, big data and what is called “algorithmic governance” are taking us ever further into the abyss of nihilism. And yet, the internet is potentially also the best instrument at hand for a collective care-taking of the Earth and its inhabitants on a global scale. In Stiegler’s For a New Critique of Political Economy (Stiegler 2010), one of the alternatives put forward is an “economy of contribution”, which proposes to develop technologies which serve the initiation of a new economy of real investment of desire and the fight against the drive-based economy of consumerism. If the drive-based economy ultimately leads to addiction, then the economy of contribution hopes to turn libido into investment. That conversion is fundamentally a question of care: taking care of oneself and others.

    The entropocene marks the inability to construct such an economy of care and of libido. Instead, it leads and will continue to lead to the further spread of entropy. The anthropocene presents a global symptom, which cannot and must not be ignored as if it were simply a geological or a mere economical question. In 2015, the summer school of the Pharmakon academy–the philosophy school Stiegler started in 2010 in Epineuil in France–was dedicated to the “affirmation of a neganthropocene”. The neganthropocene argues for a new form of technological development that allows a so-called “bifurcation” – a radical change of direction in the sense of thermodynamics and seeks to produce qualitative differences for individuals as well as social groups. Recently, Stiegler has started a project with the Plaine Commune of Saint-Denis next to Paris to create what he calls a “truly smart city”, the realization of his philosophy for a new economy.

    *

    Sloterdijk already provided a perceptive and prescient sketch of the global situation of humanity in the epoch of what is now called the Anthropocene in his 1989 treatise Eurotaoismus. Until the dawning of the planetary “limits to growth”, as the famous 1972 report on the discrepancy between global economic expansion and planetary resources issued by the Club of Rome was entitled, the Earth was conceived (and accordingly treated) by a modernizing and industrializing humanity exclusively as the backdrop and unlimited resource fund for its cultural-historical projects. The metaphysical and “antisymbiotic” logic that characterizes the historical drama of mobilization that is modernity is indifferent if not blind to the stage upon which it is enacted. For a humanity that aims to become “master” and possessor of nature, as Descartes’ famous phrase had it, the Earth is reduced to a servant and supplier of material and energetic resources (and it is today still overwhelmingly considered as such by politicians and economists in terms of the “ecosystem services” it provides). It is only when the play starts to ruin the stage, Sloterdijk wrote in Eurotaoismus, that the actors are forced to take another view of both the stage and of themselves. What was once called “nature” and conceived of as an ever reliant, productive, abundant and robust backdrop has been fatally implicated in the maelstrom of human productivism and consumerism – “enframed” by it, as Heidegger would have it – with the destruction of its habitability impending if humanity does not start taking care of it and make it an integral if not central part of its cultural concerns. Referring to a phrase of the late Heidegger, Sloterdijk writes that the Earth can for us no longer be the endlessly patient “building-carrying” one that she was for all of humanity before us. The continued existence of so-called “nature, which we have now uncovered as being just a small and fragile ‘film’ covering a planetary body, can no longer be entrusted to her own autarky (since she has been scientifically exposed and technologically exploited), but will become dependent on us humans” (Sloterdijk 1989). That realization also means the definitive end of any peace of mind in the cosmos, on which all human cultures until now have rested (Davis and Turpin 2015).

    In the apocalyptic last chapter of his 2009 book You Must Change Your Life, Sloterdijk claims that the awareness of the fact that we cannot continue our current care-less lifestyles any longer but need to “change our lives” and start “taking care of the whole” is nowadays almost universally shared, forming the quintessence even of today’s Zeitgeist. Arguing that the global crisis shares many characteristics with the ancient God of monotheism, he speculates that this crisis will inevitably initiate, and will have to initiate, nothing less than a global immunological turn, i.e., a revolutionary transformation in the way humans construct and organize their immuno-spheric residence on the planet: “a new world-forming gesture” in terms of a new global project of sphere-construction, understood first of all as a transformation from local to global immunization strategies, from local protectionisms to a “protectionism of the whole” (Sloterdijk 2014a). This will require a “social tipping point” in the awareness, willingness and ability to act collectively as Earthlings.

    A viable future for humanity on this planet can therefore only be conceived for Sloterdijk on the basis of constructing a “global co-immunity structure” or a “global immune-design”, infused by a spirit of “co-immunism”, based on the awareness of a shared ecological and immunological situation and the realization that this new situation, which is actually that of the Anthropocene, cannot be dealt with on the basis of the existing local techno-cultural resources only but needs a planet-wide “logic of cooperation” (Sloterdijk 2014a). The technological reversion suggested by Sloterdijk is one that he calls a homeotechnological turn, i.e., a turn from the traditional, largely contra-natural, dominating, Earth-ignoring and Earth-ignorant allotechnological paradigm to a co-natural, non-dominating and Earth-caring homeotechnological paradigm. That also means the reconstruction of the global technosphere from a machine of exploitation and violation of the planetary oikos to an engine that co-operates and co-produces with the Earth’s bio- and atmosphere, an idea that resonates much with Stiegler negentropic turn (Sloterdijk 2015). Like Stiegler, who sometimes tends to identify the anthropocene with Heidegger’s Gestell, i.e., re-interpreted as the Ereignis of the Industrial Revolution as the deployment of the thermodynamic machine (the entropic character of which was not perceived by Heidegger, anymore than he took account of the notion of entropy in his thinking of the physis), Sloterdijk also thinks of the homeotechnological revolution as a benign turn of the Gestell towards a global-ecological “housing” project (Gehäuse) (Sloterdijk 2001).

    In a lecture given at the climate conference in Kopenhagen in December 2009, Sloterdijk suggests that a homeotechnological conversion of the human noosphere and technosphere around the Earth, and thus of the institution of a co-operative and co-productive relation of both anthropospheres with the biosphere, might eventually lead to the explication or unconcealing – here meant in the quasi-Heideggerian sense of the term – of a “hybrid-Earth” that is capable of much more than we can now imagine from our still allotechnologically programmed perspective, i.e., a homeotechnologized Earth whose capacities might very well be multiplied to an unimaginable extent (Sloterdijk 2015).

    Applying Spinoza’s famous dictum (from his Ethica) that “Nobody knows what a body can do” to the body of the Earth, Sloterdijk makes the wager that a homeotechnological turn of our immuno-spheropoietic being-on-the-planet forms our best and most hopeful answer to the challenge of the anthropocene, thereby referring to the bold ideas of the famous American architect Richard Buckminster Fuller, whose notion of Spaceship Earth as expounded in his 1968 book Operation Manual for Spaceship Earth has had a decisive influence on Sloterdijk’s sphero-immunological perception of the global ecological crisis and the anthropocene (Sloterdijk 2015, 108-9).

    As Sloterdijk already emphasizes in the final section of his 1993 book Weltfremdheit, such a global co-immunization project could very well prove to be a challenge that is too big for the anthropos, that is to say: as it currently exists (Sloterdijk 1993). Yet if there is one over-arching insight that runs through all of Sloterdijk’s onto-anthropological reflections, it is that humans are those beings that are always confronted with problems that are far too big for them but that they nevertheless cannot avoid dealing with. This structural burdening with what the tragic Greeks called ta megala, the “big things”, which puts human beings under permanent “growth stress” and/or “format stress” – today unfolding as “planetarization stress” (Sloterdijk 1995) – is what anthropogenesis as hominization and coming-into-the-world through sphero-poietic expansion is all about. And philosophy’s inaugural task is to be the birth-helper of this process of uncanny coming-into-the world (Sloterdijk 1993).

    If the human matures by increasing his awareness and responsibility through confrontations with the “big things”, the anthropocenic challenge of creating a global, i.e., planetary co-immunity structure will probably make clear for the very first time, and to all those involved, what “growing up” in its most general sense truly means for humanity (Sloterdijk 1993). Although the anthropos charged with responsibility is still “below the age of maturity” today (Sloterdijk 2015), the challenge of the anthropocene forces him, and provides him with the chance, to assume and acquire the proper maturity.

    Although he never gets very specific about the details, Sloterdijk claims that the anthropocene in this sense requires an entirely new, still to be invented mode of “big politics”, one that he designated as “hyperpolitics” in a book entitled Im selben Boot. Versuch über die Hyperpolitik (In the same boat. An Essay on Hyperpolitics) from 1995 that is, like many other books from that period, a preliminary sketch for the Spheres project (Sloterdijk 195). After the “paleopolitics” as the “miracle of the repetition of humans by humans” characteristic of pre-sedentary, pre-agricultural societies, and the “classic politics” of agriculture-based cities and nation-states as the perpetuation of that miracle in larger formats, today’s expansion of humans’ spheropoiesis toward the global, forcing them to live together in even larger formats, calls for a hyperpolitics, i.e., a global “state-athletics” for which there are no traditional examples at hand and for which the existing modes of “national-egoism” politics in fact only act as blockades. As in 1995, we can still observe a huge disproportion between the forces that are necessary and the weaknesses that are available and it seems still all too obvious that “creating jobs on the Titanic” continues to represent the pinnacle of current political intelligence (although piling up debts to continue unbridled consumption is today’s preferred policy). And Sloterdijk’s spot-on remark after the failed Copenhagen climate summit of 2009, that citizens all over the globe should safeguard themselves from their own governments, seems still all too valid after the 2015 Paris summit.

    The Herculean, currently impossible task for a coming hyperpolitics is to transform today’s “monster-international of end-users” or the hypermass of “last men with no return” into a global solidarity collective that takes care again of itself and the world and understands itself as a link between its ancestors and its offspring and not egoistically as the exclusive end-user of itself and its own life chances, an important theme Sloterdijk extensively elaborated upon in his 2014 book Die schrecklichen Kinder der Neuzeit. Über das anti-genealogische Experiment der Moderne (The Terrible Children of Modernity. On the Anti-Genealogical Experiment of the Modern Age; Sloterdijk 2014b). As such, hyperpolitics is the first politics of last men and should be understood as the continuation of paleopolitics with other means and on a global scale.

    Since human spheropoiesis has gone global and pretends to encompass the entire biosphere, the situation of humanity vis-à-vis the planet has reversed, as Swedish earth system scientist Johan Rockström proclaims, from a “small world, big planet” situation into a “big world, small planet” one (Rockström and Klum 2015). To preserve what he calls a “safe operating space for humanity” within the planetary boundaries, he argues that we are in need of a global governance of the earth system in order to reconnect human techno-cultural systems with the biosphere in a co-constructive fashion. There exists already a “Global Earth Observation System of Systems” (GEOSS), which tracks many key planetary boundary processes. Intelligent and democratic use of such a system might indeed usher in a “good anthropocene” beneficial to all inhabitants of the earth system. It could be one of the supports of the global immune system that is necessary for our collective survival as Sloterdijk claims. Yet it is also important to make sure that life in the anthropocene is not just about sur-vival. It should also be a “good life”, a “life worth living” in Stiegler’s expression.

    But how can Sloterdijk’s polyspherology, which takes the visual image of bubbles, be prevented from becoming the soil for fascism? The current refugee problem seems to be the touchstone of the foam theory. In an interview with the German magazine Cicero early this year, Sloterdijk claims that “we haven’t learned the praise of border”, and “The Europeans will sooner or later develop an efficient common border policy. In the long run the territorial imperative prevails. Finally, there is no moral obligation to self-destruction” (Sloterdijk 2016b). For sure, borders define the interiority and exteriority of bubbles, and hence realize such polycosmology; however, they thereby also blur the line between fascism and co-existence. In what sense can we interpret further the concept of co-existence, which recently has appeared in many other works dealing with the anthropocene and ecological crisis? Co-existence implies first of all communication and coalition – a positive concept of immune system under the current pharmacological condition, which stands as the opposite of the Brexit. We will come back to the politics of co-existence later when we address the concept of the “internation” as an alternative political imaginary.

    Dealing With the Apocalypse. A New Kind of Politics for the Anthropocene

    Let us try to conclude by restating the classic question “what is to be done”? Recently, there has been a lot of discussion about the question of scale and the Anthropocene is a scale problem of the highest order. The well-known American writer Evgeny Morozov has stated in almost all of his recent speeches that there is in fact NO alternative to the current neoliberal model of Silicon Valley – you are “free to use and free to give your data”, because the “Silicon Valley ideology” is so powerful that no individual effort will ever be able to challenge it–only the intervention of a body like the European Union could have a substantial effect. However, he does not see this will happen. On the other hand, British accelerationists like Nick Srnicek and Alex Williams have argued that after Occupy Wallstreet, the resistances or “micropolitics” that continue to spring up everywhere (such as urban gardening or dumpster diving) are not able to “scale up” to really challenge capitalism (Srnicek and Williams 2013). They criticize the individualist moral of the anarchist as a self-limitation as revolutionary force, and therefore fall prey to the appropriation of capitalism (Srnicek and Williams 2016: 29-37). This leaves us in a situation of helplessness, and micropolitics becomes self-consolation par excellence. The authors proposed what they call accelerationist politics inspired by the cybersyn project in the socialist Chili of the early Seventies, namely a socialist appropriation of technology in order to construct what they called a “post-work” economy, which includes 1) full automation, 2) reduction of working week, 3) universal basic income and 4) diminishment of the work ethic (2016: 127). Except for the last point, which is very close to the anarchists, their vision can be superimposed on the agenda of the Chinese Communist Party, which is unfortunately built upon a rather simple if not naïve understanding of technology.

    First of all, it still remains to be debated if previous forms of resistance are futile, especially when such claims are no more than pure intellectual activities. Indeed such claims seem like a revival of cynicism for intellectuals to stay in front of the computer and renounce direct actions on the street; and sometimes it seems even grotesque when some respond to such “impasse” by “fully appropriating” Facebook or Google, as if “high technology” has necessarily led to the illusionary “post-capitalism” in the sense of Paul Mason (Mason 2016). A more critical attitude towards the technological acceleration should be taken, which goes beyond the opposition between optimism and pessimism. Both proposals for the neguentropocene and co-immunization should be taken further as concrete political acts. There, realization can only be achieved by going back to the question of the local. Locality is central for both Stiegler and Sloterdijk in terms of resistance against global capitalism, and locality can only be archived through personal contacts and concrete projects, that seem further and further from the grand intellectual revolutionary plots. We don’t pretend to know what is to be done. However, for effectively confronting the Anthropocene, and responding to it in a systematic and scalable way, we would like to propose two points concerning the role of the state and the form of resistance.

    If states want to avoid being liquidated by the neoliberal economy, they will have to assume responsibility. We all know that nation-states had no problem whatsoever with intervening after the financial crisis of 2008 when the European banks ran into trouble. It was a moment when European governments undeniably showed that they are still capable of doing things on a global scale – though in the wrong way – in stark contrast to Hardt and Negri’s thesis of the power of Empire and the withering-away of nation-states (Hardt and Negri 2000). It seems that the nation-state should be obliged to take the problem of Anthropocene seriously and act upon it – not just by “going green”, but also by seriously addressing what Stiegler diagnoses as the entropic becoming of our world. However, it is also undeniably true that national governments have become pawns in the hands of global oligarchies and that national sovereignty is de facto eliminated and replaced by the dictates of the financial markets, with the recent fate of Greece being the most pitiable example. How much hope can we still bestow to our governments? And indeed one should be skeptical about them; however at the moment, they are the only institutions besides of transnational enterprises, which can effectively mobilize resources for large-scale projects.

    The anti-globalization movement in the late 20th century and first decade of the new millennium has made popular the multitude, yet the silence of the anti-globalization movement in recent years means that the form of micropolitics or artistic gesture proposed by it is no longer effective for dealing with the Anthropocene. By the same token, we already know about the failure of the “third sector” of NGOs, which since the anti-globalization movement haven’t cast any new light on the future. We also know that the post-World War II institution of the United Nations, despite its innumerable programs, doesn’t have any real executive power. Surely one can imagine, as many have done, that in order to form a federal body more powerful than the United Nations, a third world war would have to break out – and if the Anthropocenic situation worsens, such a scenario is not at all unrealistic.

    By way of conclusion, we want to gesture toward the possibility of establishing an “internation”, a concept developed by Marcel Mauss in 1920 and recently taken up by Stiegler to propose the constitution of a new form of public power that might be able to defy the forces of capital and guide humanity into another future than the barbaric and intolerable “no future” prescribed by neoliberalism’s TINA (“There is no alternative”) mantra (Stiegler 2015b). Mauss pronounced the article “Nation et internationalisme” in the colloquium “The Problem of Nationality” organized by the Aristotelian Society in London, in which he expressed the urgency that philosophers take an avant-garde approach to the question of nation and internation (Mauss 1920). The increasing economic interdependence after the first world war becomes a “défaut”, based on which Mauss proposed also a “moral interdependence” of mutual-aid as well as the reduction in sovereignty to reduce war. Stiegler took up Mauss’s notion of the internation recently in States of shock (2015b) and interpreted it through the lens of Simondon’s concept of individuation.

    Bernard Stiegler. Courtesy of Alchetron

    A nation for Stiegler is a project of “collective individuation” through the establishment of a res publica. Internation is a project that takes this process further in order to re-institutionalize the production and dissemination of knowledge in order to re-create the circuits of transindividuation in the sciences that are now dominated by the marketisation and commercialization of knowledge. Stiegler imagines this internation first of all as a project for academics and scholars more generally all over the world (what he calls “interscience”) to unite in resolutely refusing their recruitment in the global economic world war unleashed by neoliberalism and instead sign a global peace treaty, backed up by a new legislative body (Stiegler 2015b).

    This should start the re-forging of the digital networks into tools for cooperation and care, and for the elevation of collective intelligence. De facto, this internation already exists (and has existed for a long time) in the form of collaborations among research institutes, schools and universities worldwide. However, the research funding strategies in the past decades in Europe (if not worldwide) have rigidified these collaborations and turned them into zombie-like dogmas. Political visions of researchers are always submitted to the hidden agenda of the market and commercial value (what is called the “valorization agenda”). There is no lack of awareness of this among academics but at the moment there is no effective strategy to act against the market hegemony. The formation of an internation could foster such a strategy. Yet it will have to become explicitly politicized in order to function as a catalyst for the construction of new forms of global socialization and cooperation that could usher in the neganthropocene and bring about a large-scale homeotechnological revolution in the sense of Sloterdijk. The only alternative would be to surrender to the brutal dictates of a consumerist capitalist innovation that will only produce more entropy, impotence and stupidity. In the words of Stiegler, we need to mobilize internation against disindividuation.

    The creation of an internation has a meaning for our epoch, and indeed there is an urgency to do so, in view of the destructive nature of the anthropocene and the entropic becoming of the technological world. It is for sure not only the responsibility of intellectuals and universities, and it is for sure that a larger scale of association with sectors and groups outside of university is necessary, but it is also important to reflect on these at the level of locality and localization, according to different orders of magnitude. To pass into act is only a question of perception and action but also, and probably even more profoundly, a process of psychic and collective individuation, which doesn’t come naturally. It takes courage to create such a condition and such a quantum leap. Retrospectively, Mauss’ remark on intellectual courage can therefore still serve as a Mahnruf to contemporary intellectuals:

    Why didn’t the philosophers take an avant-garde position on this? They understood it well as it is about founding the doctrine of democracy and nationalities. British and French were ahead of their time, and one shouldn’t forget Kant, Fichte. Why did they choose to stay at the back, and serve the vested interest? (Mauss 1920)

    We would finally like to ask here, most likely in deviation from Stiegler’s own intentions, whether it would be possible to conceive of such an internation as an enabling strategy for what Antonio Negri and Judith Revel have called “the invention of the common” (Negri and Revel 2008), i.e. as an intermediate step toward the establishment of a “global commons” of knowledge and capabilities and ultimately a common global authority not only beyond the private but also beyond the public. This return to Negri does not mean that we are proposing to undermine the role of the state, which we have invoked earlier. On the contrary, if the global economy in the past decades has been running on the principle of privatization and marketization, as Slavoj Žižek has rightly argued (Žižek 2009), and if the recent triumph of Donald Trump as well as the Brexit signal a return to a conservative revolution founded on the strengthening of sovereignty and border control, “communization” will be a counter process against the struggling self-preservation of capitalism. In that case, the economy of the commons inscribed in the project of internation could become a vehicle for the creation of a truly global co-immunity structure, and a truly global engine of neguanthropy. But for this to be possible, there should first be a re-orientation of strategies in teaching, research and funding within universities.

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    [1] See Barnosky et al. 2012.

    [2] The event took place in Paris just before the COP 21 in November 2015 and was organized by Philippe Descola and Catherine Larrère.