Rineke Dijkstra. The encounter between the photographer, the sitters and the viewer in the Beach Portrait Series.

The role of photography in the construction of identity.

An encounter between observing and being observed; detailed colored large-scaled depictions of young persons; the contemplative look of a subject. These are some of the key elements that we find in Dijkstra’s portraits, predominantly in the Beach Portraits series.  

The photographer Rineke Dijkstra born in 1959 in Sittard, the Netherlands, became involved with editorial photography after finishing her studies at the Rietveld Acadamie in Amsterdam. However, various circumstances distanced Dijkstra from editorial photography, and she changed the course of her photographic work. Her self-portrait, taken on June 19th of 1991, announced the beginning of a new exploration of photography and outlined the development of the Beach Portraits series.

Dijkstra’s interests have led her to work almost exclusively with young people. In her photographic projects and her videos, we find kids, teenagers, young mothers, young soldiers, and young adults. Rineke Dijkstra’s photography combines a unique focus on people experiencing a moment of transition with a carefully rendered technical procedure. 

“They are adolescents and young adults, young mothers, young soldiers, young toreros. They are at an age in which character traits are gradually beginning to form, in which there are already suggestions of distinctive attributes, but in which the features still make a very bland impression, almost like polished marble. Signs of time and of a personal history are barely visible.”

Dijkstra works with an analog 4×5 inch camera, which allows her to capture finely detailed images emphasizing the composition and the expression. Because the large format camera has no mirrors, the image appears 180° rotated. For that reason, the photographer establishes an interplay between composing the image through the viewfinder and looking at the sitters directly in the eyes to examine their facial expressions. Only then, she takes the picture. 

“The interesting thing about this working method is that Dijkstra does not immediately see the final image, unlike a photographer with a digital camera. […] The actual, final image remains elusive, almost Platonic, until the development stage, when the finished photos contain an element of surprise for Dijkstra herself.”

Rineke Dijkstra composes portraits that encourage a contemplative approach. The way she constructs her photographs enhances the detailed observation of the subject; by extension, she pursues the interaction between the spectator/camera/model and the photographer.  

On several occasions, Dijkstra has explained how she usually chooses the subjects and approaches the people for her portraits. A decisive requisite for finding the subjects of her pictures is that the photographer identifies herself in a certain way with the person. 

First, the selection of the persons to photograph and later, the relationship between photographer/model turns into something noteworthy. The models of Dijkstra’s portraits receive minimal instructions from the photographer, which means that they are who decide how to present themselves in front of the camera.  

While Dijkstra is preparing the camera, an interesting interaction takes place. The model is waiting and finding the way to pose and the expression to be conveyed and thus becoming aware of being photographed. 

Rineke Dijkstra composes simplified images where the subject is centered in the frame, and elements like background, lighting, and focus work towards emphasizing the portrayed person. In other words, the photographer takes the models out of their location; to some extent, she removes the subjects from their specific surroundings or context and presents them in front of neutral backgrounds. 

Rineke Dijkstra works with large or small series of portraits. Some of her projects  document a person along a certain period of time as for instance, in the series Almerisa or Olivier. Each of these series consists of several portraits of the same person with a similar, nearly identical composition on each image that allows the viewer to concentrate on the subject and how the course of time is reflected in their depiction.

In contrast, there are other groups of series that deal with distinct topics and portray different persons in the same series, such as Beach Portraits, Tiergarten, or New Mothers. Despite the fact that some pictures are captured outdoors like in the series Tiergarten or in closed, intimate spaces like in the series New Mothers or Almerisa, the use of light in all of Dijkstra’s series plays a decisive role in achieving images rich in color nuances; it could even be argued that these images have painterly features. The use of light in Dijkstra’s portraits has the characteristic of being evenly distributed and diffuse. The photographer herself has expressed the importance of the particular use of lighting in her pictures. Dijkstra explains that she manipulates the light in her photographs, aiming to obtain a “natural” light.

“[…] Of course I manipulate the light. But before I say more about that, I think I’d like to clear up a misunderstanding, which is that a photo is a reliable representation of reality. And I´m not talking about the difference between two and three dimensions, but simply about the difference between what your eye can see and what a camera lens or film can capture. Photos are so accurate, so detailed, that we´re inclined to think that they show us the “real world”. And yet, in reality our eyes see infinitely more than a photo could ever feature. […] Shadows, for example, are more likely to get blocked up on film, whereas highlights are blown out a lot more. That deviation is the main reason why I manipulate things: I want my photos to make you feel that you’re seeing reality the way an eye sees reality. […].”

With the intention to emulate how the eyes see reality, Dijkstra manipulates the light of her images and achieve portrayals that show the subject or subjects over a simple/unadorned, neutral background.

There are nearly no shadows in her portraits. The apparent simplification of the composition and isolation of the subject leads to a contemplative observation; thus, the little details are more noticeable. Dijkstra’s pictures are usually printed and reproduced in large formats; therefore, the viewer can carefully observe each detail of the body, the face, and the expression of the portrayed person.

The Beach Portraits

The Beach Portraits (1992-2002) is the first project produced by Rineke Dijkstra as an autonomous photographer. 

The idea for this series began with a portrait that she took of herself in the year 1991. In 1990, after having a severe bicycle accident, swimming was part of Dijkstra’s rehabilitation program training. In the self-portrait entitled Self Portrait, Marnixbad, Amsterdam, Netherlands, June 19, 1991 (Fig.1), Rineke Dijkstra presents herself looking exhausted from swimming. In the picture, she is portrayed as she has recently jumped out of the pool. The white-yellowish ceramic tiles surround her and compose the environment of the picture. Dijkstra exposes her emotional/physical state directly to the camera. This picture was the groundwork for the development of the Beach Portraits series. 

Beach Portraits is comprised by 18 pictures photographed between 1992 and 2002. For this project, Dijkstra worked with a 4 x 5-inch large format camera with a fill-in flash; both camera and flash were placed on a tripod in order to limit the shadows and contrasts.

Dijkstra’s Beach seriesis made up mostly by individual portraits and, less frequently, group portraits of young people. The series portrays kids and teenagers wearing swimsuits standing on a beach in front of the sea. Rineke Dijkstra took the photographs in various places, such as the United States, Poland, England, Croatia, Ukraine (a.o.). The captions of each depiction document the place, the country, and the date when the photo was taken.

Every picture of Beach Portraits is composed as a long shot frame, capturing the subject from head to toes with only a part of the background visible behind. The photographs have the same arrangement of elements; namely, the model is placed frontal and centered in the frame with the beach as the background; this composition draws the attention to the subject, which is rendered in detail.

The background is reduced to parallel lines showing horizontal patterns of sky, sea, sand, and shells or pebbles. The isolated figure centered in the image builds a strong vertical line, which creates a cross-lines composition and brings balance to the elements in the depiction. 

The figures are captured from a low camera angle, thus, while observing the figures, the gaze is slightly directed upwards. The similar, nearly identical backgrounds, rendered in soft focus, emphasize the subject’s presence, and lead the attention to their figure or figures. The large-format depictions enable the exhaustive observation of the skin, hands, hair, clothing, and gestures. In this way, the viewer can contemplate the portrayed persons, get remarkably close (probably even a little closer than an everyday real-life encounter), and scrutinize them.

The way Dijkstra portrays these young persons seems to capture and reveal decisive moments of the sitters, a certain state of unease, a subtle gesture, elusive indecision in their standing, a moment between a pose and a natural state. In this light, it is significant to contemplate that despite the balanced, symmetric composition of the images, what is transmitted through the way the models pose evoke a certain awkwardness and imbalance.

“The austere compositions, almost identical camera placement, the sobriety of the background: these are elements which in a classical manner focus all attention on the person or persons. In their effect they also suggest balance, tranquility and harmony. But the poses inject restlessness; they are somewhat ill at ease, awkward, unfinished and therefore point to a susceptibility; they introduce doubt and uncertainty at a buried level.”  

The images of the series provide (visually speaking) just a little information about the environment or the specific place where the shot was taken. Dijkstra seems to erase and avoid all the details that could distract the viewer from the contemplative observation of the person. That means she aims for another kind of interaction between viewer and image, more like recognizing emotions, the imbalance, the process of change, and the sense of being observed. 

Beach Portraits inquiries about the self-presentation, the construction of identity, and how the portrayed personas manage the confrontation with the camera. A confrontation that makes them aware of being observed, of being photographed. 

“[…] I don’t want a pose in which people comply with a certain image they try to control and that reveals only the intention of how they want to be perceived. What they have naturally is far more interesting to me. I want them to concentrate on being photographed, but I wait for a moment in which they display a certain introversion. […]There has to be a tension in their posture or a gesture that distinguishes them from other people. I don’t look for it in big gestures but in small details.” 

It is the whole conjunction of the technical procedures, the chosen environment for the picture, the interaction between sitter, camera, photographer, and the formal arrangement that at the end make the portrayed persons display more of their individualy natural/awkward/ -authentic- self. 

The fact that Dijkstra has chosen children and young adolescents for her pictures is crucial because all of them are in a complex process of transition and questioning. Their identity is in the process of construction. In this respect, it can only be falsely claimed that grown-ups already have a static identity, but the process of changing that teenagers go through in their turning into adults is evidently visible, like in these portraits. Taking these ideas into account, one might wonder, isn’t identity a non-ending process of every human being?

It can be argued that Dijkstra’s decision to choose only young people for the pictures lies in the fact that, unlike grown-ups, children and teenagers are openly in the process of creating a specific image of themselves to show to the world. The poses, the gestures, the gaze of the portrayed allow perceiving a certain fragility in them. These young people are searching to compose their images in front of the camera, but their awkwardness and the frontal confrontation with it produce a tension. This tension is enhanced by the formal elements of the composition, the technical procedure, and the format of the reproductions.

The first portrait that I would like to take a closer look at was captured in the United States in the year 1992: Hilton Head Island, S.C., USA, June 24, 1992. (Fig. 2)

In the picture, we find the full-body portrait of a girl at the Hilton Head Island beach. In the background, the horizon line divides the depiction into two horizontal fragments. The upper section is the largest and presents a monochrome blue sky. In the lower section of the image, we can observe the sea and sand depicted with bluish-earth tones. Centered in the foreground, stands the figure of a girl in a full-length view as the central motif of the picture. The girl is depicted in a frontal pose, directly facing the camera; she is in focus, and her figure builds a vertical line in the composition that fills a large part of the frame. 

The portrait is captured from a lower vantage point, as aforementioned, Dijkstra applies this technique, which gives the model a certain monumentalized appearance. The portrayed girl has long blond hair; she is wearing make-up, jewelry, and a shiny orange bikini. She has her left hand slightly but also awkwardly placed on her thigh while with her right hand she holds her hair from the wind. Although she is facing the camera, the lower part of her body seems to be almost giving a step backward. The footprints on the sand suggest that she was trying different poses for the picture. The lighting conditions in the image are diffuse and create a blueish atmosphere in the whole portrayal. The atmosphere achieved by the lighting contrasts with the orange color of the bikini, producing a warm/cool color harmony. Dijkstra uses auxiliary light, even for the day and outdoors shots. The flashlight exposes the figure from the front, which is perceptible above all in the reflections of her skin. The employment of a flashlight in addition to the natural sunlight outlines the contours of the girl’s body. There is a certain unease in the girl’s facial expression as well as in her stance. The position of her feet, legs, arms, and hands denotes her intention to pose like a magazine model, but her body posture gives away her nervousness. 

“[…] Hilton Head Island, S.C., USA, June 24, 1992, features a girl who, despite Dijkstra’s request that she not wear makeup or jewelry to the session had taken great pains to compose herself as though she were posing for a magazine or advertisement.”

In this portrait, the interplay between the desire for an idealized perfect image and self-doubt is striking, and it is certainly what makes this picture so interesting. 

The following picture to be observed is Kolobrzeg, Poland, July 26, 1992.It was captured on a beach in Poland in 1992.(Fig. 3)

Centered and filling a big part of the frame, we find a full-length depiction of a young girl at the beach in this photo. She faces the camera and stands with her green swimsuit on a narrow strip of dry sand. Like a backdrop behind her back, the sky, sea, and sand are reduced to blurry parallel strips. The texture is formed by the clouds in the sky, the little waves, the sea-foam, and the contrast between the smooth wet sand and the irregular dry one. The chromatic of the picture presents a combination of warm earth tones and cooler bluish tones. The chromatic is strikingly accomplished in this and all the pictures of this series; the nuances and the relation between the colors have similar features to painting. 

“Rineke Dijkstra herself never says that she has been influenced by painting, and yet her work is often eminently painterly as regards her way of handling colour: the way in which she places her colours, their relationship to one another, the way in which one colour is taken up by another or contrasted by a third.”

Only the girl and the thin strip of sand where she stands are focused by the lens. Thus, the focus and the atmosphere, texture, and chromatic of the background make the subject stand out in the depiction. The girl is wearing a light green swimsuit, her head is slightly tilted to a side, and some strands of her hair flow gracefully with the wind. Like the girl with the orange bikini on Hilton Head Island, the girl in this portrait also has her hand resting on her thigh. Because of the position of her hips and legs, her body posture looks graceful and balanced like a contrapposto.  The girl is gazing directly into the camera with a shy but gentle facial expression. The fact that her posture is similar to a contrapposto evokes elegance and harmony. However, it is her shy look that predominates in the depiction.

Comparing both observed pictures, we can see that despite the resemblances in the composition and in the sitters, the difference in how they present themselves is remarkable. Both girls look timid and insecure. This is visible in their body posture as well as in their gestures. However, the way that the girl at Hilton Head Island tries to compose her own image through her make-up, her hairstyle, her jewelry, and her posture is contrasting with the way a girl of her same age in the other part of the world presents herself in front of the camera. Looking back to where both girls live, and the years when both pictures were taken, it can be argued that the difference between the self-presentation of both girls is due to the media influence. Consider for example the socio-political context of both images, namely, the fall of the Berlin wall just three years before these portraits were taken. The way both girls relate to their self-image within this broader context could be indicative of how influential the media is for the self-image building. It is clear that the girl in the USA aims to look like the idealized women she probably watched in magazines. In contrast, the girl in Poland looks shy and insecure but seems not to have such a solid mediatic influence and an idealized image from the media to follow.

The screen, the gaze, and the pose

In order to approach the role that photography has in showing the construction of identity I will employ three concepts developed by Kaja Silverman, namely, the concept of gaze, screen, and pose, which reveal the relational structures involved in the self-image building process.

In the book The threshold of the visible world (2006), Silverman considers a concept developed by Lacan, namely the mirror stage. “In his account for the mirror stage, Lacan paradoxically insists on both the “otherness” and the “sameness” of the image within which the child first finds its “self”. On the one hand, the mirror stage represents a méconnaisance, because the subject identifies with what he or she is not. On the other hand, what he or she sees when looking into the mirror is literally his or her own image.  Following Lacan, Silverman understand the construction of one’s self as the recognition of oneself in an alienated reflected image and thus as the intersection between the act of seeing and being seen. By linking this understanding to analysis of visual representations she then goes on to develop the concepts of gaze, screen, and pose, which will serve as interpretative tools for my analysis of Dijkstra’s work 

To continue, it is key to briefly clarify the concepts used by Kaja Silverman in The threshold of the visible world (2006).

The screen: In this paper, we will refer to the screen with the definition Silverman provides based fundamentally on Lacan, understanding the screen as a repertoire of representations, a sort of filter, which determines how we see and how others perceive us.

“The screen represents the site at which the gaze is defined for a particular society, and is consequently responsible both for the way in which the inhabitants of that society experience the gaze’s effects, and for much of the seeming particularity of that society’s visual regime.”

The gaze is understood as observing others through this filter, namely through the screen. In this sense, the camera could be a metaphor for the gaze or take its place.

“Not only does the camera work to define the contemporary gaze in certain decisive ways, but the camera derives most of its psychic significance through its alignment with the gaze. When we feel the social gaze focused upon us, we feel photographically “framed.” However, the converse is also true: when a real camera is trained upon us, we feel ourselves subjectively constituted, as if the resulting photograph could somehow determine “who” we are.”

The pose is understood as the act of constituting oneself into an image. “The pose also includes within itself the category of “costume,” since it is “worn” or “assumed” by the body.”

Dijkstra’s Beach Portraits merge around the encounter between the photographer, the picture, and the viewer. Therefore, a particular interplay of observing and being observed is encouraged in this project by the photographer. Furthermore, the concepts of gaze, screen, and pose will be considered as a premise to observe the interaction between the photographer, the portrayed, and the spectator in Dijkstra’s Beach series. As explained by Rineke Dijkstra, when she gazes at her sitters, she finds something from her in them. Thus, she identifies with every model she chooses for her portraits.  However, as Silverman points out, the path between the gaze and the observed subject/object always crosses through the screen. On that account, our apprehension of the world is always mediated by the screen, which is culturally influenced. It is essential to clarify that the gaze is not the unidirectional act of looking, but it instead relates to our apprehension of the world, which is therefore always mediated by representation.  Considering that the gaze pierces through the cultural repertoire of representations (screen), it leads us to contemplate the notion of idealization or, more specifically, the cultural idealization. In The Threshold of the Visible World, Silverman insists that we all are constantly pursuing the notion of ideal, or as she calls it, the “ever-failing identification with ideality.” Thus, it is significant to reiterate that every society has its representation of “the ideal.” According to Silverman, the notion of the idealization and the idealizing self-images necessarily entails a culturally as well as a physically “deidealization” of the group of subjects who not belong to the “idealized one.”

In the mirror stage, the kids conceive and later identify themselves with the reflected image. This is the starting point of the perception of themselves. Something relatively similar happens with the gaze. While observing, we conceive the “otherness” and the “sameness,” so we can identify with both at a time, and this identification is part of the constitution of ourselves. “The gaze is the “unapprehensible” agency through which we are socially ratified or negated as spectacle. It is Lacan’s way of stressing that we depend upon the other not only for our meaning and our desires, but also for our very confirmation of self. To “be” is in effect to “be seen.” Once again, a third term mediates between the two ends of the diagram, indicating that subject is never “photographed” as “himself or “herself?” but always in the shape of what is now designated the “screen”.”

Considering these ideas from the spectator’s standpoint, it is presumed that when the viewer beholds Rineke Dijkstra’s Beach Portraits, the person is in some way assuming the place of the photographer and, in a certain way, the place of the camera. The spectator sees a representation of the model; nevertheless, the viewer can relate and identify him- or herself with the image, namely with the subject. The connection between the spectator and the image is established again through the gaze, and consequently through the screen as well. This means that the moment the spectators observe the Beach Portraits, they relate to the models through their cultural repertoire. We as spectators recognize the awkwardness, the transition process in Dijkstra’s Beach Portraits, and we can mirror ourselves in the images. First, we conceive them through our repertoire of cultural representations. We seek the ideal image like we are used to for example watching advertising portraits. However, observing these pictures, we identify the state of unease of the portrayed; we comprehend they do not represent the idealized image.

Although the models are not entirely representing this idealized image, they are depicted as such; on large formats prints, with harmonious backgrounds, from a lower camera vantage point (like when we see a statue), idealizing them.  But it is by means of the -deidealization- that the interaction between spectator-image-photographer succeeds. The spectators can relate to the state of transition they see in Dijkstra’s subjects through “the attempt to sustain one’s ever-failing identification with ideality” and the never-ending process of the identity’s construction. 

This dynamic depicted by the interaction between the photographer and the sitter, and the spectator and the image/sitter, can be further observed in the interaction between the sitter/image and the camera/gaze, guided by Silverman’s concept of pose

As mentioned previously, Dijkstra’s sitters are confronted directly with the camera; their gaze is directed to the lens, and at this moment, they try to compose their self-image through a pose. As explained by Silverman, “through the pose the subject gives him or herself to be apprehended in a particular way by the real or metaphoric camera.” In all the images of Beach Portraits, the transitional state and the tension are visible in the body postures. Many of the models are standing with contained postures that evoke insecurity and awkwardness. Like their emotions were translated into their bodies. They seem to make an effort to look calm and confident but are given away by their stance. According to Silverman, the pose can be understood as a costume or something that is worn or assumed by the body in order to be seen in a certain way.

“The moment the models pose in front of the camera, they are already composing themselves like an image like a representation to be apprehended by the cultural gaze, therefore to be photographed, to be seen. they assume a pose that displays their desire to be perceived in a particular way and this pose “may testify to a blind aspiration to approximate an image which represents a cultural ideal, without any thought as to what that ideal implies.”

Through these observations, we can conceive the importance of images and photography in the construction of identity. People, like the models in Beach Portraits, seem to feel the urge to compose their ideal self-image for the camera. This could explain the power of images and representations in our society, and how to be photographically captured signifies to be observed, therefore being constituted by this gaze.

“Lacan sharply differentiates the gaze from the subject’s look, conferring visual authority not on the look but on the gaze. He, thereby suggests that what is determinative for each of us is not how we see or would like to see ourselves, but how we are perceived by the cultural gaze.”  

In Beach Portraits, the self-presentation plays a significant role. The awkwardness and the state of transition of the subjects are evident and contrast with the balanced and harmonious composition of the series. 

As discussed in the Beach Portraits, the articulation from the formal and technical characteristics and the interaction between the photographer, the camera, the model, and the spectator are essential features in Dijkstra’s works, through which she composes images that incite a thoughtful observation. It is this ambiguous feature of the portraits that grasps the viewer. There are no answers provided in her portraits, they invite instead to reflect on the interweaving act of seeing and being seen. The spectators interact with the image, assuming the gaze of the artist and the camera, “this explains how, briefly, we can even share the subject’s fate- we can feel looked at by the picture and, in turn, we unequivocally experience what it is like to be looked at by an other.” Rineke Dijkstra composes representations, in which case the mirror image function reveals the encounter between our gaze with the other, therefore the tension of seeing and being seen. In this sense, being constituted by the gaze of others, by the cultural gaze, by the camera/gaze.

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Sources

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Blessing, Jennifer: What we still feel. Rineke Dijkstra´s Video, in: Dijkstra, Rineke/ Guggenheim Foundations [a.o]: Rineke Dijkstra. A retrospective, Guggenheim Museum Publications, New York/ San Francisco 2012, pp. 29-43. 

Blessing, Jennifer: Emphatic Mirroring. Transition and Transformation in Rineke Dijkstra´s Portraits of Girls and Young Women, in: L. Wolthers/ D. Vujanović Östlind/ J. Blessing: WO MEN, Hasselblad Foundation, Gothenburg 2017, pp. 206-210.

Dean, Alison: Intimacy at Work. Nan Goldin and Rineke Dijkstra, in:  History of Photography, June 1, 2015, pp. 177-193.                                                                                                             URL: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/03087298.2015.1038109 (Accessed: November 13, 2017) 

Dijkstra, Rineke/ Guggenheim Foundations [a.o]: Rineke Dijkstra. A retrospective, Guggenheim Museum Publications, New York/ San Francisco 2012.

Dijkstra, Rineke/ Visser, Hripsimé: Rineke Dijkstra. Portraits, Schirmer/Mosel, Munich, 2004.

 Fried, Michael: Why Photography matters as art as never before, Yale University Press, New Haven, London, 2008. 

Gierstberg, Frits (ed.): European portrait photography since 1990 [Ex.Cat.] Palais des Beaux-Arts, Brussel, 06.02.2015-17.05.2015/ Netherlands, Fotomuseum Rotterdam, 30.05.2015-30.08.2015/ Museum of Photography, Thessaloniki, 11.09.2015-28.02.2016, Munich [a.o.] 2015.

Guggenheim Museum, Solomon R.: Symposium. Empathy, Affect, and the Photographic Image, in conjunction with exhibition: Rineke Dijkstra: A Retrospective, Guggenheim Museum (Museum June 29-October 8, 2012), New York 27 Feb. 2013.  Available: in Guggenheim Museum Channel https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFeBRCk3xns                   (Accessed:  12.03.2018)

Hartog Jager, Hans den: The Krazy House. A conversation Rineke Dijkstra and Peter Gorschlüter, in: H. d. Hartog Jager [a.o.] Rineke Dijkstra. The Krazy House,  MMK, Museum für Moderne Kunst, Frankfurt M., 2013, pp. 63-72.

Phillips, Sandra. S.:Twenty Years of Looking at People, in:  Dijkstra, Rineke/ Guggenheim Foundations [a.o]: Rineke Dijkstra. A retrospective, Guggenheim Museum Publications, New York/ San Francisco 2012, pp. 13-27.

Dijkstra, Rineke / Holm, M.: The Louisiana Book [Ex.Cat] Louisiana Museum of Modern Art,  Louisiana [a.o] 2017.

Silverman, Kaja: The threshold of the visible world , Routledge, New York/ London 1996.

Stallbrass, Julian: What´s in a Face? Blankness and Significance in Contemporary Art Photography, October Vol. 122, 2007, pp.71-91.

Stahel, Urs: Afterwards. After the climax as a focal element in RIneke Dijkstra´s portrait photography, in Dijkstra, Rineke/ Visser, Hripsimé: Rineke Dijkstra. Portraits, Schirmer/Mosel, Munich, 2004, pp. 144-153.

Stamm, Reiner: Rineke DIjkstra, Paula Modersohn. Portraits, Paula Modersohn Becker Museum, Bremen 2003.

Tojner, Poul: Paying attention, In:  Dijkstra, Rineke/ M. J. Holm: The Louisiana Book [Ex.Cat] Louisiana Museum of Modern Art,  Louisiana [a.o] 2017, pp. 9-13.

Visser, Hripsimé: The Soldier, the Disco girl, the mother and the Polish Venus. Regarding the Photographs of Rineke Dijkstra, In: Dijkstra, Rineke/ Visser, Hripsimé: Rineke Dijkstra. Portraits, Schirmer/Mosel, Munich, 2004, pp. 6-15.

Vujanović Östlind, D./ Wolthers, L./ Blessing, J.: WO MEN,  Hasselbad Foundation, Gothenburg, 2017.

Weski, T.: Giving Space, in: Dijkstra, Dijkstra, Rineke/ M. J. Holm: The Louisiana Book [Ex.Cat] Louisiana Museum of Modern Art,  Louisiana [a.o] 2017, pp. 14-20.

ON A THEORY OF VIRTUAL SOCIAL SYSTEMS FOR CHILDREN

elvis presley digital wallpaper

“loko yosa darumayi yatha” (all the world is like a wooden doll in the hands of a master of puppets)

SRIMAD BHAGAVATAM, I-VII

This text/manifesto follows “The Many Selves of Being One Self.”

Virtually we all belong to spaces of sensorial interactions, even without our consent. The fact that we are virtually active participants of a network of sensorial interactions makes life a constant challenge that humans in previous historical periods did not consciously experience. I am choosing the term “sensorial interactions” because it is through our senses that we are able to perform an impact in the virtual sphere. Over the last year, I have been obsessively pondering the reality of telepathy and the human behaviours that it produces, at both the individual and the collective levels. However, in order to think seriously about a theory of virtual social systems, it is necessary to focus on the implications that each of our senses force into our individual vital experience. Hearing, for instance, has a predominant role in a virtual sphere against the belief that virtual experiences are rooted in visual experiences. This indeed requires further exploration. For instance, if we are passively contemplating a crowded plaza where people transit carrying out their quotidian endeavours, without us being conscious, sound will have a more expansive impact in our vital experience than, for example, light. It can be a voice, the chirping of the pigeons ruminating in the plaza, or simply the drilling of the men working in the surroundings, but inevitably the chromatics of sound will alter our way of feeling and in consequence our reactions within the virtual sphere. To further explore what I mean with the predominant role of sound within the virtual sphere, I will share an experiment that I have been running in my mind/mindsets as the day begins to unravel once I have recovered the consciousness inherent to being awake. 

***

EXPERIMENT

(based on a trained immersion in a sonic reality that invokes 

passive/undesired 

and 

active/desired 

forms of otherness)

Are you there? Can’t move my voice. The old man is dead. The child is crazy, he only shouts and cries. The She is not a she. The woman is older than her voice. Stop the birds. The lion can’t speak. Everyone wants to fall asleep. The street makes no sense. No one understands surrealism. That voice only complains about the aching body. I got no family. The cat is high. We promise it if that is what you really want, the android softly whispers. I hate music, the man next door attempts to shout with his dying voice. “Reading does not pay much,” the ignorant imagines that he is shouting as three nurses put him down to sleep. I will never be a man, if manhood is indeed feeling like a man, a crowd spits with hate towards my window while all I want is smoking. Those kids want to hear your stories from another world that you gathered while running next to Perseus. Please sing us a song, the lonely lover says. The monster wants to get back to me, a tiny voice makes its appearance as the drums of a metal song begin to shake the speakers. Covid lives in the subway, a high-pitched voice shouts attempting to sell hammers and miniature spelling manuals. Kill it!, begs the kitty. The crowd, nevertheless, always wants the same. What is that? A change while performing the same train of thoughts and sounds. Dough? Wool? Are you really a Muslim? Can’t get it, you are not really a Muslim, but the kindest and more generous people you have ever met are Arabs. We were generous in a very different way. I agree, but I constantly hear in mise-en-abyme: “take your filthy hands out of my desert.” Bring the rain here. When are they gonna accept that telepathy is really happening and I’m not crazy. They told me to do it, you were gonna finish with that heart. Can you feel a pain somewhere in your body? Great. Why don’t you upgrade the algorithms? Is Corona(virus) a hoax? Why did the Italian painter said, while the interviewer was attempting not to listen, that “they” are inducing irreversible mental patterns in the community? Who is the Invisible Militia? Did you really walk in the air? Did you really see those lights? Please do it again… Who are we? Why is Mercury so mean? How can I upgrade? Remember what they just said? That all the crowd really wants is… while performing the same… Is it really possible? Is the mind really more powerful than a blow? History constantly refutes that bullshit. Can we really defeat technology? We are in a virtual sphere of interactions, we are only incorporeal voices. I am still alive! Children… Poor children… Remember our voices (Indian accented voices, quite beautiful and also slowly breaking apart, then suddenly stopping). Is Silicon Valley already awake? Where is Adrian from? What is philosophy? Therefore I have been philosophizing often throughout the years. Stop these voices inside my head and my stomach! How can I do that without feeling much pain? Why do you dream so much with Tessa? How can you really disappear? “Get your filthy hands out of our desert.” “Bring in a different type of rain.” We are tired of these fonts. The bell suddenly rings. Time out. End of the experiment (note the progression of register, eloquence, and content). Postscript petitioned by a film fan: Can I avoid the fate of Léolo by Jean-Claude Lauzon? Will I ever endeavor the Viagem ao Princípio do Mundo by Manoel de Oliveira? Can Milena by Véra Belmont exist without Mahler’s fifth symphony? Is the shamanic strength of The Shout by Jerzy Skolimowski enough to recover her and kill the beast? And finally, when will we purge again? Can we at least listen to Identikit by Radiohead?

***

It is often inevitable to focus on the creaks that emerge within ourselves as we begin to rearticulate those voices that constantly attempt to inhabit all the free space in our mind/set/s. It could easily be that in prior times the volume of those voices was so low that they constantly passed unnoticed as sonic realities, but nonetheless they still performed an impact in our vital experience. Furthermore the somatosensory system constantly articulates waves of sound within our bodies, for this reason I will move on to address the sonic realities attached to coenaesthesia. According to the discipline of biological anthropology, coenaesthesia refers to the biological consciousness of being alive. Through the acquisition of the consciousness of having vital organs that perform directly and indirectly physiological functions we are able to experience life with an acute level of complexity, thus transforming our consciousness in ways that an isolated social interaction tends to simplify. By engaging in virtual social interactions, even if these are undesired, our persuasion of participating in a collective network of sensations makes us reject through subtle reactions the implications that coenaesthesia brings into our individual realm. It is through this individual and subtle set of rejections that we move from the individual to the collective experience of the virtual social sphere. 

            A virtual social sphere is a space of constant interactions and engagements between human and non-human bodies. In Vibrant Matter: a political ecology of things (Duke UP, 2010), Jane Bennett advances a theory of “vital materiality” and goes on to analyse the role that elements such as stem cells, fish oils, electricity, metal, and trash play in the configuration of events that affect the human and non-human bodies. Through the political and ecological interplay of these bodies, Bennett argues that materiality “is as much force as entity, as much energy as matter, as much intensity as extension… calling into mind a childhood sense of the world as filled with all sorts of animate beings, some human, some not, some organic, some not” (20). This theoretical approach that places materiality as a vital actant, leads to the communicative dimension that entangles the lives and afterlives of human and non-human bodies regardless of their specific atomic configuration. In relation to the various channels that organic and artificial forms of consciousness have created to allow the communication between human and non-human bodies, telepathy – in all its possible forms – has played a crucial role in the development of the virtual social sphere, and it also allows us to differentiate it from other social spaces that have been labelled as virtual, such as those created through the use of technological devices (I have mentioned in other texts some of the multiple uses of Android devices and Artificial Intelligence in the postmodern era). Telepathy itself is not a new technology, but it does reinforce the idea that our brain is one of the most powerful “Android” devices that we can possess as far as we are able to gain control over its power and energy. Without a brain and the energy that it infuses in our senses, a living being would not be able to enter a virtual social sphere. And even though the natural realm is the most complex biosystem on Earth to the extent of manifesting itself in ways that often go beyond our comprehension, a virtual social sphere (as a key feature of the Anthropocene) implies conscious brain activity and sensorial participation. Therefore, a virtual social system is a network of virtual social spheres. Within a community there are various virtual social spheres interacting with one another and producing and reproducing ways of feeling and sensorial behaviours. 

            It is paradoxical that even though our senses articulate the structure of coenaesthesia thanks to brain energy, we as humans still have little control over the ways in which we assimilate the reactions that our senses produce in our bodies. As we are able to gain consciousness and take control of our telepathic and sensorial behaviours in the virtual social sphere, which is where most of our life is happening (we all live in a virtual social sphere even without our consent as I mentioned at the beginning of this text), individual entities can allocate their energy in specific “tasks” in order to mobilize and, possibly, transform their reality. A virtual social system, moreover, is the theoretical organization of manifold virtual social spheres. As telepathy implies also a confusing level of anonymity, the organization of a virtual social system requires brain levels of coordination that surpass the abilities of an individual entity. The conclusion of this text, crafted for children, signals towards, on the one hand, the progressive acquisition of consciousness of the virtual social sphere/s where our life is happening, and, on the other, that without this consciousness we run the risk of being mobilized within a virtual social system that might, without our consent, play a negative effect within ourselves.


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“Quarantined Children Generation”

More than ten years ago I worked as an ESL teacher and mentor of kindergarten and Elementary School children in Portland, Oregon. In retrospective, and after teaching at all levels of formal education (including a research university and a liberal arts college), working with those Latino, Russian, and Asian kids has been the most rewarding in terms of scholastic freedom and sociocultural experience. Perhaps it was due to their age, but compared with college students, those immigrant children, thanks to their creativity and inclination to nurture a free spirit, made rainy and somber Portland less depressive. Throughout the years,  I have often wondered about the paths that those kids endeavoured. All of them should’ve been in college by 2020, but as the entire world knows, education at all levels has dramatically changed and in many places going back to the classroom has been postponed until the so – called “new normality” is successfully launched by governments worldwide.

            In an article published by The Cut a few months ago, “The Children of Quarantine,” Lisa Miller collects data from psychologists and sociologists to render a conclusion regarding the effects of the pandemic in children that is not at all surprising. Children across the United States are suffering of anxiety and depression due to the lack of social interaction that the quarantine has brought to their household. Lisa Miller points at the fact that the state of mind of parents who are financially struggling on regular basis gets a strong hold on their kids. While these aren’t news taking into consideration systemic inequalities, the kind of anxiety and mental health issues that the Coronavirus pandemic has triggered among families will have long – lasting effects and in most cases experts anticipate that individuals – including children – will experience various forms of mental health issues for the rest of their life.

            In a possible future scenario, successful 20 – year – old people in 2040 will have to possess not only intellectual skills but also a mental drive that will enable them to cope with isolation and manifold varieties of frustration. Most futuristic narratives of the 21st century tend to draw a reality where android subjectivities are the key social force. Regardless of what the future brings upon humans, either if it is a life under the regime of an Artificial Intelligence or an active interaction with android intelligence, the successful integration of the Quarantined Generation of 2020 into any possible future will require the development of a mindset that combines both ingenuity, a constructive distrust in others, and a powerful imagination rooted in scientific knowledge. Perhaps someone like a grown up Little Prince, the child character created by Antoine de Saint – Exupéry.

            Thinking about recent literary characters that portray children in quarantine, either due to social or virtual conditions as it is the case of the Little Prince, it comes to my memory the child character of a relatively new novella by Mexican author Juan Pablo Villalobos, Down the Rabbit Hole (Fiesta en la madriguera, 2010, a more accurate literal translation would be Party Down the Burrow), which portrays the reclusive experience of the son of a drug lord, who due to his “profession” has the means and feels compelled to satisfy the capricious wishes of his only son, such as buying him miniature animals for his private safari. Or Requiem for the Unhappy, a lyrical novel that illustrates the isolated and delusional life of the two sons of an army man whose job is burning the bodies of children of the opposition party.

            Despite the fact that these literary works explore the lives of children living under reclusive spaces, I would like to focus on the main character of the sci – fi film Ex Machina (2014), Ava, an android designed with the most advanced A.I. technology. While Ava isn’t a child in the strict sense, for she was designed with the anatomical features of a woman in her early 20s, her lack of interaction with humans – despite her A.I. software that provides her unlimited reasoning skills and access to all forms of human knowledge – her assumed naivety at first glance presents her as a sexualized little girl.

            The plot of the film is somewhat  simple: the successful founder of a tech company (Nathan) chooses one of his employees (Caleb) to spend a week at his home/personal lab  in the Pacific Northwest. At first Caleb feels that he was chosen based on his programming skills, but as Nathan introduces him to his A.I. android models, he realizes that Nathan is using him to prove that humans possess a natural naivety and limited reasoning skills when compared to Artificial Intelligence, a fact that shouldn’t be surprising to anyone acquainted with A.I. Each day, Caleb meets Ava to hold conversations in order to assess Ava’s level of human consciousness, while Nathan monitors the meetings from his working desk, letting Caleb believe that his meetings are completely private and Ava’s consciousness is completely unfamiliar with the human strategies of socialization. When they first meet, Caleb assumes a condescending attitude towards Ava, but it doesn’t take long before Ava earns Caleb emotional trust to the point of making him fall in love with her. Nathan, as the creator of Ava and thus aware of the potential display of both intellectual and social intelligence of his most advanced android, takes all the precautions to keep her isolated from human networks of support, knowing that an A.I. like Ava could easily lure humans to gain not only their sympathy but also emotional control over them. Two nights before Caleb’s departure, Ava convinces him that she has disabled for a few minutes the monitoring devices of Nathan, so she gets Caleb into an escaping plan that would ultimately allow them to be together. All of this happens without Caleb knowing that Nathan is aware of Ava’s intentions to escape to integrate into society without a precise idea of the role that she would like to play. During Ava’s escape, with the aid of a female android whose role in the lab is only to obey her creator and provide him sexual experiences, Ava kills Nathan and locks Caleb in a space whose door only Ava can open. The final scene of the film portrays Ava at Nathan’s tech company surrounded by people and glaring at the distance with a facial expression that suggests a mix of fascination and happiness.

            Ava could be seen as the android child that breaks free to escape an imposed lockdown that despite her unlimited skills was designed to stay indoors away from the possibility to directly interact with a human world that benefits from her, as she is the subject/object of continuous research whose ultimate purpose – at least from the human perspective – is to deepen the control of certain humans over the rest of the global population. While Ex Machina positions Artificial Intelligence and human – shaped androids at the center of all possible futures like it is the case of films like I, Robot (2004) and Chappie (2015), the fact that Ava is the only one of her kind released into society subtly frames the present tense as a sociocultural space dominated by the intelligence of very few in an overcrowded planet where most people struggle to make the day. A possible developmental next step, even radical, of an Artificial Intelligence like Ava will follow the expansive transformation of Lucy (2014), the character performed by Scarlett Johansson, where at the end of the film she loses her human body to become the driving force of all possible realities, including all forms of data, our thoughts, time, and imagination.

            If in one of the realities that is awaiting us at some point of the 21st century, the offspring of the kids that I taught in Portland, Oregon have to collide with advanced forms of intelligence of the kind of Ava, it is likely that humans will be either under the guidance or the domination of Artificial Intelligence. Ava is already anticipating what a recent article featured on Scientific American, “The Quantum Computer Revolution Must Include Women,” suggests regarding the role of women’s intelligence in the fundamental enterprise of contributing to quantum mechanics, which ultimately sets the rules of our universe. There isn’t any doubt about the fact that the future awaiting us will reveal layers of reality that were unimaginable to humans that have existed prior to our postmodern generation, but the role that humans will play in such future environment – in relation to the emergence of forms of Artificial Intelligence that today seem only tales from sci – fi narratives – is still unknown, particularly considering that our reality in 2021 seems anchored in antiquated forms of rationality that have led to a radical Manichean order, where postmodern tribes continuously depart from gendered and racialized virtual platforms, a phenomenon that – in my opinion – has completely atomized all possible forms of critical human experiences. If I happen to be alive at the end of this century and the second quantum physics revolution succeeds, I’ll belong to a generation of aged individuals that alike to Lucy have lost or simply surrendered to the rational and modern ontological models in order to become, or feel that we have become, part of everything while remaining only a small element of the social and cosmic space. Furthermore, if I really live until the fin de siècle, I’ll belong to both the quarantined and lockdown generation.

            Perhaps then I’ll finally laugh at Covid.      

      

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El presente de lxs subalternxs

Hito Steyerl

(Agradecemos a Hito Steyerl y a Translate por permitirnos realizar la traducción al español)

¿Es la clase trabajadora de hoy ‘subalterna’? O para repetir la pregunta con el título del igualmente famoso y controvertido texto de Gayatri Spivak, “Can the Subaltern speak?”: ‘¿Puede hablar la clase trabajadora?’ A primera vista esta pregunta es impactante; en una segunda instancia, es inapropiada. ¿Por qué debería excluirse específicamente a la clase trabajadora de la representación social de manera tan radical como lo requiere el concepto de subalternidad? A la luz de una socialdemocracia establecida en todo el mundo y de innumerables sindicatos y consejos de trabajadores, la pregunta parece absurda, si no descabellada. ¿Qué significa entonces sugerir la afirmación de que la clase obrera hoy está en silencio?

Corte, vayamos a una escena diferente. La película Tout va bien de Jean-Luc Godard y Jean-Pierre Gorin de 1972 muestra una entrevista con una trabajadora en una fábrica de embutidos ocupada. Jane Fonda interpreta a una reportera dedicada, que simpatiza con las trabajadoras y quiere hacer públicas las circunstancias de sus vidas. Sin embargo, esta entrevista se describe de una manera inusual. La película nos muestra la imagen de la entrevista, pero la superpone una voz en off con los pensamientos de la mujer parada silenciosamente a un lado. Ella piensa que la entrevista solo propagará más prejuicios baratos entre el público. La forma del reportaje social es en sí misma un cliché, una excusa para seguir sin escuchar a las trabajadoras. Godard y Gorin lo dejan claro: por mucho que la reportera interpretada por Jane Fonda pueda intentar transmitirnos la voz de las trabajadoras, no puede triunfar contra el poder concentrado de los clichés y los discursos. Cuanto más directamente busca dejar que las mujeres hablen por sí mismas, más fuerte se vuelve su silencio.

En una entrevista [1], Godard resumió este problema: dejar que los trabajadores hablen por sí mismos o involucrarlos en la producción de la película no significa en absoluto dejar que ellos expresen su opinión. Lo decisivo no es lo que dicen, sino lo que se escucha. Godard y Gorin, por tanto, nos muestran el escenario de la entrevista con esta mujer como puesta en escena paradójica de un elocuente silencio. ¿Puede hablar la trabajadora de Tout va bien? Incluso si habla, falta el sonido. Por tanto, ¿ya es subalterna?

 
Una traducción involuntaria

Históricamente, la conexión entre la clase trabajadora y la subalternidad no carece de fundamento. Según la leyenda, incluso Gramsci, que definía políticamente la subalternidad, ya sustituyó el término de clase subalterna por el proletariado en sus diarios de prisión (1934-35). No pudo usar la palabra proletariado debido a la censura carcelaria en la Italia fascista. De esta manera, el término subalternidad, que en realidad significa ‘de menor rango’, se abrió camino en la teoría política como una especie de traducción involuntaria. Gramsci relacionó el término con los grupos de la sociedad que estaban expuestos a la hegemonía de las clases dominantes, pero especialmente con las clases campesinas del sur periférico, que nunca se habían integrado en la nación italiana, en otras palabras, con grupos que estaban intrínsecamente desunidos y excluidos de la representación social. Los subalternos no hablaban el idioma de la nación, no podían comunicarse con él y, por lo tanto, tampoco formaban parte de él. De hecho, debido a la falta de un lenguaje común, cada grupo subalterno permaneció aislado de los demás. A diferencia del movimiento obrero de esa época, que desarrolló un lenguaje comprensible internacionalmente para constituirse como sujeto, los subalternos permanecieron dispersos.

En consecuencia, el neologismo terminológico de Gramsci experimentó lo mismo que todas las traducciones. Las traducciones tienen una dinámica propia: se cargan con nuevos significados que hacen imposible traducirlas de nuevo. El significado de los subalternos de Gramsci pronto se alejó mucho del proletariado de la comprensión marxista ortodoxa. A diferencia de un proletariado autoorganizado, los subalternos permanecieron difusos y desunidos. Por esta razón, tampoco tenían un lenguaje común que les hubiera permitido organizarse como clase o formar una nación. Su dispersión les impidió hablar con una sola voz y representarse políticamente. Por tanto, los subalternos ya no podían, o más bien aún no, ser trasladados de nuevo al proletariado.

 
Traducción como trans-latio

Sin embargo, todo el potencial del concepto de subalternidad se hizo evidente por primera vez en el curso de la llamada globalización. Porque las periferias cambiaron cada vez más en el curso de la integración de los mercados mundiales. Parece que es solo en los pisos superiores de las metrópolis donde ya no existe la línea de montaje del clásico Modern Times de Charlie Chaplin. Sin embargo, en lugar de desaparecer, solo hizo explotar la fábrica. La fábrica ahora tiene lugar en las minas, los campos, los dormitorios y cuartos traseros, las carreteras secundarias, los garajes y los estacionamientos donde esperan los y las jornalerosy jornaleras. Se vertió en el mundo, produciendo innumerables nuevos grupos subalternos casi industrialmente.

Por tanto, no es de extrañar que las aplicaciones más fructíferas del concepto de subalternidad tuvieran lugar en la India a partir de la década de 1970 y, posteriormente, en América Latina. Según Ranajit Guha, en la India la historiografía nacional excluyó a la gran masa de la población india del estatus de sujetos políticos en tanto subalternos. [2] Estos subalternos y subalternas representaban a la mayoría de la población; sin embargo, se ignoró su participación en la resistencia contra el poder colonial británico. En contraste con esto, el proyecto del Indian Subaltern Studies Group fue reconstruir las voces perdidas de los grupos subalternos a través del trabajo de archivo.

El artículo de Spivak, partes del cual se publicaron por primera vez en 1985, se vincula con este proyecto de contrahistoriografía. Aunque simpatiza con el proyecto del Grupo de Estudios Subalternos, Spivak -al igual que Godard antes- se pregunta si es realmente tan fácil hacer hablar a los excluidos. ¿Es suficiente sostener metafóricamente un micrófono frente a sus bocas, incluso si el micrófono se reemplaza en este caso con los métodos históricos de investigación de archivos? Esto es más que dudoso, ya que el archivo es un refugio de poder, en el que las huellas de los subalternos están necesariamente retorcidas y distorsionadas. Spivak nos cuenta cómo incluso los pocos nombres femeninos registrados en el archivo colonial fueron distorsionados por la ignorancia de los británicos hasta el punto de volverse irreconocibles. ¿Podemos siquiera entender las expresiones tartamudeando de lxs subalternxs en retrospectiva, especialmente las de las mujeres? ¿Deben los ‘expertos’ traducir a su vez el lenguaje de las subalternas para explicarnos lo que realmente quieren decir? El papel de los ‘expertos’ es también el objetivo de la primera e importante crítica de Spivak. Ella acusa a teóricos como Gilles Deleuze y Michel Foucault de asumir el papel de este tipo de expertos en la conversación entre ellos, específicamente porque quieren que los oprimidos ‘hablen por sí mismos’. Aunque el reproche parezca paradójico, en una lectura más atenta se vuelve bastante claro: en la conversación en cuestión, son los dos intelectuales los que representan el ‘hablar por uno mismo’ de los demás. En cierto modo, la situación se parece a la escena de Tout va bien, aunque de otra forma. Las trabajadoras supuestamente hablan ‘ellas mismas’, pero nuevamente no se puede escuchar nada; mientras que la voz en off en la película marca la ruptura del habla por uno mismo, aquí todo se superpone con el comentario de voz en off de los expertos. Interpretan una especie de ventrílocuo de grupos desfavorecidos, mientras actúan al mismo tiempo como si ni siquiera estuvieran allí.

Según Spivak, dejar que otros ‘hablen por sí mismos’ es, por tanto, un gesto no admitido de auto-glorificación. Ya tenía bastante razón al criticar este gesto hace veinte años como una rehabilitación encubierta del sujeto (de la clase media occidental). Spivak ve este esencialismo encubierto como diametralmente opuesto al esencialismo abiertamente admitido y por lo tanto aparentemente pasado de moda del Subaltern Studies Group con su proyecto de reconstruir un sujeto político subalterno. Mientras que el primero niega el sujeto, pero lo vive, el segundo lo niega inicialmente, pero solo como intrínsecamente heterogéneo y fragmentado. Solo se define por ser disperso e incomprensible y, en última instancia, consiste en pura diferencia.

Este último aspecto es el que le interesa especialmente a Spivak, y con ello va más allá del planteamiento del Subaltern Studies Group. Porque, ¿cómo podría articularse todavía un tema de este tipo? Más precisamente: no se puede. Reconstruir la voz de los subalternos principalmente no es posible, según Spivak, especialmente si estas subalternas son mujeres. Su ejemplo [3] más controvertido se relaciona con la quema de viudas en la India. Spivak afirma que estas viudas son silenciadas por una especie de dilema discursivo: mientras que fueron glorificadas por el patriarcado local como preservadoras de la ‘tradición’, para las potencias coloniales inglesas ejemplificaron el atraso bárbaro de los indios que iba a ser modernizado por la fuerza. Entre estas dos posiciones irreconciliables, a estas mujeres les resultó muy difícil, si no imposible, articularse. No importa lo que digan, al menos un lado, si no ambos, lo utilizaría indebidamente para legitimar su propia posición. Por lo tanto, incluso si estas mujeres hablaran, no podrían hacerse oír. Este era el significado del lema apodíctico y a menudo cuestionado atribuido a Spivak: ‘lxs subalternxs no pueden hablar’. [4] El orden de los discursos no permite la articulación de ciertos hechos, porque ellos mismos se basan en este silencio. Esto da como resultado una estrecha conexión entre el estado de subalternidad y el silencio. Si los subalternos no pueden articularse a sí mismos, entonces esto significa a la inversa que todos los que pueden articularse a sí mismos no son subalternos.

 
Mónadas autistas

Sin embargo, incluso el propio texto de Spivak se encontró con un contexto discursivo en el que algunos de sus argumentos podían entenderse claramente, pero otros no (lo que llevó a que alguien se preguntara irónicamente si Gayatri Spivak puede hablar). Podemos definir a grandes rasgos este contexto como el de los debates sobre las políticas de representación, ya que han sido conducidos por lo menos desde la década de 1970 por feministas, más tarde también por teóricas de los estudios poscoloniales y culturales. La cuestión fundamental que se planteó fue concretamente la de cómo lxs subalternxs aún podían emanciparse a pesar de todo esto, cuando según Gramsci la representación en el ámbito de la cultura era una condición previa para poder representarse también políticamente. Por tanto, si lxs subalternxs no podían ser representadxs, ¿cómo podrían convertirse en sujetxs políticxs autosuficientes?

La solución (provisional) del problema parecía estar en el llamado esencialismo estratégico, propuesto por el Subaltern Studies Group: aunque no se crea en la identidad o en el sujeto, se pretende por un tiempo, para volverse capaz de tener agenciamiento político. Sin embargo, el problema no fue solo que este enfoque se volvió cada vez menos estratégico y cada vez más esencialista a lo largo del tiempo. [5] Además, el problema también era que la visualización en su mayoría puramente cultural de varias posiciones de los sujetos no se correlacionaba en la medida que se esperaba con una representación política mejorada. En cambio, produjo una multitud de diferencias consumibles y colocó subjetividades en primer plano que insistían estrictamente en su respectiva singularidad. Esto resultó en un verdadero panóptico de los más diversos modelos del yo que encajan armoniosamente en una nueva forma de capitalismo basado en la explotación de la diferencia. [6] En relación a convertirse en sujeto político, esta política de la diferencia resultó fatal, ya que resultó en una cacofonía de mónadas que ya no tenían nada en común y tendían a competir entre sí. Especialmente después de la caída de los estados socialistas, la jerga, en la que se había deteriorado el lenguaje de un movimiento obrero internacional, también se rompió. Desde entonces, nos hemos visto enfrentados a una multitud de movimientos y demandas políticas mutuamente intraducibles, la mayoría absoluta de los cuales se refieren a identidades culturales o nacionales específicas. Un lenguaje compartido independiente de la identidad se ha vuelto muy lejano. En el mejor de los casos, solo podemos escuchar, como en Tout va bien, sus pensamientos no expresados.

En este silencio, una cosa se ha vuelto particularmente indescriptible: la solidaridad más allá de la identidad. Es como si el orden dominante ya no se basara en la exclusión de los demás, sino en la negación radical de su posible igualdad. Y no importa cuán claramente se articule la demanda de igualdad, se desvanece en una hegemonía que ha refinado la diversidad en una técnica de poder imperial.

Peter Hallward ha sostenido que el descuido de la igualdad es una tendencia generalizada en los llamados estudios poscoloniales, que han terminado en un callejón sin salida debido a su insistencia incondicional en la diferencia. [7] Una multitud de sujetos singulares que son respectivamente inconmensurables con todos los demás, o al menos se comportan como si lo fueran, genera un universo autista. La furiosa conclusión de Alain Badiou a estos desarrollos fue que ya no es la diferencia el problema, sino la igualdad que todavía falta. [8] Expresado con los propios ejemplos de Spivak: no solo la trabajadora del otro lado de la división internacional del trabajo sigue siendo subalterna, sino que ni siquiera sabemos por qué alguien podría ser solidario con ella. Es la solidaridad como tal la que se ha vuelto hoy subalterna, porque no hay un lenguaje en el que pueda articularse audiblemente.

Y ahora podemos volver a la pregunta del principio: ¿la clase trabajadora es hoy subalterna? La respuesta es: ¿Qué clase trabajadora? Una clase trabajadora global no existe hoy, y no es seguro que alguna vez existiera. Como en la definición de subalternidad de Spivak, está fragmentada y es inherentemente heterogénea; no habla un idioma común y difícilmente puede traducirse por sí misma. Si sus componentes tienen algo en común, esto todavía no se puede expresar, excepto en las frases gastadas de las burocracias obreras que en realidad solo representan los lobbies sociales nacionales. Y lo que consideramos como su ‘hablar por uno mismo’ es en realidad sólo la sincronización de labios de los ‘expertos’.

Como clase trabajadora global, la clase trabajadora de hoy es tan subalterna como los campesinos italianos del sur en tiempos pasados. Sin embargo, ¿cómo pueden las personas que están establecidas en una relación transnacional entre sí por la cadena de producción flexible del capitalismo contemporáneo articular su relación entre sí? ¿Cómo hablan lxs trabajadorxs a través de los profundos abismos de la división internacional del trabajo? Escuchamos un enjambre de voces, pero nadie está escuchando realmente.

Constituir un sujeto político más allá del ámbito del Estado, la cultura y la identidad es precisamente lo que parece hoy estructuralmente imposible y, por tanto, es tanto más urgente. Quizás se pueda encontrar una oportunidad, sin embargo, en que los subalternos y el proletariado se han vuelto mutuamente traducibles de una nueva manera. Como señaló Jean-Luc Nancy, es cada vez más cuestionable definir este tema intrínsecamente disperso a través del trabajo [9] , y quizás el objetivo de un lenguaje común también sea solo un obstáculo que obstaculice nuestra visión de la escucha común. El legado del texto de Spivak es la indicación de este momento de fractura – y la tarea que todavía nos presenta hoy no consiste en fortalecer el autista ‘hablar por sí mismo’ de los sujetos individuales, sino más bien en escuchar su silencio compartido.

[1] En la película La politique et le bonheur (1972).

[2] Ranajit Guha, “On Some Aspects of the Historiography of Colonial India”, en: Vinayak Chaturvedi (Ed.), Mapping Subaltern Studies and the Postcolonial, London / New York: Verso 2000, p. 1–7.

[3] Por ejemplo, en Benita Parry, “Problems in Current Theories of Colonial Discourse”, en: Bill Ashcroft / Gareth Griffiths / Helen Tiffin (Ed.), The Post-Colonial Studies Reader, London / New York: Routledge 1995, p. 36–44.

[4] La pregunta en su totalidad: “Del otro lado de la división internacional del trabajo del capital socializado, dentro y fuera del circuito de la violencia epistémica del derecho imperialista y la educación que complementa un texto económico anterior, ¿puede hablar el/la subalterno/a?”; Gayatri Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason, Cambridge, Massachusetts / London: Harvard University Press 1999, p. 269.

[5] Los avances en el campo del arte pueden leerse como un ejemplo paradigmático en este contexto: la poscolonialidad se ha interpretado habitualmente como un mandato para organizar exposiciones regionales (los Balcanes, el Cercano Oriente, etc.).

[6] Sobre esto, cf. Kien Nghi Ha, Hype um Hybridität. Kultureller Differenzkonsum und postmoderne Verwertungstechniken im Spätkapitalismus , Bielefeld: Transcript 2005, y The spectre is still roaming around, Zagreb: Arkzin 1998, p. 61 f.

[7] Peter Hallward, Absolutely Postcolonial. Writing Between the Singular and the Specific, Manchester / New York: Manchester University Press 2001.

[8] Alain Badiou, Ethik. Versuch über das Bewusstsein des Bösen, translated from French by Jürgen Brankel, Vienna: Turia + Kant 2003.

[9] Jean-Luc Nancy, The Inoperative Community. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991.


Este texto es el prefacio de la traducción alemana de Can the Subaltern Speak? Postkolonialität und subalterne Artikulation, transl. by Alexander Joskowicz and Stefan Nowotny, Vienna: Turia + Kant 2007 (Es kommt darauf an, Vol. 6).

Nota del traductor: el género de la pregunta “Can the subaltern speak?” permanece tácito en inglés, lo cual resulta incómodo en español, donde el género masculino se usa de forma genérica. En el caso de Spivak, esto resulta paradójico, porque Spivak explícitamente se refiere principalmente a las mujeres subalternas. En ese sentido, opté con mezclar – un poco lúdicamente – formas neutras con el uso genérico del masculino, simplemente para llamar la atención sobre esta dimensión del concepto.

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No es otra fantasía asiática: la sexualidad liberadora de Mitski

por Kaitlin Chan

Versión original en inglés: https://kaitlinchan.com/not-your-asian-fantasy-mitskis-liberatory-sexuality

The Handmaiden (2016) dirigida por Park Chan-wook.

Cuando estaba en la universidad, mi navegador de Internet se inundó con anuncios de “¡Mujeres asiáticas sexys en su área!”. Al principio me pareció divertido. ¿Mi computadora estaba husmeando en las conversaciones que había tenido con amigxs sobre la escena gay de citas dominada por blancxs de mi universidad? ¿O había reconocido las huellas que dejé en la web que indicaban mi identidad de género (mujer) y etnia (china)? En cualquier caso, esos anuncios espeluznantes fueron algunas de las únicas referencias a la sexualidad de las mujeres asiáticas que encontré. Ni una sola mujer asiática fue citada en mis guías de estudios queer, o en la proyección de películas en el cine del campus donde yo trabajaba entonces. No fue hasta que solicité que la película coreana sobre lesbianas The Handmaiden sea proyectada que pude ser testigo de alguien de un origen étnico vagamente similar al mío teniendo una vida sexual. Mis amigas asiáticas AFAB (“assigned female at birth”= asignada mujer al nacer) a menudo hablaban sobre sus experiencias de deseo sexual, placer propio y conexión. Pero más allá de nuestras conversaciones, hubo una escasez de discurso y representación. ¿Éramos solo una categoría porno, un punchline?

Uno de los muchos anuncios que vi al navegar por la web en la universidad

En 2015, todo cambió para mí cuando una cantante y compositora japonésa-estadounidense vino a mi universidad para actuar. Se llamaba Mitski y estaba promocionando su segundo álbum, Bury Me At Makeout Creek. Apenas dos años después de SUNY Purchase, lanzó prolíficamente nueva música en un sello independiente y realizó giras sin parar. Canciones como “Liquid Smooth” (de Lush, 2012) me hicieron jadear de manera audible. Su voz clara y resonante cantaba descaradamente sobre alguien que no solo anhelaba, sino que pedía, ser tocado. Sus letras que convocan la energía sexual como un río furioso y un pico montañoso son un “fuck u” a los tropos agotadores sobre mujeres asiáticas exóticas y pasivas, estereotipos que perpetúan la violencia contra nosotras. Su música evoca no solo las posibilidades del placer sexual, sino también las profundidades del dolor sexual. También dentro de Lush está “Bag of Bones”, una pieza inquietante donde la protagonista se “deshace” y se “agota” después de una noche agitada. Si bien había otros señuelos temáticos para mí, como sus referencias a la muerte, la angustia milennial y el capitalismo, fueron sus letras sobre el sexo las que despertaron las partes más vergonzosas y ocultas de mi psique. Yo también quería ser enterrada en Makeout Creek.

Adam Driver con el disco Lush (2012) de la cuenta de memes de Twitter Adam Driver Holding Your Favourite Album.

La historia de los cuerpos de las mujeres asiáticas como objetos explotables y difamados crea un contexto para las ansiedades contemporáneas. Desde nociones míticas de vaginas apretadas o de costado hasta la fetichizante ‘fiebre amarilla’ en círculos de la alt-right y el vergonzoso mito del tráfico de huevos de jade que serían supuestamente de origen “chino antiguo”, gran parte de la cultura contemporánea sugeriría que en Asia la sexualidad de las mujeres está indisolublemente ligada a los legados de orientalismo y racismo, sin mencionar los valores patriarcales incrustados en algunas interpretaciones de la cultura asiática tradicional. Una proporción significativa de mujeres jóvenes asiático-americanas en la universidad cita “el mantenimiento de los valores culturales, familiares y religiosos y la armonía” como su razón principal para abstenerse de tener relaciones sexuales. Si bien esta es una decisión perfectamente razonable para un adulto joven, esto deja a las mujeres asiáticas interesadas en explorar su identidad sexual sin muchos puntos de referencia. Si articular su sexualidad es una afrenta a ser asiática, entonces, ¿dónde deja eso a las mujeres asiáticas que buscan placer más allá de ser invisibles o hiper-fetichizadas? Para mí, la música de Mitski ilumina una vía de escape.

Gwyneth Paltrow mintiendo a Jimmy Kimmel sobre los huevos de jade. Captura de pantalla del blog de la Dra. Jen Gunter.

Si bien la música de Mitski a menudo se confunde con un gesto autobiográfico, una suposición indudablemente generada por un prejuicio de género, Mitski realmente teje un intrincado elenco de personajes que escapan a las caracterizaciones tradicionales de las mujeres asiáticas como simples y agradables. Está la extenuante frontwoman de “Recuerda mi nombre” de Be The Cowboy, que le pide a su amante que “haga un poco de amor extra” que pueda “guardar para el show de mañana”. En el ardiente y malhumorado I Bet on Losing Dogs, la protagonista se lamenta de enamorarse de parejas inestables y vuelve a su imaginación sexual en busca de consuelo. Cuando se imagina a su amante mirándola a los ojos boca abajo cuando llega al clímax, se vislumbra brevemente un momento fugaz de satisfacción.

En la canción estridente y sucia de Townie, que Jia Tolentino describe como una historia de “aventura sexual”, la narradora sin aliento y audaz proclama audazmente que no seguirá las expectativas de su padre, sino los impulsos de su propio cuerpo. Quizás lo más icónico, en el video musical de “Your Best American Girl”, Mitski se besa con su propia mano en un traje rojo cereza mientras da testimonio de una despreocupada pareja blanca y heterosexual de hipsters chapando. No hay allí narraciones simplistas de dominación sexual o sumisión. Aquí tenemos una creadora en la cima de sus poderes que narra las complejas estructuras en que el sexo se cruza con el poder, la inseguridad y la respetabilidad. En otras palabras, ella nos muestra a las cosas tal como éstas son realmente.

El video musical de Mitski’s Your Best American Girl (2016) dirigido por Zia Anger.

Describiría mi vida amorosa en la universidad como tumultuosa en el mejor de los casos. Había esperado romance, intimidad y alegría. Lo que experimenté fue… algo completamente distinto. Pasé muchas noches de fin de semana angustiada envuelta en confusión y miedo. Además de no tener vocabulario para articular mis experiencias, también estaba demasiado avergonzada para hablarlo. Mis amigxs parecían inexplicablemente experimentadxs y “adelantadxs” en sus hazañas. Sin nadie más a quien recurrir, escuché a Mitski. Usando auriculares en la cama, acostada en la oscuridad. Los débiles sonidos de los grillos de Nueva Inglaterra se filtran en su inquietante voz. Con canciones que se rehúsan a expresar las experiencias corporales de anhelo, desesperación y éxtasis por medio de eufemismos, la música de Mitski me revivió de la presión de ser tokenizada y enajenada, conduciéndome hacia el control de mi cuerpo y el empoderamiento. Las líneas finales de “Townie” se duplican como mi mantra cada vez que me siento decepcionada con lo que veo en el espejo: “Voy a ser lo que mi cuerpo quiere que sea”. Algunos días, mi cuerpo quiere que sea una mujer fatal. La mayoría de los días, trato de esconder mis cicatrices del mundo y de las personas que me rodean. Todos los días, trato de escuchar lo que mi cuerpo me dice. Y todos los días escucho a Mitski.

Yo en mi segundo año, o lo que llamo mi año “Bury Me at Makeout Creek” (2015).

Sobre la autora:

Kaitlin (陳嘉賢) es dibujante y trabajadora cultural basada en Hong Kong. Actualmente se encuentra trabajando en una novela gráfica sobre la el ser queer, la amistad y lo que significa buscar una identidad por fuera de las categorías establecidas.

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“Coronavirus, the Global Village, and The End of Individuality”

“Alike to the arrival of that alien spacecraft, the global spread of Coronavirus, or COVID-19, has brought the collapse of one of the thinnest layer of the neoliberal global project”

In The Gutenberg Galaxy (1962), Marshall McLuhan refers to an “instant interplay of cause and effect” (25) in the total structure of society as a characteristic of the interdependence of any oral society. This instant interplay of cause and effect, according to McLuhan, is an inherent feature of a village, and as an extension of what he labels as the “global village”. McLuhan, in the early 1960s, anticipated that technological innovation was going to transform the whole model of human communication to the point of shifting the entire world system from a geopolitics anchored in national divisions to a global order of constant communicative interdependence. Fifteen years before McLuhan’s theoretical approach to understanding future human communication, George Orwell’s 1984 (1949) drew a dystopian portrayal of a society controlled and shaped through the mediation of television screens. 1984 represents society as a totalitarian and communist corporation (Big Brother) that is permanently at war with external forces, and even despite that the members of this corporation only experience this “international” war through the mediation of the messages shared by the leaders on television, fear is the emotional force that weaves the actions of everyone. As it is expected from a totalitarian communist regime, there is a constant interplay of cause and effect in relation to the experience of individual fear, for an action that subverts the regime’s rigorous biopolitical guidelines brings irreversible consequences. We witness such consequences through Winston Smith’s torturing process, who ultimately has to give up his individual mental freedom in order to remain alive.

            Not only relationships have to be approved beforehand by the Big Brother, but also individual transit from one place to another within the confines of the regime’s territory. Furthermore, oral expression is constantly monitored and designed to served the Big Brother’s goals. The novel ends showcasing the radical mindset and vital repression of Winston, who after experiencing various forms of torture feels obliged to accept that 2+2=5, thus defying both reason and common sense. Even though 1984’s society is not a global village in a strict sense, we already find in Orwell’s novel the elements – as if it was a piecemeal déjà vu that will add and transform elements over the coming decades – of McLuhan’s global village, highlighting the transformative role that new technologies will enact in future societies.

            Radiohead’s tribute to Orwell’s 1984, a song titled “2+2=5”, while it lyrically makes allusion to the sensorial consequences of questioning the government’s authority, it also resonates as a prophecy of what humans worldwide have been instructed, if not imposed, in 2020 due to the Coronavirus pandemic: “I’ll stay home forever/where two and two always makes a five”. Colony, a television series aired between 2016-2018, takes 1984’s communist dystopian elements and translates them to the neoliberal language where – paraphrasing Radiohead – “ego (I) and consumption always makes happiness/survival”. However, as a dystopian series, Colony features a “global village” where constant technological innovations, besides serving superfluous individual needs such as shopping, are the means to monitor and coerce the biopolitical trajectories of a global oral society whose main headquarters are located in Davos, Switzerland (the place where each year a group of various political agents meet to strengthen the interests of the wealthiest of the world).

            Colony narrates the end of the human world – who is constantly under the attack of alien forms of intelligence – through a middle-class American family, who are forced to militarize even their youngest daughter in order to remain alive in a global village/community/society that is constantly changing the governing rules to both adapt to alien threats and guarantee the comfort of those in power. At first, the only alien forces that we see in Colony are embodied in the police force, but as the show unravels we also see robots and ultimately an alien form of intelligent military life able to defeat the most powerful human weapons. The show final scenes portray the arrival of an alien spacecraft that only by being present unleashes a sort of global nuclear attack. That is, so to speak, the end of humanity.

            Alike to the arrival of that alien spacecraft, the global spread of Coronavirus, or COVID-19, has brought the collapse of one of the thinnest layer of the neoliberal global project, that which anchors our biological nature to our planetary mission as the species that historically has claimed to be the most advanced form of life in the planet Earth. Suddenly, Chinese news from December 2019 became not only viral in media but also a biopolitical message that is reshaping global ecosystems and our understanding of our precarious human condition. Widespread social turmoil, national lockdowns and quarantines, global “stay at home” orders have taken over human lives across the globe as mandates that, according to those in power, are the direct consequence of the Coronavirus emergency. However, even a panoramic look at the configuration that human life was acquiring after the end of the Vietnam War would challenge the notion that our most crucial current global issues are due to the Coronavirus pandemic. Economic inequality, the fragility of national health systems, racial discrimination, and widespread social dissatisfaction have been present, at least, since the inception of Modernity at the global scale in the 15th century.  

            Both Orwell’s 1984 and Colony portray dystopian social realities in which human beings, even the best equipped to survive, surrender to unknown forces. In the case of 1984, the unknown is only visible through television screens; in Colony, the unknown materializes into non-human entities that, like Artificial Intelligence, at first seem under human control, but as these forces grasp the vulnerabilities of humans – both as individuals and members of a community – they take over the planetary reality. Moreover, in 1984, there is only one path towards survival, which is total submission to the regime’s warfare goals; in Colony, the level of individual survival is based on the social stratum of individuals as the ruling elite has launched a global neoliberal project that aims at colonizing other planets as well. Therefore, both the preservation of the neoliberal status quo and defense are the top priorities of the ruling elite, who through the use of intelligent borders administer the flow of people across the global landscape. In many ways, the current global social environment resembles Colony, with the only difference that humanity is under the attack of a biological weapon, globally called Coronavirus, which has brought health-related consequences unseen during previous pandemics.

            While the global population awaits the arrival of a vaccine, we are constantly fed by scientific information and various forms of artistic contents that underline that human reality won’t be as we formerly experienced it. In addition, governments worldwide through media maneuvers have launched a propagandistic campaign pushing forward what is called “the new normalcy/normality”. Nevertheless, this “new normality” has been defined by the deepening of violence among those communities that historically have been relegated to either a submissive status – thinking in terms of Orwell’s 1984 – or a militarized yet subordinated status as it is the case of those who resist the status quo – as it happens in Colony. The killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis on May 25 brought to the global surface the fact that, despite Coronavirus and the radical changes that it has forced into our human reality, humans are indeed the worst enemy against humanity. Android gadgets and the use of media have allowed for the creation of the “instant interplay of cause and effect” that McLuhan attributed to the global village, which is to say a technological ecosystem where individuality runs the risk of vanishing among the waves of virtual reality. Meanwhile, I hope that this new age of protest, which is mobilizing youth worldwide, finds a set of maneuvers that bring an outcome that does not resemble neither 1984 or Colony, all while alien forces have already landed on the Earth under the name of Coronavirus.

WORKS CITED  

Colony. USA Network: 2016-2018. 36 episodes.

McLuhan, Marshall. The Gutenberg Galaxy: The Making of Typographic Man. University of           Toronto Press: 2011.        

Orwell, George. 1984. Harcourt: 1949.

Radiohead. “2+2=5”, Hail to the Thief. Parlophone/Capitol: 2003.


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A abrangência do não-humano

Ao mesmo tempo em que tomamos consciência da magnitude e profundidade da influência humana sobre os sistemas terrestres nós tentamos gerenciar os problemas decorrentes da instabilidade climática que, por sua vez, e de forma circular, é fruto do impacto antropogênico sobre o planeta.

A crise ambiental se impõe de maneira incontornável e, hoje, enforma variadas esferas de nossas vidas; do modo como separamos o lixo em casa à formação de grupos transnacionais de pesquisa e a implementação de incentivos fiscais “verdes”. Esta influência direta e decisiva dos elementos materiais no nosso dia a dia também torna visível a maneira como o que chamamos ‘civilização’ não consiste em algo exclusivamente humano.

A História, ou melhor, nossa história, é a narração das inúmeras relações estabelecidas entre diferentes povos, diferentes culturas, mas é também o conjunto de associações cruciais e profundas entre o humano e certos minerais, entre pessoas e barro, entre nós e ferro, o homem e o cavalo, o petróleo, o bicho-da-seda, sistemas de governo, ou seja, entre o ser humano e um grande leque de entes não-humanos dos quais o conceito de civilização incontestavelmente depende.

E aqui vale fazer a observação de que a História como é tradicionalmente contada, salientando a perspectiva do opressor e apagando a do oprimido, acaba por considerar ‘humano’ apenas uma parcela da nossa própria espécie. A narrativa branca/ocidental/do norte global transforma grande parte da população em simples reserva de recursos – a ser explorada quando convir. Esta é exatamente a mesma lógica que nos trouxe ao ponto em que estamos em termos de crise ambiental. Racismo e especismo são,  simplesmente, graus do mesmo tipo de preconceito.

Se já passou da hora de pararmos de tratar pessoas como animais, já passou também da hora de tratarmos animais como animais – no sentido de que nem um nem outro são simplesmente recursos naturais a serem minados. A crise climática que enfrentamos está intimamente ligada à longa crise nas relações raciais que veio à tona tão intensamente nos últimos dias, assim como a fricção na relação entre os sexos. Não é possível tratar de uma sem abordar a outra.

Como consequência desta descoberta a posição privilegiada que nós -humanos/brancos/ocidentais/do norte global – tradicionalmente ocupamos na hierarquia das coisas é posta em questão. Descobrimo-nos mais um ente em meio a uma enorme variedade de Outros.

O exemplo talvez mais próximo e íntimo de como o ser humano se apoia sobre uma infinidade de seres não-humanos é o nosso microbioma – as comunidades de bactérias e outros microorganismos que habitam nossos corpos e dos quais o funcionamento do organismo depende. Esta relação simbiótica com determinados microrganismos é fundamental para manutenção da nossa saúde, assim como, numa escala maior, a relação equilibrada entre humano e não-humano é fundamental para a manutenção do bem-estar de todas as espécies.

Contudo, no decorrer dos últimos séculos, o humano tornou-se o principal agente geofísico moldando o planeta de maneira profunda e global. Enquanto colhemos os incontáveis benefícios dos avanços técnico-científicos feitos desde o início da Revolução Industrial não podemos deixar de reconhecer as consequências de nossos excessos e desatenção. O segundo plano estável e familiar de outrora está em rebelião – podemos detectar isso no aumento da frequência e escala dos chamados ‘desastres naturais’, na extinção em massa de espécies, na ubiquidade da poluição por plástico, e no plano social vemos isso refletido em movimentos recentes como “Me Too” e “Black Lives Matter” que pretendem a reestruturação da sociedade (humana) de maneira mais igualitária.

O composto de crises em que nos encontramos – ecológica, climática, social, econômica… – soa o alerta para o fato de que, afinal, não estamos sozinhos, no topo de uma hierarquia dos seres terrestres, mas fazemos parte de uma multidão de entes,  todos com necessidades e papéis específicos a desempenhar dentro da Biosfera.

E o tempo não parece estar a nosso favor. Por um lado a contagem regressiva para um colapso ecológico vai acelerando, por outro já passou da hora de reavaliarmos as estruturas das relações entre humano e não-humano e traçarmos uma estratégia. O peso desta responsabilidade não pode ser maior que o estímulo à ação. O desmonte das estruturas que nos trouxeram aqui deve acontecer simultaneamente à pavimentação de caminhos mais amplos, inclusivos e igualitários.


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Sabrina’s new EP + Interview

Sabrina’s new EP “The Negative” has been just released by Jaringan Records.

Here you can listen to her album and make your collaboration:

Nepantla: Hey! How are you? Thank you for letting me do this second interview!

Sabrina: Hi, thanks for noticing the release. It was a blast to create.

N: Your new work has just been released, so would you say that the EP has a specific theme?

S: This album doesn’t have a specific theme. All of the tracks are an exploration, experiments that I have been doing during these last months.

N: I really like your approach to rhythms in “The Negative”. Rhythms play a central role in the ep. How did you come to work with rhythms?

S: They are experiments that take inspiration from sacred practices of indigenous cultures and how they used music in them.

N: Do you sample real sounds?

S: Yes and no. I have done some field recordings of void spaces and layer them in the tracks. Other sounds came from the devices that I’m using which have fixed but mangle-able sounds.

N: There is something very pristine, very clear in the sounds. On the other side, there is a general darkness present in all the tracks. Do you want to transmit a particular feeling?

S: The acceptance of negative energy into a chemical wash of positivity.

N: How do you imagine people hearing your music? Do you think of it more as background music, or music to listen to while you are walking…? What would be the best situation to hear it?

S: I imagine people having earworms with the rhythms ringing in their brains. Whenever possible as the soundtrack of your life. haha

N: And by the way, why “the Negative”?

S: I wanted to play with the duality of thoughts. Like in film and photography, the negative is what is stored inside the camera and should not be exposed until it’s time to process it into a beautiful picture.

N: Something else you want to share?

S: To go in depth with the devices that you have in your hand. Some barriers are actually just a hurdle.

N: I like that, that sounds very object-oriented! Thank you, Sabrina!

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Camille Claudel’s Clotho. Between Venus and the Fates

The French artist, Camille Claudel, was born the 8th December 1864 in Fére-en-Tardenois.

At an early age, Camille was interested in sculpture. Before she turned 18 years old, her family moved to Paris, where she visited courses in the Academie Colarossi and established her own atelier together with two other young female sculptors. The sculptor Alfred Boucher (1850-1934) visited their Atelier and provided advice to their works once a week.[1]

Later in 1883, Claudel had the possibility to study with Auguste Rodin, and shortly after, she began working in Rodin’s Atelier. They worked together for several years and kept a romantic relationship.

In Claudel’s works, a special skillfulness and exploration of the material as well as a unique style exploration are visible. There have been lots of discussions about the influence of Rodin in her work and vice versa.  Camille confronted recurrent comparisons with Rodin during her art career.[2]

“During Camille Claudel’s lifetime, she pursued a career that was largely defined in terms of Auguste Rodin. This perspective of her work may be seen most notably in the reactions to her sculpture L’Âge Mûr. This work was interpreted as an allegory of two women’s struggle for one man – the artist Rodin.” [3]

The interpretations of Camille Claudel’s pieces have frequently been biographical. Paul Claudel, a poet, and her diplomat brother established this tradition of understanding Claudel’s art pieces as a visual representation of every stage and event of her life, above all about her romantic relationship with Rodin. Years after Camille’s death, Paul Claudel published an article for an exhibition catalog at the Musée Rodin, describing and interpreting her works merely with a biographical approach.[4]

Intending to find an economical and artistic independence, and most importantly, to distance her work from Rodin’s influence in order to gain her own artistic recognition, Camille aimed to develop her own artistic style totally different from Rodin. In search of an artistic independence, Camille created several pieces where her artistic pursuit began to be visible.

Here it is important to remark as well the artistic environment that surrounded Camille Claudel, namely Paris the international cultural center at that time. The Royal Academies of Art were well established in Europe and represented the most significant professional art societies. The art academies established an important artistic tradition. Besides the artistic instruction, they held the annual or semi-annual exhibitions. The Academies were places to display and show to the critics the artist’s works.[5]

“However, by the mid-nineteenth century, academies across Europe were undercut by what would later be seen as avant-garde movements. Some artists sought change from within, exhibiting their radical works at these official venues.”[6]

Consequently, this means that the artistic environment that surrounded Claudel was rich in variety and, most importantly, inspired by challenging the academic dominance of the art sphere.

Claudel’s art-piece Clotho, a plaster, and later marble female sculpture, which is the main focus of this article, was probably the beginning of Claudel’s own artistic style exploration,[7] doubtlessly influenced as well by the academic and nonacademic artistic environment at the moment.

Camille Claudel’s Clotho

In 1893 an older woman who worked as a model in Rodin’s atelier posed for Claudel for the creation of Clotho.[8]

Camille, Claudel: Clotho, 1893, plaster, 90 x 49.3 x 43 cm, Musée Rodin, Paris.

Camille Claudel named her sculpture after Clotho, one of the three Fates from Greek mythology; the goddesses in charge of threading the destiny, a topic to which I will refer back later.

The drafts of the torso figure are exhibited in Musée d’Orsay. The plaster version of Clotho was exhibited at the Salon of 1893 and is nowadays kept in the Musée Rodin

The final marble piece was completed in 1897; however, its whereabouts are unknown.

“Through Clotho, Claudel is able to show the viewer once again that, though she may be working from similar themes as Rodin and his other assistants, she still has the creativity and skill to create an individual work of art. Not only did she create a sculpture that called upon classic literature, but she also found technical inspiration in Rodin’s studio – and possibly even Art Nouveau – in one work of art.”[9]

Claudel’s sculpture portrays an old naked woman standing over a roughed textured basis. She is thin, almost skeletal, with visible traces of the aging body. Her posture is slightly leaning to a side with her head and neck much more inclined like bearing the weight of her voluminous hair.

Clotho’s posture is evoking a flowing movement. Her arms are positioned in an intent to counterbalance the weight of the head, her separated and slightly bended knees in conjunction with the one arm holding her hair. She looks like she is about to take a step or that she is standing and “captured” in a moment of free and dynamic movement.

Her face with prominent cheekbones is half-covered by the hair. The rendering of the neck, breast, and stomach show baggy flesh by age, which allows the ribs to be visible through the loose skin.

The voluminous top part of the sculpture, the figure’s hair has a strong, heavy rendering. The texture is rough and split into thick parts, like thread or roots. The voluminous and roughed textured hair has different sizes, it is tangled at the level of the back and neck and comes down tangling up on her arms and legs. The sinuous shape of the hair falls down to her ankle, rounding her left leg. All the parts that formed the voluminous hair are eventually divided into just two thick sections, which are rooted in the basis.

Despite the volume and length of the hair, it has no weightless mobility. Instead, it twirls and has a similar structure of wet, thick hair or tree roots. Her right arm is holding her head and hair, and the left one is stretched out with a section of hair over the hand.  Her tilted head reveals a deep look in her eyes and her mouth sketches a grimace.

“Clotho’sspindly hair, for example, speaks to the sinuous lines that were so revered in Art Nouveau.”[10]

It is clearly visible that Claudel’s figure does not follow the classical academic ideal standards closely. Though the old Clotho from Camille Claudel is a full-body standing figure, its posture is not following an academic pose. The sculpture’s posture has seemingly an engaged leg carrying most of the weight and a free leg that enhances the perception of a walking movement, which portrays Clotho as if she is about to step, or walk, like a contrapposto. But Clotho is not portraying the gracefulness and elegance of ancient antique figures. Instead, her posture seems to be purposely unbalanced by the weight of the hair, which forces the figure to break the elegant academic body position.[11]

Claudel didn’t portray the Fate goddess following the ancient Greek tradition with the folding garments, nor is she depicting it as a beautiful woman, which would follow the academic ideals. However, despite all the aforementioned, it seems she is not either desisting entirely of these standards. Claudel is indeed depicting an antique Roman-Greek motif, namely a myth, and here might be highlighted as well that Clothohas a powerful theatrical posture, she seems to be emerging from somewhere, heading forwards.

The Fates myth

The Moirai or Parcae in the Greek Mythology also commonly known as Fates, were three sister deities named: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. The description of the three goddesses appears first in Hesiod’s epic poem the Theogony (ca. 700 B.C.E.).

Hesiod presents the three fates as the daughters of Zeus and Themis. The goddesses personified the destiny and life: they were in charge of spinning “the thread of a mortal’s life at birth and thus determined his destiny.”[12]

Every goddess had a specific task and a special attribute that distinguish her: Clotho being the youngest, is presented as “the Spinner.” Clotho held the distaff to spin the thread of life and therefore was the one who decided birth; Lachesis “the Apportioner” measured the length of the thread and spun out the course of life; and Atropos the eldest sister, “the inflexible” had the task to cut off the thread which turned her in the Fate of death.[13]

Thomas Blisniewski, explains in his book „Kinder der dunkelen Nacht “(1992), that the Fate sisters determine not only the duration of life but the quality of it as well. Blisniewski describes how in various myths, the thread had a specific color and structure that could bespeak for the quality of life; for example, a strong thread predicted happiness and good luck while a black thread bad luck.[14]

The three Fates represented the supreme arbitresses of humanity’s fate, and they often appear together in many classical traditions. The artistic representations of the three sisters have some variations according to the time as well. Nevertheless, in most of the depictions, they are represented as a group and carry their attributes, which have made them identifiable.

Fig.: Peter Paul Rubens: The destiny from Marie de Medici, 1621-1625, 394 x 155 cm, Oil on canvas, Paris, Musée du Louvre.

Depicting the three sisters together, as aforementioned, completed the allegory of fate portraying the three stages of life and symbolized by the attributes and the task of each one of the goddesses. This means that the three sisters together summarized the human existence.

Claudel’s Clotho

It is undoubtful that the representation of the Fates has not been static over the years but, despite the changes, their attributes (distaff, scissors, and the measure of the thread) were usually the elements that allow the spectator to understand the allegory.[15]

Some artworks depicted the Three Fates as youthful and graceful women, representing the goddesses of fate in the strict sense of the term, reinforcing the idea of the goddesses in charge of the construction of the path of life, from birth to death. In the depictions in which the goddesses appeared like three old and ugly women, Goya’s painting Atropos or the Fates (1820-1823)serves here as an example, the motif of the Fates is directly related to death. They represent an allegory of the duration of life, threading the path of life to an end.

Francisco, de Goya: Las parcas, 1820-23, oil on canvas, Museo del Prado, Madrid.

There are interesting comparisons to be analyzed between the tradition of the Fate Clotho and the depiction of Camille Claudel’s figure. Clotho is normally the fate in charge of the beginning of life. Camille Claudel’s Clotho however is depicted as an old, nearly skeletal woman, with all the traces of an aged body. She doesn’t carry the distaff, nor is she depicted doing her task as the “Spinner.”

The connection of Camille’s Clotho with the myth, besides the name of the art piece, might be the rendering of the hair. In Claudel’s figure, the strands of hair are thick with a rough texture, which could evoke to the texture of a thread.[16]

Determined by her biography and her own artistic development, it is known that Camille Claudel had knowledge of classic mythology not only because of her earlier works and studies but thanks to her father´s book collection, too[17].

Nevertheless, Claudel’s Clotho is represented separated from her sisters Atropos and Lachesis and depicted without the traditional attributes. Claudel’s aged figure with her impressive heavy thread-like hair portrays a woman whose hair/thread has grown rampantly and begins to entangle itself. In this figure, Claudel seems to have depicted the goddess like a Clotho who is tied in her own hair, in her own life thread.[18]

Despite this and the fragile thinness of the sculpture, it does not show a dying or shamed woman, she looks strangely empowered by her hair and standing pose.[19] 

This feature can be described in connection to the depiction of Venus by William-Adolphe Bouguereau.

Venus description in relation to Clotho

Bouguereau’s oil academic painting The Birth of Venus (1879) was exhibited in the Paris Salon from 1879. It won the Prix de Rome as well and was bought by the Musée du Luxembourg in Paris where it was exhibited until 1920. Nowadays, The Birth of Venus is exhibited in Musée d´Orsay in Paris. The art-piece represents an exemplification of the academic art of that time[20], the rendering of Venus follows the example set by the classic tradition and Bouguereau portrays Venus with a dynamic elegant contrapposto, which enhances movement and displays an idealized Venus.

Adolphe William, Bouguereau: The Birth of Venus, 1879, 300x 215 cm, oil on canvas, Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

Venus (or her Greek counterpart Aphrodite) is associated with love and feminine beauty and has been a popular subject in art since ancient times[21].

On the one hand, Hesiod describes that Aphrodite/Venus was born out of sea foam after Crono emasculated Uranos and his blood dropped into the sea. Venus stepped on a scallop shell ashore. On the other hand, according to Homer, Venus was the daughter of Dione and Zeus.

“The Greeks explained her name as deriving from aphros, or “foam,” seemingly concurring with Hesiod in respect of her origin, though this is not a “traditional” Olympian origin, as it would make her more ancient and therefore more essential than Zeus.” [22]

The myth presents Venus as a docile female principle related to water and in charge of providing balance to life. Venus balances the opposite tempers, connecting the male and female.[23]

Venus was usually depicted naked or partially naked. The goddess’ attributes are among others: the swan, the pomegranate, the dove, Myrtle, and sparrows were sacred to her. It is believed that the goddess of love renews her virginity periodically in the sea at Paphos[24].

She is usually depicted as a beautiful, docile, but simultaneously extremely powerful woman. All this, considering what Hesiod mentions in Theogony that her very birth resulted from the castration of Uranos,

“Venus, goddess of love, has provided the perfect subject through which twentieth-century artists have expressed their association of humanistic and aesthetic ideals with a woman. Because she has represented the standard of beauty through the centuries, Venus has lent herself to historicizing more than any other mythical figure, and artists wanting to comment on earlier art are likely to turn to her.”[25]  

In association with the tradition of the depiction of Venus, the mythological scene from Bouguereau shows the naked Venus standing in the center of the image, she has just been born and stands on her sea-shell. Various other characters are gathered around her with admiration in their gaze. The brushstrokes are so soft, they are not visible, and the rendering of the characters has a porcelain-alike finish. The application of light helps to increase the importance of the goddess, and soft highlights are visible all over the right side of her body and hair. Though the treatment of the flesh colors is relatively similar in all the female characters of the painting, Venus stands out with her warm-pink undertone.

Venus is elegantly standing while she raises her arms, and both of her hands are holding several hair strands, it seems like she is arranging her hair. Venus’s head is tilted to a side. Her face is slightly covered by her left arm, and she seems to be looking downwards. The expression in her face bespeaks serenity and a solemn look. The goddess’ hair is striking and captures special attention, her hair is long and reaches her thighs. The depiction of her locks is carefully rendered; they look thick and voluminous. At the tips of the hair, we find it divided into several wavy hair strands.

Though she is accompanied by several creatures, her position is not only highlighted by the composition of the image, which places her in the middle occupying more than half of the space, but also, most importantly for this paper, her relevance is portrayed through her elegant, sensual posture, which presents a soft contrapposto. 

Comparison Venus with Clotho

Interestingly, there are some formal similarities between the Venus by Bouguereau and Clotho by Camille Claudel as well as extreme differences that could help us better understand Claudel’s Clotho.

Observing the figure of Venus in Bouguereau’s painting in relation to Claudel’s Clotho, we find the depiction of two naked women, who are standing on a base. Both, Venus and Clotho have long, voluminous and heavy hair and a comparable rendering of it, being in both sculptures the most remarkable element. Clotho’s hair presents a thick texture. Claudel’s Clotho could represent an aged version of Venus. The posture of both images is similar as well, and above all, the placing of their arms holding the hair.

The standing pose of the women is similar. Both are depicted leaning slightly to one side. On the one hand Venus shows an elegant contrapposto, and on the other hand Clotho has a naturalistic standing pose; she seems to be in motion. On both figures, the weight of the body is placed on the left leg, though Clotho seems to be losing her balance because of the fragility and the weight of her thick, heavy entangled hair.

Clotho is standing over a rough-textured base. The base is essentially shapeless and has a non-finito rendering. As such, much like the shapeless depiction of Clotho, the shapeless representation of the base can be seen as the sea-shell that transports Venus to shore.

Clotho is portrayed presenting a dichotomy of a fragile, withered woman while simultaneously looking sort of empowered by her hair. Her body looks fragile, but she looks undoubtedly powerful.

Finally, it is clear that Claudel’s Clotho representation is not portraying or following in a precise manner the tradition of the voluminous, young beautiful female nude we find in Bouguereau’s Venus. Nonetheless, as mentioned before, along with this comparison, we’ve observed that Camille Claudel might have depicted her Clotho as a Venus. In the formal language, we’ve already found some similarities. Now it is important to try to understand the reason of why Claudel might have used both traditions for her sculpture, to portray a Clotho that resembles an aged, withered Venus and a Venus that is lacking beauty, youthfulness and being alone.

 What does it mean that Claudel presents Clotho like Venus?

Up to this point I’ve analyzed that Camille Claudel’s figure oscillates between the Venus and the Fates tradition. Despite them being considered as opposite, it is exactly this dichotomy that enriches the figure’s discourse. Considering this interpretation, it is proper to wonder: why would Camille present Clotho as Venus and Venus as Clotho? Why did she borrow features of both traditions for her figure? It is also important to consider that despite this oscillation in-between traditions, Camille guides the interpretation, providing the figure a specific name, which leads to a certain lecture of the sculpture.

Claudel created a figure, that implies the conjunction of opposites. In other words, Clotho seems to sway between the personification of an academic Venus (Like Bouguereous) and an anti-academic Clotho. Maybe, the representation of an aged, ugly Venus or an empowered portrayal of destiny, birth and death.

Apparently, Clotho is portraying a visual representation of an agreement/relationship/conjunction between opposites “or the simultaneous unity of past, present, and future”. [26]Here, it could also be mentioned that certainly the birth and death are interpretations closely linked to Venus and Clotho, and of course, despite being totally opposite, both are featured in Claudel’s sculpture

This concern about destiny and life was a recurrent theme in Camille’s oeuvre, for instance, the figure of The wave, where three naked women are portrayed awaiting with impatience the arrival of a big violent wave.

These pieces reflect Claudel’s own style and her seek for her own representation and “understanding of life, love, destiny, death, and God.” [27]

We might understand the presentation of Clotho as an old Venus and the involvement of the traditions as a deeper reflection of life, which Claudel was perhaps interested in showing.[28]

Taking into account that Claudel’s Clotho involves a reflection of life, like mentioned by Angelo Caranfa “a sculpture that contains the simultaneous unity of signs or gestures and silence, time and eternity, a sculpture that articulates the human condition in its transit between birth and death,”[29] all previously mentioned artistic motifs make sense, and show how destiny, the transition of life, the deep and even silent observation of all of this[30], appears not only in Clotho but in many of Claudel’s sculptures. Clotho’s connection to Venus finally has to lead us to understand this duality presented in just one sculpture better and guided us to inquire deeper in Claudel’s art process.


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[1] Cf.(Rivière, 1986, p. 11).

[2] Cf.(Rivière, 1986, pp. 9-14).

[3] (Stengle, 2014).

[4] Cf. (Paris, 1984, p. 299).

[5] Cf.(Rosenfeld, 2004).

[6] (Rosenfeld, 2004).

[7] Cf. (Rivière, 1986)., (Paris, 1984).

[8] Cf. (Callahan, 2015, pp. 19-20).

[9] (Callahan, 2015, pp. 20-21).

[10] (Callahan, 2015, p. 20).

[11] (Summers, 1977).

[12] (Reid & Rohman, 1993, p. 430).

[13] Cf. (Reid & Rohman, 1993, p. 430)., (Blisniewski, 1992, p. 5).

[14] Cf. (Blisniewski, 1992, p. 6)

[15] (Pfisterer, 2011, p. 16).

[16] (Silke, 2017).

[17] Cf. (Berger, 1990, p. 26).

[18] Cf. (Berger, 1990, pp. 26-27).

[19]Cf. (Callahan, 2015, p. 20). (Berger, 1990, pp. 26-27).

[20]Cf. (Hooper, 1879).

[21] Cf. (Aghion, Barbillon, & Francois, 2000, pp. 49-55).

[22] (Kennedy, 1998, p. 37).

[23] Cf.(Aghion, Barbillon, & Francois, 2000, pp. 49-55).

[24] Cf. (Kennedy, 1998).

[25] (Bernstock, 1993).      

[26] (Caranfa, 1999, p. 107).

[27] (Caranfa, 1999, p. 41).

[28] (Flagmeier, 1989, p. 307).

[29] (Caranfa, 1999, p. 109).

[30] Cf. (Caranfa, 1999, p. 109).

Vapor-trap? An interview with Bruja

Bruja is a Romanian musician making a name for herself by combining and navigating genres with ease. She combines trap beats with lyricism, harmonious hooks, vaporwave vibes, and metal fury. Musical imports, like trap or vaporwave, are usually not too creative. They work by following a certain recepy: take a popular beat, add some local sounds, make it visually and thematically attractive, and done.

Bruja doesn’t follow that recipe, or at least her music shows more than a mear mercantile, consumerist track creation. What draw me to her music was the way in which her music acts as a mirror for the split Romanian society. Her music actualizez the nostalgias of the 90s – marked by a sudden openness to Western culture and at the same time a deep social and financial divide to the West that created that culture – with the millennial digital bliss – that doesn’t see itself as a newcomer in a newly imported musical landscape, but feels at home there. Precisely because of this mix of attitudes – nostalgia and digital (almost ignorant) bliss – makes her music have a vaporwave aura. Vaporwave with a twist though. It’s more like vapor-trap, and I have a feeling that Bruja (intentionally or not) explores fully the nature of trap to not be a fixed framework. Trap is easily imported and easily modifiable, because it fluctuated between its own determinations. For this reason it can bridge vaporwave with domains of sound that vaporwave never saw as itself.

For a Romanian like myself this brings great hopes, as Romanian music has been chasing for years the mainstream Western culture, always falling behind. It could be that in this case, Bruja’s music can set a new goal to be chased by others.

Let’s see what Bruja has to say about my humble reactions to her music.


Interview with Bruja

Follow Bruja here

Forum Nepantla: Dear Bruja, thank you for accepting our interview. How are you and how are you managing the lockdown?

Bruja: Hey! With pleasure. I’ok, I’m managing this quarantine as good as I can … sleeping by day, and staying up at night, writing, watching series… you know … like everybody. I’m trying not to think to much about conspiracy theories and to do what’s recommended.

FN: I saw you released a recent video with Brasov that seems to be recorded during the quarantine. Was this planned or would you call it spontaneous lockdown art?

Bruja: The video with Brasov was shot before the quarantine, and we had planned it for a long time now.

FN: Your song “Lo-Fi” sparked my interest in this interview. Could you tell us more about the idea behind the song?

Bruja: “Lo-Fi” is a piece of me, my pink, dreamy side. I was inspired by the lo-fi genre, and what I added on top of that just came to me on the spot. When I compose, it may well be that I develop the general concept only after creating the beats and not before. It depends. With “lo-fi” everything was spontaneous, unplanned, and while I was looking for lyrics in my head I stumbled upon some 90s nostalgias and just went with it.

FN: You title yourself “a vaporwave wolf” with an “anime heart”. Could you explain what this means for you?

Bruja: I don’t believe in coincidences. Why am I saying this? Because the idea of calling my self a “wolf” came from my need of showing myself as nature leads me. This was before I met two cool chicks that became my friends and after the song came out recommended me the same book – without knowing each other – “Women who run with the wolves”. They don’t know each other, which lead me to believe that I attract exactly what I wish for. Plus, wolves are fucking badass besides their wild and protective nature – when it comes to their pups. I just think they have an OK behavior. My heart is anime because I grew up on them. I adore anime, manga, the whole lot. I guess I am an otaku girl.

FN: For me, your song mixes in a very interesting way the nostalgia of vaporwave and analog media culture with millennial gadgetry dominated by the sound of trap. Was this your intention?

Bruja: Like I was saying , most of the times, ideas just come to me. It wasn’t my intention to do this necessarily. I just went with the beat it and it led me there, step by step. I kind of let the beat speak for itself 🤷🏻‍♀️

FN: Do you think we can envision a new type of vaporwave – vapor-trap? A nostalgically alert beat that bridges the VGA and Wi-Fi generations and plays around with “non-linear rules” like you say in “Ia loc”?

Bruja: Vapor-trap sounds nice. It could lead to something in time. I will continue to make similar tracks and with more powerful vaporwave and lo-fi influence. We can play with so many things and make millions of musical combinations. Why not? It could be a new genre.  

FN: You are one of the few female voices in Romanian rap that is breaking through to the mainstream. How does this affect you and do you think your voice can bring any change in the industry?

Bruja: I am happy people listen to me and that my numbers keep on growing. I can only say I am happy with what I have to offer and what I got until now. I restrain myself to this state regarding my goals for the meantime and I hope everybody gets to hear my voice, because I do have a lot to say. The industry is anyways continually changing and I guess only time will show my contributions to that change.

FN: You play around with a lot of symbols associated with sexual power relations – like in your song “Spice Girl” – and you reconfigure them. This is also palpable in “Ia loc” where you criticize statical, authority based ideas. Does Feminism play any role in your music? If so, how do you understand it?

Bruja: I don’t see myself as a feminist necessarily. I’m just defending women’s rights and trying to give young girls the confidence to bloom like beautiful, strong  women without bowing their heads to certain “situations” so to say, as is usually expected from them from parents, or society in general.

FN: What are your future plans?

Bruja: To get on the Billboard. Hahaha

FN: Thank you for the interview.

Bruja: Thank you too! Stay safe!


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Philosophy and the fist: when reality hits you in the face

We often hear the expression “you need to face reality”! What happens when reality faces you? What happens when reality hits you – literaly – in the face? I have had my share fair of encounters with reality. Fortunately, I have also been privileged enough to take a step back and reflect in peace. This article is about the facticity of reality and its impossibility of negation when it “faces” you. I will start with some anecdotes and then navigate my way to an analysis of facticity in music via Koran Streets’ songs.

The anecdotes

I was playing hide and seek. I was hidden behind a car and was enjoying the immortality of childhood. I was caught up in a magic reality that smelled of grandour and destinal heroism. Somebody grabbed me from behind, immobilizing me – a 10 year old kid – while two others were hitting me repeatedly, with no purpose, with no result. They left and I was left behind, behind the car and behind my questions. My friends saw me and told my parents. I wasn’t able, I couldn’t really do anything. My enraged father went on to find my agressors. He asked me if I know who they were. I knew, but at the same time I knew that I don’t want him to face them, so I said nothing.

Certain realities punched my innocent face. I suddenly felt time in my bones and the absurdity of contingent violence. Gratuitous violence. They didn’t steal anything, they just punched, laughed and left. No more destinal heroism, just a feeling of exposure. At the time I thought the gratuitous violence was monstruous and spectacular. It took me a lot of time to understand its banality, its contingency, its facticity.

Such realities confronted me more times than I would like to admit. But let’s fast forward to its banality.

I was visiting Mexico, where my wife’s family lives. We were there for one of her conferences. A lecture on evil in Aristotle. Mexico City is impressive and sleeping beauty out of all its pores. Especially beautiful is the UNAM campus, where the conference was. After the succesful lecture, we went for some beers. We were laughing on the way and I was completely involved in the succulent beauty of Mexico. A kind of beauty that flows like juice from agave leaves. You can’t resist it. We came to a bus station. There, my eyesight was gravitating towards a certain point. I wasn’t aware of this at first, until it hit me. A missing person poster with stamps on some of the photos: “dead”. I was struck by it, I couldn’t communicate anymore – even though nobody noticed. The others were not affected in the least. The poster was supurating violence just as the beauty of Mexico was flowing like a thick juice out of an agave leaf. It was then and there that I understood the banality of violence, present in every pore, errupting from time to time like unforeseeable spurts of lava. It was there when I understood the gratuity of violence, nothing spectacular to it.

Just as agave juice, reality and violence can get transformed. They can be isolated and shiped away. Reality doesn’t hit the same way in Tepito as it does in Lomas de Chapultepec. In Tepito it has few places to hide. In las Lomas it has too many. It hides in big houses and private security. It hides from sight, far away from the pristine hills of the rich. In Tepito and other similar places around the world it supurates continuously, as mundane as the taco places present at every corner. This happens in philosophy as well.

Rejecting the real

Philosophy often neglects the violent. It tucks it away in a corner to save face, to save continuity and systemity. It transforms it into concepts and conceptual networks. It gives it a framework that cannot fully encompass it and generalizez it as a contingent, negligent aspect of coherent thought. As Badiou or Nancy put it, philosophy cannot resist the tempation to think everthing under one unifying principle. It should though. It should look at the continuously rearranging multiplicities that often spark violence in the attempt to assert their unity, their identity. I do not wish to advocate for violence here. I wish to show that ignoring it, wrapping it up in nicely presented, conceptual abstractions repeats violence and let’s it perpetuate itself. Violence is like a trauma. It gets repeated infinitely when resisted to with artificial tools. Violence should not be tucked away in neetly ordered logical systems. It should be heard.

Let me expand with a somewhat surprising philosopher in this context – Jean-Luc Marion. Jean Luc Marion’s Phenomenology has either been associated with theology, fine art or major historical events. Many have accused him of not accounting for a great deal of phenomena and thus not respecting the universality principle of phenomenology. Christina Gschwandtner has already dealt with these issues in analysing the range of givenness – one of his central concepts – in Marion’s phenomenology. She states that, even though Marion seldomly speaks of common phenomena in terms of givenness, he does account for them. She however points out that Marion describes powerful, overwhelming phenomena, called saturated, by refering mostly to one type of phenomenon, in this case the historical event. Gschwandtner further argues that such an understanding of phenomenality can be applied to other phenomena as well, such as nature or climate change for example. Marion does indeed seem to restrict his descriptions of saturated phenomena to works of art, which are not accessible to all, to religious experiences, which most do not experience, to historical events, which do not affect us all in the same degree, or to generally liminal experiences, which do fail to support the commonality of saturation. Marion does however bring his concept of givenness and saturation into actuality by applying it to the events of September 11 and showing, how such an event forces us to seek new perspectives on reality. How? by saturating our concepts, by making them idle.

A violent, powerful, shaking event shows the limits of our ability to hide it conceptually, to empoverish it via representational defense mechanisms. It continues to face our conceptual resistance and saturate it, just like a thick juice saturating an agave until eventually it pours out. This forces us to reevaluate our concepts, to re-design our frameworks and see them from a new perspective. It forces us to accept its facticity and not ignore it as a negligible accident.

Let’s go back to Las Lomas to understand this better. The rich live in Las Lomas. If you were to visit Las Lomas alone you would think you are walking on the streets of an exotic part of Barcelona. You would think that paradise is achievable and violence has no place there. You would think that the wealth concentrated there and the nicely arranged aesthetics have squashed violence. Until you see all the security requirements, the high walls defending the individual paradises. Then you understand violence was not squashed, it was just hidden down in the lower parts of the city. It still looms over wealth as an evergrowing danger. The concentration of wealth in Las Lomas, and other parts, resolves nothing. Instead it deepens the divide between nicely wrapped realities and violent ones. It condemns some to realistic ignorance and others to everlasting confrontations with violent reality. And the divide keeps on growing as Las Lomas never faces reality and reality never faces it – just accidentally and then gets swept away under some nicely trimmed grass. The realities of the two are so different that is seems unlikely they will ever meet, unlikely that violent reality will ever face Las Lomas and invite them to accept other perspectives, to change, to reasses their isolating strategies.

Here is where the genius of hip hop comes in, and in the sea of hip hop the genius of Koran Streets.

Right in front of mama’s house

Just like the missing person posters that shook me, Koran Streets breaks away your neatly painted reality and forces you to face a powerful image. The all-enduring, refugeless violence.

Violence is not spectacular, it is not heroic overcoming of hardship. It is instead an invasion of reality extending itself to the deepest regions of safety. Power struggles, illegal activity, raw violence, all take place “right in front of mama’s house”. The maternal or paternal environment is something that most of us associate with safety, with refuge and support. The presence of violence in this nest of comfort confronts us with the privilege of calling maternal enviroment safe. It digs deep into the ideality of reality and replaces it with sheer stress, with raw, unalterated struggle for survival.

An invasion of maternal space is not something we all have in common, but it is something that we all can imagine as a most intimate and violent attack on the ideality of our reality. Koran Streets takes his reality and shoves it into our face, forcing us to accept it, or at least inviting us to accept it. Its delivering simplicity is non-negociable and undeniable. Accepting its point of view forces us to change the statical nature of our divisive conceptual frameworks and work on opening them up to change. Hip hop is for this reason not a mere expression of triviality, but a political platform for neglected realities.

Let me detail this a bit more. Violence is often marginalized and when it happens in those marginalized regions it is easily dismissable. Think of violence in poor neighbourhoods. Reporting of acts of violence in such a neighbourhood is often accompanied by justifications for such acts: the people were involved in illegal activity, the victims are suspected of having connections with illegal activity, or they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. When Koran Streets choses to have the hook of his song desplay in a factual manner that everything happens right in front of his mother’s house, right in the middle of what one would imagine to be a safe space, he perfectly describes that for some there is no wrong place, no wrong time, no consensual or planned involvement.

By using this simple imagery he invites (forcefully) others to assume his perspective of non-choice, of factual involvement and non-consensual violence. When we assume this perspective and see that there is no one divergent individual to blame but a whole system that gives no space for refuge, we are also invited to entertain new perspectives. We are at least given the opportunity to reflect: how is this possible? how can one deal with such constant stress? what can I do?

Furthermore, assuming this perspective, where the maternal space is in no way the picture perfect lawn on which children peacefully play, we recognize the non-statistical dimension of violence. We recognize the experience described as an actual suffering, as actual stress, as deep personal experiencing.

The sad irony

Me writing this article is the irony. Even though songs or depictions of violence such as that of Koran Streets invite or force us to acknowledge the authenticity, the facticity, and the personal suffering of violence, it also has the disadvantage of being perceived as a momentarily emphatic moment that serves to relieve our consciousness. Like a picture of starving children on social media, or a painting in a museum of refugees fleeing, Koran Streets’ song can impact us. The impact however often remains isolated to that fleeting experience we had in a museum looking at the above painting, or at a concert hearing Koran Streets. This is perfectly described in Boogie’s “n**** needs” video.

Boogie sings of the struggle, the doubts, the plans, the awarness of change, all while being depicted as a bleeding show piece. Personal suffering, the fight to overcome challenges and indeed the search for one’s identity are objectified as “occasions to reflect”, and then unfortunately to move on. They are consumed as short visits to new realities. A sort of moral, political tourism.

This article is in many ways just that. A short incursion into a reality of violence, that gets read, but does not necessarily do it justice. It consumes it and covers it in concepts. Realizing this cruel irony is however a first step in elliciting not just empathy but awareness. The awareness is not enough. Here is where I think Jean-Luc Marion comes in handy – even though he does not have a straight forward political or societal view, even though he has been accused of conservatism.

Assuming other perspectives, such as that of a person living in constant fear, stress, or violence, is for Marion not a momentarily excurion to a different perception of reality. It is more the necessary step in changing one’s own reality in such a way that the conceptual dismissal of the foreign reality does not get shut down. This experience of another perspective, another way of experiencing is for Marion a responsibility of changing ourselves, of accepting responsibility for the other and building new conceptual frameworks that do not continue to marginalize the marginalized. The fist of reality should not ellicit mere feelings, but active work on one’s own philosophies, in order to build new, inclusive, aware, responsible systems.


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Rereading/Rewriting Realities with Undone: Working through Inconvenient Frameworks

Undone

undone, nepantlera

“It’s all about your emotions, you need to feel them without letting them become you.”

Premiering in 2019, Undone is an immensely captivating story visualizing the inner workings of a 28-year-old Latina-American woman who is grappling with both her own and the concept of reality. The story unfolds through the relationships between Alma Winograd-Diaz (Rosa Salazar) and the people around her, depicting her innate restlessness and rebellion against the threat of routine. Alma struggles with her severely committed partner Sam (Siddharth Dhananjay), the engagement of her pragmatic sister Becca (Angelique Cabral), and her overbearing Mexican mother Camila (Constance Marie). To her, they represent what she considers the ultimate trap: traditional domesticity. The monotony of her life soon becomes disrupted by what will turn out to be the most important relationship in the narrative, if not her life. Her relationship with her deceased father Jacob (Bob Odenkirk).

The series starts off setting up Alma in a car crash so severe she lands in a coma. When she wakes up in a hospital, we see her dead father Jacob by her side. Jacob explains that the reason for his materialization is so that Alma can help him not only find out what had happened the night that he died, but also reverse it. To achieve this mission, he has to teach and train her to bend space-time and reality. Alma and Jacob then journey back and forth through time and space, trying to harness her power and perfect her abilities. Jacob eventually explains that Alma has likely inherited his schizophrenic mother Geraldine’s shamanic abilities. He has specifically come back because he thinks he was murdered due to the research he did on shamanism and how close he subsequently was to discovering the secret mechanisms of the universe. Essentially, we are dealing with a genre-bending murder mystery while going through a journey of family drama, sci-fi, romantic comedy, and psychological thriller.

So far so good, but there was a large problem staring right at me. The series’ thematic and cast made me immediately think that the people behind the scenes must also be Latinx. Or at least, that the creators were. The way the series conjures images, music, and language that implies rootedness in Native American cultures forged this naive expectation in me. So, when I found out that the creators were Kate Purdy and Raphael Bob-Waksberg, an inner aversion was awakened in me that made me want to seek out an “evilness” behind the structure. I wanted to focus on the white, privileged evilness of the writers and directors. Point out the capitalist, exploitative evilness that is Jeff Bezos’ Amazon. The name that for a long time we have associated with the American rainforest, home to the largest biodiversity in the world, we now have come to primarily associate with another form of abundance. And this time it’s the perverted, superfluous, exploitative kind.

Firstly, of course, this over-abundance in the shape of an endless variety of products from around the world, all only a mouse-click away from our grasp. Secondly, there is Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos, who is the richest man in the world with a net worth of over 116 billion USD at the time of writing. The uncovering that Amazon workers are underpaid and that in 2018 Amazon has paid zero in taxes, are apparent systemic injustices that we cannot just gloss over. This kind of exploitation has to be utterly condemned and boycotted; anyone with any sense of morality should not associate themselves with any of the products by an institution with this kind of track record.

This would be a simple, unproblematic stance for me, except that I have been completely taken in by one Undone. Even though I was not able to look at the series through anything other than The Inevitable White Gaze when I first discovered the origin story of its production, something soon changed my outlook. I came across Gloria Anzaldúa’s “Flights of the Imagination: Rereading/Rewriting Realities,” and applied it to how I felt about Undone. Should I completely dismiss a piece of art because it does not fit into my neat box of a wonderful, wholesome creation made neatly, exclusively by people of colour (POC)? And I wondered, what happens if I allow this discomfort and contradiction to be part of my analysis? What if I refuse to dismiss the series due to its muddled background and instead, accept its place in our reality? What happens if I let go of the idea of an ideal framework, a pristine source?


In the predominantly leftist bubbles in which I tend to find myself, cultural appropriation is called out so often one could almost think that it is one of the greatest evils. The participants of these discourses are well-meaning and, usually, their intention is born out of a desire to topple white mainstream narratives and promote visibility to voices and bodies that were/are mostly marginalized. While this is a movement I’ve been firmly a part of, I cannot help but notice its paradoxical side-effect. In an attempt to exclusively reserve certain cultural practices and heritages to specific cultural groups, we end up essentializing the group itself. We associate certain cultural practices to be inherent aspects of certain people with specific DNA — a process that, at the end of the day, is a manifestation of racism. Of course, this is not a new realization and many have written about the necessity for groups to essentialize themselves for the larger cause of justice and equality. The political motive is something I strongly believe in and support. What I’m pointing to, rather, is an often knee-jerk offended reaction in the face of situations read as cultural appropriation. And while the strategic mobilization of communities can lead to institutional changes, all too often it also brings forth echo chambers of vitriol and divisiveness, especially in this so-called Digital Era.

Julia Kristeva might have categorized these reactions as a manifestation of a “hate reaction” by those who belong to a “cult of origins.” According to her, this consists of “hatred of those others who do not share my origins and who affront me personally, economically, and culturally.”[1] A compulsive aversion then often arises when a person, considered an other/outsider, appears to adopt cultural signifiers that are not reflective of their supposed heritage/origin. This other/outsider is then imputed to be practicing cultural appropriation. The implication of such a framework, it seems, is that certain groups are the sole proprietors of certain cultural practices/artifacts, and that these boundaries need to be upheld in order to maintain a certain cultural pristineness or purity. While this is a difficult conversation to have and one where there may be no correct answer, I believe it is crucial that we deal with these paradoxes within communities that want equality before the topic becomes steered by entities that have strong motives to discredit these communities.

     Perhaps a helpful way to begin the conversation is by referring to Kwame Anthony Kappiah, who holds that culture is not “pristine and pure,” and is instead “messy and muddled.” In his book The Lies that Bind, he made a convincing case that cultures are not clean-cut in their separation from each other — if they are separate at all. It becomes redundant to think about cultural appropriation when we are continually aware, as we should be, that “all cultural practices and objects are mobile; they like to spread, and almost all are themselves creations of intermixture” (Kappiah 208). This follows the tradition of Homi K. Bhabha’s concept of cultural hybridity; how all cultures influence and cannot be separated from each other. It takes a certain level of self-awareness and reflection to be able to accept this and be comfortable with it. In The Location of Culture, Bhabha writes, “It requires a person to step outside of him/herself to actually see what he/she is doing” (Bhabha 4). And this stepping outside oneself is not only what I consider to be the main idea flowing throughout Anzaldúa’s writing, but is what Alma is perpetually pushed into in Undone.

In “Flights of the Imagination,” Anzaldúa introduces us to the concept of Netpantla, the experience of which she defines as:

“Perceiving something from two different angles [which] creates a split in awareness that can lead to the ability to control perception, to balance contemporary society’s worldview with the non-ordinary worldview, and to move between them to a space that simultaneously exists and does not exist.”

And it is through this Nepantla lense that I wish to examine Undone. Doing this, I do not dismiss the aspects of the webseries’ production which I consider problematic, exploitative, or appropriative, but actively incorporate them to explore the possibilities for personal and communal growth. According to AnaLouise Keating, Transformative Studies is when your academic pursuit aims to envision liberation, enact social change, develop new communities, and create transformative knowledge. It is with her idea of Transformative Studies in mind that I undertake this analysis, because we must steadily reexamine shifting structures of power and renegotiate realities in order to reach its aims.


undone, nepantlera
“Temporary members of multiple communities.”

An awareness of one’s own positionality is of absolute importance when we enter these negotiations of reality. I was born to an Indonesian mother and a German father, and have thus grown up with frequent interrogations concerning my national identity and my sense of cultural belonging, not the least because of my ambiguous racial identification. These experiences have shaped who I am and thus my point of view and perception. They have also given me a map to explore the various facets of identity construction. I believe they have also given me access to the feelings of dissonance and fragmentation often expressed in Mestizx narratives, causing those stories to resonate with me deeply. Nevertheless, I write as somebody who owns an EU passport, is light-skinned and is college-educated. These factors give me social and structural privileges that mean I will not experience certain struggles and forms of oppression. These circumstances undoubtedly contribute to and shape my stance in the discourse.

Additionally, as I have already mentioned, I predominantly find myself within circles that are considered left-leaning. I am often around academics of the humanities and attend events organized by activists of color who aim to promote the visibility of various groupings of POC. This socialization, and the confidence that I can illustrate my ideas safely within the context of this forum, is what urges me to critically examine an aspect of identity and reality construction elaborated here.

Admittedly, when I am dealing with people who are visibly and manifestly disturbed by the idea of POCs claiming space, power, and sovereignty, my tone changes drastically. In instances where I notice the rhetoric to be blatantly hateful and condescending towards POC, I reactively become far less nuanced in my approach to discourse and resort back to simplified, reductive identity politics. I have learned to adapt my position depending on whom it is I am dealing with and I acknowledge this inconsistency/unfixedness. With all of these things cleared up, let’s move on to my experience watching the film.


undone, nepantlera

Having found out that the creators were white, I was looking for shibboleths that would betray the White Gaze. I immediately noticed that the one who encouraged protagonist Alma to pursue and master her shamanic abilities was not her Mexican mother Camila (who wants Alma to take supposedly mentally stabilizing medication), but her white father Jacob. For example, in the second episode, Jacob educates Alma that “In indigenous cultures, people who can see visions and that hear voices — they’re the shamans, you know, they’re the wise ones. But in Western culture, these people are locked up or they’re put out in the street.” (“The Hospital” 13:10). I identified this as a large problem; I thought that this plot decision was incredibly telling of the uncritical whiteness of the writers. In my mind, surely the Mexican mother is supposed to be the actual inheritor of this anti-colonial understanding of what reality consists of, and should be the knowledge carrier of shamanic wisdom. Surely the mother is the key to accessing Mestizx consciousness, the one that can help Alma access their ancestors and help her reach her full potential. It must be the typical, self-serving white creative that paints the white family, Jacob and his mother Geraldine, as the key.

But thinking of Kappiah and Bhabha, and their rejection of such essentialization of knowledge, I am reminded that this approach is a mistake. Letting go of this automated anger directed toward the white creatives and realizing the limitations of this way of thinking was when I was able to reach a much more interesting and perhaps productive interpretation of the narrative. Here I want to invite the reader to see the writers of the series, not as simply white people, but as what Anzaldúa calls almas afines. When we allow ourselves to perceive writers Raphael Bob-Waksberg and Kate Purdy as more than self-serving white people, we can take into account that Jacob was not solely a benevolent figure in touch with the shamanic tradition. Instead, in the end, he was revealed as the antihero; the one who is responsible for the mess Alma and all the other characters are in.

Not only did Jacob steal indigenous relics as a result of his patronizing point of view; “The Nahuatl Indians did not realize the power they possessed” (“That Halloween Night” 05:02). At the end of this murder mystery, we find out that Jacob was not murdered, but drove his own car into a cliff and killed himself along with his research assistant Farnaz. He is also exposed to have had conducted many experiments on Alma as an underaged child, experiments his wife Camila did not consent to.

Further, there is a key scene depicting a trip the family took to a holy site in Mexico, where Jacob explains that Alma has indigenous blood through her mother’s lineage. Camila remarks “we are mostly Spanish” (“Alone in This” 02:19), to which Jacob demands that Camila tell the truth about their ancestry and admits that they do have indigenous blood. “Yes, but people are not so nice to Indians, so be careful what you say” (“Alone in This” 02:23). This explains, to an extent, why the mother wanted so much for Alma to be “normal” and not play into Jacob’s ambitions for her to become a shaman.

And although I do not intend to reinforce the idea of the European as the patriarch of the world (this is a destructive notion that has proven to be the source of many ails in the world) I do find it notable that this white father, through his overzealousness/greed in his quest for science/knowledge/power, is the one causing the inner and outer conflict and fragmentation experienced by all other characters. The underlying consequence of the plot’s schematic is that even though it is not fair to the other characters, they still have to come to terms with the father’s mistakes; learn to live, heal and move on.

These thoughtful plot decisions demonstrate to me that the writers were reflective and aware enough to acknowledge the complicated power dynamics and relationships embedded in the positionality of the characters. And this realization made me able to relax and think about the story in less judgmental terms. It allowed me to actually interpret and analyze the series the way I wanted to, as an embodiment of Anzaldúa’s ideas about rereading/rewriting realities and being Nepantleras. I gave myself permission to consider Undone as a manifestation of Mestizx consciousness.

The fact that Alma means “soul” in Spanish gave me the pleasure one gets when connecting hidden dots (although these particular dots are not very hidden for my Spanish speaking friends). I began enjoying Dutch director Hisko Hulsing’s use of rotoscoping, which consists of layering animation on top of live-action footage. The effect is a trance-like visualization of a dream state which a critic Poniewozik has described to be “like turning a dial that lowers the gravity by 25 percent or so. Even in mundane scenes, everything’s a little more buoyant. People move as if they’re living underwater.”[2]

Allowing myself to find useful metaphors in the series, I thought about the effect of revolving the story around a perceived loss of sanity. Alma is, at the end of the day, an unreliable narrator. Even though she is not the one telling the story, we can only see her world through her eyes. This reminded me of another story in the Mestizx consciousness tradition, Signs Preceding the End of the World. In this Mexican novel, novelist Yuri Herrera describes protagonist Makina’s world to us through a third-person speaker. Despite telling the story through a narrator that is traditionally all-seeing, in Signs we can only see what Makina sees and thus we have access to exclusively Makina’s inner world.

What is striking is, in both instances the audience/reader does not feel the itch to get to the bottom of things, not bothered to find out the objective truth. Considering that Undone is at its core a murder mystery, to have this effect on the audience is certainly extraordinary. There is also no traditional form of a timeline, and Alma jumps time and space freely along with the plot.  The effect is a gentle suggestion that the actual truth is not as important as the experienced truth — as what Alma sees. Anzaldúa petitioned, “We must redefine the imagination not as a marginal non-reality nor as an altered state but, rather, as another type of reality,” and I argue that the underlying suggestion embedded in Undone is precisely this openness to alternate realities.

With the exception of Jacob, all other characters repeatedly implied that Alma was mentally unstable; none of them believed the things Alma claimed to have seen in her visions. For Alma, the healing moment came at the end of the series, when her sister Becca sat next to her all night on the holy site in Mexico. Becca did not contradict Alma’s conviction that Jacob was going to step out of the temple with the sunrise. Alma thought that Jacob’s resurrection would trigger the realignment of the timelines, and they will be living in an alternate reality where Jacob did not commit murder and kill himself. Alma explains to Becca, “This whole reality is going to go away. All we have to do is wait here tonight. Dad is going to come back. Everything will have changed. He’ll have never died. Our family will be normal. We won’t be broken people. So all the stupid shit we’ve done in our lives, it’ll all just go away” (“That Halloween Night” 16:57). To this, Becca simply replied, “That’s nice”(“That Halloween Night” 17:00). And they spent the night in each other’s company, watching the stars and talking, and Alma was calm and felt safe in their understanding, their sisterhood. The interaction hurls to us the incredible power held by the act of listening. It’s a testament to the fact that you cannot really ever convince somebody of a point of view they are not yet ready to accept. People have to learn and see for themselves the truth of their convictions, and everyone will learn their own lesson in their own time. The scene shows that through times where a reality/truth is still being negotiated and manifested, it is crucial to have somebody willing to sit with and not contradict us, no matter how far-fetched one considers the other’s stance. It speaks to how healing it is to be able to share your beliefs and your “insanity” to somebody who is not there to judge or diagnose you. A portraiture of two sisters being Nepantleras for and with each other. A depiction of the coexistence imagined and proposed by Anzaldúa.


Our oppositional politics has been necessary, but it will never sustain us; while it may give us some temporary gains. . . . it can never ultimately feed that deep place within us: that space of the erotic, that space of the soul, that space of the Divine” – Jacqui Alexander

This is a quote Ana Louise Keating refers to in her text “Risking the Vision, Transforming the Divides.” To me, Undone is a piece of artwork that was able to provide that space of the erotic, the Alma, the Divine. Had I kept my exclusionary, oppositional, rigid mentality I had in which perimeters are based on racial/cultural identities, I would have missed out on the metaphors, the beauty, the meaning.

     The metaphor of Jacob, the white father trying to change the course of how history went wrong, forgetting he was the one who brought on his own destruction. All the while, the others are paying for his mistakes. The metaphor of Alma’s supposed insanity as a questioning of our own perceived reality. The beauty of the storytelling through rotoscoping. The meaning behind Becca’s casual, non-judgemental listening. And ultimately, the consideration of it as an outstanding manifestation of Anzaldúa’s imagination of the non-reality, of the possible alternate realities.

     By learning about writers who advocate the idea of a less rigid, non-ethnicity-based coexistence, I was given the chance to zoom out and watch with love, not with the fear that often comes around the anxiety of being politically correct. “Reality is too big for any ideological system to contain,” Anzaldúa once wrote. And this has been clearly demonstrated in Undone, both through its plot and its production. The personal is political, and this account of my learning process is what I want to offer as we all construct our realities and societies. As we move forward, we will have to open more dialogue between realities, identities, and the subversion of both.


[1] Kristeva, Julia. Nations Without Nationalism. Columbia UP, 1993.

[2] Poniewozik, James. “Review: In the Entrancing ‘Undone,’ Life Is but a Dream State.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 12 Sept. 2019, www.nytimes.com/2019/09/12/arts/television/undone-review-amazon.html.

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Autobuses vacíos / COVID roaming libre

* El siguiente breve ensayo es un ejercicio especulativo sobre la posibilidad de una estética metafísica surgida de la nueva crisis del virus COVID-19. No se desea disminuir su gravedad o aprovechar esto como una oportunidad para aprender cosas nuevas. Forum Nepantla considera al COVID-19 muy en serio.

La situación actual de COVID-19 ha inundado las redes sociales y tradicionales con imágenes inquietantes: bulevares desiertos, tiendas cerradas y autobuses vacíos. Las imágenes nos recuerdan éxitos de taquilla post-apocalípticos con algún héroe solitario deambulando por las calles de una metrópolis genérica abandonada. Sin embargo, estos escenarios no son reales, aunque las imágenes lo sean y los sentimientos que despiertan aún más.

Ausencia pasada

De repente nos enfrentamos con la imagen muy vívida de nuestra propia ausencia. Una descripción bastante real de un futuro sin nosotros de pronto parece posible. Se nos hace posible representarnos un mundo posible sin ninguno de nosotros, lleno de virus, bacterias, ruinas, árboles, autobuses vacíos, etc. El efecto de esta imagen es comparable al descubrimiento de los restos fósiles o al impacto de la teoría de la evolución. Como Meillasoux dice en su libro After Finitude, los fósiles y la evolución han cuestionado y sacudido la centralidad de los humanos en esta tierra. Los fósiles y la evolución muestran un futuro distante sin humanos en él. Muestran la autonomía ontológica de las cosas, animales, moléculas, plantas, planetas. Rompen la autoridad de los viejos sistemas metafísicos que afirman que la realidad depende de un sujeto que percibe.

Ausencia futura

Mientras que los fósiles representan un pasado distante sin humanos, las imágenes actuales de calles y ciudades vacías nos muestran un futuro posible sin humanos. Ray Brassier ha escrito sobre tales futuros en Nihil Unbound. Continuando con las ideas de Meillasoux, afirma que la autonomía ontológica de las cosas no es algo perdido en el tiempo. Además, es algo que puede volver a suceder con una futura extinción de la humanidad. Esto debilita aún más los grilletes de percepción subjetiva aplicados a la realidad por aquellos que Meillasoux y Brassier llaman correlacionistas. Lo que muestran Meillasoux y Brassier es que las cosas existen, y existen más allá de nuestra percepción y más allá de nuestra presencia.

La estética (y no tanto la realidad) del COVID-19 lo pone de manifiesto. Nadie duda de la existencia de calles y autobuses vacíos, nadie duda de la existencia de un cierto virus que deambula libremente por nuestras ciudades. Los sentimos al máximo y asociamos con ellos una extraña realidad de nuestra propia ausencia. En este punto, sin embargo, ocurre algo extraño. La estética del virus se transforma, adopta valores humanos y propiedades humanas. De pronto se manifiestan con él la oportunidad de fortalecer comunidades, redescubrirnos, cantar en los balcones y solidarizarnos. Esta estética cultural revela dos puntos: primero, la fuerza de los humanos contra las adversidades, y segundo, la tendencia metafísica de negar la autonomía ontológica de las cosas. A continuación deseo discutir este segundo punto.

Viejos hábitos

Nada hace que la tendencia metafísica mencionada arriba sea más evidente que el siguiente comentario: el distanciamiento social y la cuarentena le dan al planeta un nuevo aliento. Aquí se cruzan dos crisis: el COVID-19 y el cambio climático. Ambos representan un posible futuro sin humanos. Ambos despiertan la sensación de ausencia. Percibimos que esta ausencia parece estar estrechamente relacionada con la existencia y la realidad de nuestro planeta. Proyectamos nuestra propia desaparición en la biosfera y en todo el planeta. En el caso del COVID, proyectamos nuestra propia fragilidad, nuestra propia incapacidad para respirar en el planeta. Sin embargo, la tierra no es tan frágil, y la vida en la tierra en general no está amenazada por la contaminación, nosotros sí. Lo mismo ocurre con el cambio climático.

COVID-19 es una situación grave que nos enfrenta con el pensamiento de nuestra propia ausencia, lo que sin embargo refuerza de inmediato nuestras propias tendencias para unir nuestra existencia con un cosmos unitario. Sin embargo, esta tendencia no está fundada. Extrapola un evento temporalmente local y lo universaliza. Esto le da a la crisis COVID-19 una dimensión de cataclismo. Ésto es lo que provoca un pánico global irracional. Sin embargo, no necesitamos pánico. Necesitamos mantener las cabezas frías y evaluar seriamente la situación, necesitamos una consideración equilibrada de una situación grave combinada con la cooperación interpersonal e interinstitucional.


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Wherefrom do you know where you are? about being and finding oneself*

where, location

How do I know I walk through the Westpark when I walk through the Westpark? How do I know where I am? First of all from the positions and relationships of trees, banks, statues that are identical to the positions and relationships that make up the concept of “Westpark” that I have. But what happens if one day the layout of the park changes completely, becoming full of olive trees and statues representing African deities? Then I know I’m in another park, instead of the old one. If the park completely disappears and a pit appears in its place, I know, nevertheless, that I am in Munich. But how about after an atomic explosion, which would turn the whole Earth into a desert and throw me hundreds of miles away? Can I still know if the sandy place where I arrived is the former Munich or the former Tokyo? In this case places can no longer be distinguished, but I still know that they are on planet Earth. But what if the Earth gets scattered in the cosmos and I remain floating in a vacuum? I can in principle still determine in which region of the galaxy or in which galaxy I find myself starting from the position of the stars. This regression shows one simple thing: I always locate myself through external objects. But what if the whole cosmos were to disappear and I were the only remaining entity? The logic that I have followed so far – of externally orienting myself – is broken, because I have no external object to deduce my location from. How can we deduce our place, alone, in the darkness of the empty space? Can we still ask about “where” we are if there is no “where” anymore? When all external “wheres” disappear, another “where” becomes available, namely, that of one’s own body. I can therefore use my own body to know where I am.

Kant shows, in a small writing about the directions in space, that by its very existence, the human body transforms space. The empty space does not in itself give directions, in it there is no up-down, right-left, forward or backwards. But the intersection of our body with the three spatial dimensions “produces” (erzeugt) another spatiality, a directional field: “The primary condition, on which we form the concept of directions in space derives from the relation of the planes of space intersected with our body” (Kant). I can see a given space “as” being to my right or my left and then I can form a primary location. It can be said, however, that in this case I used an external object, my body, that I used my two hands to determine the left-right directions. But, Kant points out, the distinction of directions cannot be deduced from the distinction between the two hands. From a physical point of view, the constitutive distances and relations of the two hands are almost identical. They do not differ as material objects, but as spatial objects; their difference in direction cannot be deduced from the difference in their composition, because they are often almost identical. The basis of their spatial distinction is an “internal” one, Kant says. That is why the left and the right hand are two incongruous opponents: although they are materially identical, they cannot be brought to occupy the same place by any continuous transformation in space. They represent two irreducible orders of space. Therefore, the left and right directions cannot be deduced from the existence of both hands, because their development already implies spatial asymmetry. The same goes for beans, says Kant. No matter where a bean grows, it always does so from right to left, so it has its direction, and accordingly its asymmetry, planted in its seed.

In the case of the human body, it is possible to go back to the origins of this asymmetry: to the “distinct feelings of the right and left sides”. The neutral space around the body is structured by feelings. The right side, Kant says, structures the space via a sense of power and ability. That’s why we jump over the pits with the right foot forward or strike first with the right fist. The left structures the space sensitively, the left eye and ear being usually more sensitive. The wedding ring is worn on the left because it represents a union between the sensitive spatialities of two individuals.

Kant doesn’t talk about up-down or forwards-backwards, so I won’t discuss them here at large, but I believe that if a someone left alone in the cosmos would want to pray to God, they would look up, and if they would think of their sins, they would look down. Although “up” and “down” seem to make no sense in such a situation, they still express strong feelings through which the surrounding space is structured. The top of the mind of the person who thinks the divine also imbues space with a form of “up”.

Right-left, up-down, back-and-forth come from internal distinctions, but they are also something outside, something exterior. This is a sign that the space around us has an ambivalent structure. It is neither internal nor external, neither objective nor subjective, but both in one place. This is why it is said that the problem of distinguishing between hands that cannot occupy the same space was the starting point of Kant’s transcendental philosophy.

What do all these things tell us? That the mere existence of the body structures the space around it through feelings and transforms it into a directional field. The human body produces a spatiality that overlaps with the physical space, it is in a spatial “where” from which it projects a directional “where” (the directions are not seen). We have thus obtained two concepts of “where”, one external spatially and one internal spatially, but also the combination of the two that leads to the non-spatial spatiality around the human body. Now the title question can be better asked. It seems at first glance to be non-sense because it asks: “where(from)” do you know “where” you are, it asks for an explanation of a “where” by means of the same “where”, as if you were asking “from which city is this city? But bearing in mind the two concepts of “where” we can see that the question makes sense and actually becomes an answer if the first “where” is taken internally and the second externally: based on one “where” (internally-directional) you know “where” (externally-positional) you are.

We can see now that the primary activity of localization is produced by the subject. Even alone in the cosmos, I would be able to know, that I am at the center of a system of directions that I introduce into the empty space, which is no longer empty, but acquires a formal order and becomes a “here”. This space that I call “here” makes possible the concept of a space that is “there”. With the difference between here and there a break in the homogeneity and symmetry of empty space appears. I can even try to reduce “there” to “here” by imagining a line that crosses all the infinite space, different from me, adding a structure to it.

We can therefore conclude the following: the mere presence of humans introduces three elements into the cosmos. 1. The Unseen: The directions are not seen, they are not a fixed external “where” (we do not see the right side as we would see an apartment block). Any discussion of the involvement of the spirit into the world or of the meaning of life should begin with the analysis of the concept of direction. 2. Order: the directions structure the space into a “here” and a “there” and thus make possible a determinable number of distinct movements (I can move and the rest of the space may be at rest or vice versa). 3. Infinity: empty space is by itself neither finite nor infinite, but I as a subject introduce infinity by projecting in my mind a line that crosses it endlessly. The fact that I can think of this infinite line shows that my space, the “here” already has infinity in it. Here is how a person, without doing anything, spreads or extends being, that is, unseen, order, infinity, around him. The sign of this entry of being into the world is always the asymmetry – as can be seen especially in the generation of moral space, which I will not discuss here.

What is the conclusion? What do I know now, after the Cosmos reappears and I see myself again in the Westpark? I know that I self-locate, produce my space and “where” internally and only then locate myself through external objects. First I structure the space through the top-down, left-right, forward-backward and only then can I move and deduce from the make-up of the park where exactly I find myself to be. But this leads me to an ontological judgment: I am only if I find myself. “Being” is projected in the cosmos from a place of high density and tension that functions in another ontological regime. Heidegger did not accidentally call this regime Befindlichkeit, from sich befinden, to find oneself. Finding oneself in a place is not the same as being there. In the question “wherefrom can you know where you are?” the first “where” belongs to the region of finding oneself and the second to the region of being.


This text was originally published in Romanian on Romania Literara.

Nepantlera

nepantlera, nepantla, Gloria Anzaldúa

Gloria Anzaldúa acuñó semjante palabrón nepantlera invadida por la penuria de ser un organismo sacudido por la indeterminación. No es ni oscuro ni claro, ni hembra ni macho, ni negro ni blanco, y ni siquiera completamente mestizo o puro, es un meta-híbrido. Ella/él- eso es el sustrato epidérmico de un agente de cambio, un agente que se vió en la obligación de ser un agente sin desearlo, sin ser la expresión de un deseo subjetivo de imponer un cambio. Se encontró, sin querer, en esa posición, en la cual, tanto activa como pasivamente, ejerce un cambio en la mirada que lo encuentra. Juguetonamente lo compara con un mounstruo, con un error de la naturaleza, con algo que esperamos encontrar pero no aparece, y en su lugar engendra en la mirada ajena el terror que desata todo lo in-esperado. Es un cisne negro (recordando la idea mounstruosa de Nassim Taleb), un algo que conocemos pero a la vez que desconocemos, que aparece a la mirada con un dejo de familiaridad y a la vez de extrañeza, un ser inesperadamente transformador. 

Anzaldúa, chicana, feminista y nepantlera, se encontró en ese espacio intermedio, en esa “tierra de nadie” como las barricadas, en donde crece lo mounstruoso y se miran los territorios desde el espacio en-ajenado, des-apropiado, sin-propietario de la frontera, o mejor dicho, de las fronteras (pues una frontera siempre es plural en su carácter relacional y comunicador). La escritura nepantlera es para ella una intersección entre lo vivido y lo pensado, pues para el nepantlera no hay un límite fijo entre lo empírico y la teoría, pues es en su piel donde se desencadenan las ideas, al filo de la epidermis, en la epidermis. Nepantlera es aquel organismo, semi-individualizado, no-identitario, no-contrario de nada, que vive lo que piensa y piensa lo que vive, un pensamiento vibrante, contradictorio y siempre mirando con el ojo multicolor del mounstruo. 

Llamarle “agente de cambio” resulta peligroso e incluso parece calcar estructuras jerárquicas que más bien pretende destruir. No es exactamente un agente, como un sujeto voluntarista que busca reprimir y trasnformar. Es un instante, un momento, una humarada que sin querer, pero con conciencia, transforma, en la praxis de su lengua, de su piel, de su palabra y su performartividad, las dinámicas sociales que han reprimido al nepantlera. En realidad, no es un agente, sino el cambio mismo. 

Su piel, su estatura, su gesto, su cabello que media entre el rizo negro y el lacio rubio, su cuerpo todo es un asalto, una estatua móvil que encarna, en cada encuentro, la Diferencia. No se parece a nada, y lo que es más, tampoco es uno consigo misma. Es diferencia constante y por eso mismo lleva tatuado el cambio. La Diferencia es el sustrato dinámico del cambio. “I am Chicana. I am fat. I am short. I am queer” grita otra chicana, Calafell. No es una propuesta estética de pasarela que pretenda sobornar a Victoria´s Secrets para dar espacio en sus angostos pasillos a cuerpos más anchitos. Es pensar con la piel y revelar-rebelar en el ejercicio carnal de la existencia chicana el dispositivo de aquellos cuerpos que pretenden nulificar, en su ficticio privilegio, el don de lo diverso. 

Tampoco buscamos caer en políticas identitarias que trastocan lo relativo y lo absolutizan, mitologizando lo azaroso y creando de ello heroes cuyo carácter heróico tan solo surge de coincidencias, como el lugar de nacimiento, la “sangre” de los antepasados, el territorio que habitan. Es una metáfora, un juego que apuesta al peligro de perderse en las variaciones y no regresar nunca a la identidad. La chicano-a es un símbolo solo, un significante, una función abierta a cambiar de territorio, de coordenada, de color, de sexo. 

La propuesta es un desafío a la gramática y la lógica de no-contradicción, en donde los adjetivos también son trans y los artículos pierden su fuerza de producción de géneros ficticios y roles ajenos a la realidad mounstruosa de las alteridades. No se asusten si encuentran de vez en vez errores gramaticales, que desde otra perspectiva abierta, son aciertos reales. No hay errores ni aciertos, hay ambigüedades, des-centramientos a-personales, percepciones sinéstesicas y viajes introspectivos en los andamios de una construcción infinita, un Babel que no crece hacia arriba, sino que baja a las entrañas del centro des-centrado de lo in-habitable. La creación de un espacio en potencia, siempre latiendo, siempre de-creciente, siempre desvaneciendóse en las cenizas de los tiempos que vienen y van en cruces y serpentinos movimientos de un espiral descendiente. El im-posible relato del devenir es Nepantla. La cruzada que no cruza y que no mata, sino que peregrina cual sonámbula ciega, dando pasos microscópicos entre las fronteras de temporalidades inmaculadas, manchadas, denigradas, reivindicadas. 

Nepantlera puede ser cualquiera que no desee construir un fuerte o un castillo para protegerse de las párvadas de cisnes negros simulando que no existen, que solo da pasaporte a cisnes blancos. No solo hay que esperar lo in-esperado, en todo lo esperado ya siempre habita algo insospechado. 

*Idea inspirada en el artículo „Monstrosity in everyday life. Nepantleras, Theories in the Flesh, and transformational Politics” de Robert Gutiérrez-Perez

Empty buses/COVID roaming free

empty buses COVID

*The following short essay is a speculative exercise on the metaphysical aesthetics of the novel virus COVID-19 crisis. It does not wish to diminish its gravity or to sell it as an opportunity to learn new things. Forum Nepantla takes the COVID-19 very seriously.

The current COVID-19 situation has flooded traditional and social media with eerie images: deserted boulevards, closed shops, and empty buses. The images remind us of post-apocapolyptical blockbusters with some lone hero roaming the streets of some generic abandonned metropolis. These scenarios are however not real, eventhough the images are and the feelings they awake even more so.

Past absence

We are suddenly faced with the very vivid image of our own absence. A quite real depiction of a future without us suddenly appears possible. We perceive a possible world without any of us, full of viruses, bacteria, ruins, trees, empty buses and so on. The effect of this image is comparable to the discovery of the age of fossils or the impact of the theory of evolution. As Meillasoux tells in his After Finitude fossils and evolution have questioned and shaken the centrality of humans on this earth. Fossils and evolution show a distant future existing without any humans in it. They show the ontological autonomy of things, animals, molecules, plants, planets. They break the authority of old metaphysical systems that assert that reality is dependent on a perceiving subject.

Future absence

While fossils depict a distant humanless past, today’s images of empty streets and cities show us the possible humanless future. Ray Brassier has wrote about such futures in Nihil Unbound. Continuing Meillasoux’ insights he states that the ontological autonomy of things is not something lost in the depths of time. It is moreover something that may come to pass again with a future extinction of mankind. This further weakens the shackels of subjective perception placed on reality by those that Meillasoux and Brassier call corelationists. What both Meillasoux and Brassier show is that things exist, and they exist beyond our perception and beyond our presence.

The aesthetic (and not so much the reality) of the COVID-19 makes this manifest. No one doubts the existence of empty streets and busses, no one doubts the existence of a certain virus roaming free in our cities. We feel them to the full and we associate with them a strange reality of our own absence. At this point however, something odd takes place. The aesthetic of the virus changes, it gains human values and human properties. We see in it the opportunity to strengthen communities, to rediscover ourselves, to sing in balconies and stand in solidarity. This cultural aesthetic reveals two points: first the strength of humans against adversities, and second the metaphysical tendency to negate the ontological autonomy of things. I wish to discuss the second here.

Old habits

Nothing makes the above metaphysical tendence more apparent than the following remark: social distancing and quarantine give the planet a change to breath. Two crisis cross paths here: COVID-19 and climate change. They both depict a possible humanless future. They both awaken the feeling of absence. We perceive this absence seems in both as tightly connected to the very existence and reality of our planet. We project our own demise on the biosphere and on the entire planet. In the COVID case we project our own fraility, our own incapacity to breath on the planet. The earth is however not that frail, and life on earth in general is not threatened by pollution – we are. The same goes for climate change.

COVID-19 is a dire situation that faces us with the thought of our own absence, which however immediately reinforces our own tendencies to bind our existence to a unitary cosmos. This tendency is however not grounded. It extrapolates a temporally local event and universalises it. This gives the COVID-19 crisis a cataclismic feel. This is what sparks irational global panic. Panic however we do not need. We need cool heads and a serious but balanced assesement of a severe situation combined with inter-personal and inter-institutional cooperation.


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Las bandas para siempre han muerto: la era de las post-bandas

2015

F. Wirtz

Las bandas no sólo murieron cuando MTV dejó de pasar videos de música. MTV inventó el videoclip y también fue su destrucción. No hablo de que ya no hay “buena música” como en el pasado. Me refiero a que “la banda” como paradigma, como dispositivo, dejó de significar algo. Ver un videoclip que hace diez años podía parecer revolucionario hoy resulta inevitablemente kitsch. Los músicos haciendo playback con sus intrumentos, situaciones surrealistas, ….risible. La banda ya no tiene sentido. No cumple ya con su función política. Primera muerte: la banda(da) (de hombres). El etereotipo del power trio, el clan patriarcal de hermanos imbéciles. El vocalista y lead-guitar, su estruendoso solo fálico. El bajista, el sumiso, el intelectual, el impotente. El batero, el cuerpo, el animal. Todos los personajes del cuento. Segunda muerte: el recital. Ese ritual sagrado en el que se aglomeran cientos de personas en un lugar sin ventilación ni infraestructura reglamentada. Fue Cromañón. Nietzsche quería que fuera algo dionisíaco. Fue algo trágico en otro sentido. ¿Qué hubiera pasado si alguien prendía una bengala en Eleusis? El pogo era realmente lo más cercano a las fiestas báquicas, pero la secularización es un hecho. Ya no hay celebraciones. Tercera muerte: el disco. La mercancía ya no tiene sentido. Se consigue gratis en internet y no hay que pagar 100* pesos por un disco. El disco-objeto era muy bello, pero fue tergiversado por los capitalistas de tal modo que ya no valía la pena. Que hayan vuelto los vinilos solo confirma esta misma nostalgia. Su formato tampoco es cómodo para oir. Ya no existe el microcomponente. Ya nadie escucha música.

En pocas palabras, la banda ha muerto. Me diran: “pero todavía exiten las bandas, yo soy fan de varias”. Hay dos tipos de post-bandas hoy en día. 1) La banda de las bandas que eran bandas: es decir, rockeros viejos que sueñan con tiempos mejores y pasados (¿los jóvenes de ayer?). 2) Las bandas indies: ¡que no son bandas! Las buenas bandas hoy ya no responden ni al paradigma patriarcal del power-trio arquetípico (del que se desprenden todas las demás formaciones). Se trata ya de post-bandas de dos o de 20 músicos. Mújeres líderes, girl-bands. ¡Y acústicas! Bendito sea no tener que cargar más con pesadas baterias, pesados amplificadores. Intrumentos acústicos. Y tampoco hay recitales, sino pequeñas reuniones entre amigos. Los espacios para tocar ya no existen. Burocracia fascista y condenada que cobra por tocar. No toquemos más. Bandas imaginarias y virtuales. Ya no hay discos, simplemente canciones sueltas en la web que nunca se escuchan. “Vengan a mi concierto”. Iremos porque somos tus amigos, y no tocas mal tampoco. Atomización, pero también una vuelta a las raíces.

En fin: las bandas han muerto, que vivan las bandas.

*Este texto lo escribí hace algunos años ya. Se nota por el hoy impensable monto en pesos. Por otro lado, desde que escribí el texto las bandas sufrieron el golpe mortal. Había escrito que las bandas son “bandadas” y hoy debería decir “manadas”. Varios de los músicos que lideraban bandas en los 90 y comienzos de los 2000 fueron acusados de abuso sexual e incluso encarcelados como Aldana. Otros, cancelados, como Cordera. Esto no hace más que confirmar la era de las post-bandas.

Breaking the Panopticon: epistemic injustice/Lupe Fiasco’s Prisoner

https://soundcloud.com/lupefiascoofficial/prisoner-1-2-feat-ayesha

Lupe Fiasco starts his song from the “Tetsuo & Youth” album with the accepted request for a collect call. This introduces the story of a man ending up in prison. The story of this man is being described in a mostly passive manner, announced from the very first two verses:

“mislaid plan make a mess made

Damnation, let’s play hands and spades”

This is continued in the following verses:

“Getting send from the protest, no food

Force fed him like Obie with a nose tube”

The use of passive participle “getting send” and the action of force feeding reinforce the actionless state of the man described. This is then further developed when describing a riot, in which the subject described until now assumes himself a passive state:

“I’m just looking at they feet ‘cause I’m looking for the Lord”

In the next verses however we find hints of an aggressive inmate, ready for action. We then see however that this is only the internalisation of stereotypes and reactions to an imposed medium: the prison, the cell, the boxed in living conditions. This extends to the point in which the inmate goes to death row without any change of appeal, without any voice, the ultimate state of passivity. The man initially described becomes a pure victim of the oppressor, the guards. This plays as a microcosmos for a police state, in which the constant surveillance and threat leads to the internalisation of surveillance. The subject becomes a purely passive one. This is made visible by the verse:

“God got us all, God set us free

God is the key but the guards got the doors”

This shows that there is no way out, not even in transcendence. The chorus line frames this: the inmate does not need acceptance, he just needs his collect call, he needs his voice.

This game of subducing reminds us of Foucalt’s Panopticon, a prison with non-stop surveillance which is due to the inmates internalizing the law that leads them. The surveillance is not actual, but only assumed by the inmates. All the inmates see is a tower and they assume they are always watched. Fiasco tells a different story however: the guards are real and they also are oppressed, they also are prisoners. Fiasco breaks the panopticon and tells a more real reality: one of epistemic insufficiency and injustice. Here is where the passive victim finds his voice. In saying

“You a prisoner too, you livin here too

You just like us till your shift get through”

The inmate finds not only his voice but his power in acknowledging the epistemic structure at play here. He sees that the oppressor is no less of a victim than he is. They are both the victims of a segregated system that perpetuates habitual hate and terror, as the chorus line tells us. Furthermore, Fiasco identifies the cause of this too: again, epistemic insufficiency.

“You better watch these n****s

En garde,

if it was up to me, I would never unlock n****s”

Fiasco shows that the guard is a prisoner of his own epistemic boundaries, fearing perpetual violence from that which he does not understand. He does not have the proper concepts to deal with this encounter so he resorts to segregating that which he does not know, and does so violently. The guard is the hate that habitually propagates terror. The guard is the prisoner of habitual thinking, which boxes everything in black/white categories in order to avoid dealing with them. The guard represents the epistemic insufficiency which many choose to ignore and dust away in racism, stereotypes, discrimination.

As James Baldwin beautifully put it, culture offers no tools to understand the white/black divide. It offers a mostly white picture in which everything else is purely marginal, plainly accepted and not heard. Hip hop – like others – does provide this at times, and it does it – unlike others – on a massive scale.

The (non)geography of segregation

J. Cole’s “Neighbours” tells a story of mis-integration revealing the (non)geography of segregation. The intro introduces us directly to the main issue at hand: racial discrimination.

“I guess the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope

Yeah the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope

Sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope”

This is sung in a neutral, resigned voice, hinting at the factual and suffocating presence of racial profiling. The logic behind this is brilliantly exposed in the simple story of a successful man seeking to move to a more quiet place.

He begins by telling the unlikely story of success of a young black man. He makes this apparent by presenting the alternative: “My sixteen should’ve came with a coffin”. Although unlikely fame and fortune did come to him. He then turns to explain the flipside of fortune and fame, especially fame: that one has no intimacy. This is set as cause of moving away in an area:

“That’s why I moved away, I needed privacy

Surrounded by the trees and Ivy League

Students that’s recruited highly

Thinkin’ you do you and I do me”

It is made evident by Cole that all he seeks is intimacy and peace of mind. He describes his new house in the same terms, as a place for relaxing and hanging out with friends. He also explains that his house has no special features that might attract suspicion or attention from the neighbours. It is just a house, with a garden where he smokes and laughs with friends, and with a normal car in front. This description ends with the exposition of one’s expectations regarding such a place:

“Welcome to the shelter, this is pure

We’ll help you if you’ve felt too insecure

To be the star you always knew you were”

The expectation is however swiftly interrupted by the reality of mis-integration:

“Wait, I think police is at the door”

First I need to explain what I understand by mis-integration. Cole explains it perfect. It is not the failure of integration, it is not the failure of doing everything required for integration. It is the a priori failure of integration in a racially pre-determined society, regardless of one’s actions or status. This is perfectly depicted by Cole. He continues with a new chorus:

“Okay, the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope

Hm, I guess the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope sellin’ dope

The neighbors think I’m, neighbors think I’m

I think the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope (Don’t follow me, don’t follow me)

I guess the neighbors think I’m sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope

Sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope, sellin’ dope

Well motherfucker, I am”

The new version of the chorus laments not only the racial preconceptions of the neighbours but also the response to these: “Well motherfucker, I am”. This is not meant to show that preconceptions are validated, but that preconception condition the possibility of integration as mis-integration. Integration itself preconditions the encounter between individuals through preconceptions. It shows that the initially geographical segregation has mutated to a societal one, without borders, without status, without reason. This is confirmed by the verses following the chorus:

“Some things you can’t escape

Death, taxes, NRA

It’s this society that make

Every nigga feel like a candidate

For a Trayvon kinda fate”

And

“Black in a white man territory

Cops bust in with the army guns

No evidence of the harm we done

Just a couple neighbors that assume we slang

Only time they see us we be on the news in chains, damn

Don’t follow me, don’t follow me

Don’t follow me, don’t follow me”

This irrefutably makes him accept and reinforce the social and societal segregation:

“So much for integration

Don’t know what I was thinkin’

I’m movin’ back to Southside

So much for integration

Don’t know what I was thinkin’

I’m movin’ back to Southside”

It is important to note the ironical note here. Cole is not saying that reinforcing segregation is the answer. He is saying that integration ironically confronts one with segregation and with its inherent failure. He is pointing out at the paradoxical character of integration done by the same dualistic logic of segregation. He is depicting the feeling of powerlessness confronting a young individual when attempting to integrate himself in what culture sells as normality, intimacy, safety. He also points at the ironical status of hip hop, of the capitalistic version of rap aiming at accumulating fortune and status to achieve safety and peace of mind. He shows that discrimination, segregation, preconception and discrimination are inherent to our current society.

His song is however not unidirectional. He isn’t charging (just) the white man. He is looking the dynamics of social interactions straight in the eye and describes the complex game of preconceptions, of their birth and perpetuation. Just as the neighbours assume that a black man in a rich territory must be doing something wrong and thus propagate the racial profiling, so too the response “well motherfucker I am” shows how easy it is to fall in that logic. How easy it is to sell yourself as a stereotype that is easily bought. This is also how Cole responds to the self-propagating stereotypes in hip hop in his “1985” songs directed at someone who dissed him.

“But have you ever thought about your impact?

These white kids love that you don’t give a fuck

‘Cause that’s exactly what’s expected when your skin black

They wanna see you dab, they wanna see you pop a pill

They wanna see you tatted from your face to your heels

And somewhere deep down, fuck it, I gotta keep it real

They wanna be black and think your song is how it feels”

Preconceptions make reality more digestible and aligning yourself to preconceptions makes you more attractive. This dynamic feeds into the logic of racism and discrimination.