Una interacción entre -mostrar y no mostrar

en la fotografía en color Highly carcinogenic blue asbestos waste on the Owendale Asbestos Mine tailings dump, near Postmasburg, Northern Cape. The prevailing wind was in the direction of the mine officials’ houses at right. 21 December, 2002 de David Goldblatt.

Introducción

El fotógrafo David Goldblatt nace en el año 1930 en Randfontein, un pueblo cerca de Johannesburgo en Sudáfrica. Se dedicó por décadas a la fotografía hasta poco antes de su muerte en junio del año 2018.

Para Goldblatt, las revistas ilustradas como Look, Life o el Picture Post jugaron un rol importante en despertar su interés por la fotografía documental.1 Desde los años 60 David Goldblatt se dedicó enteramente a la fotografía y registró la vida cotidiana de Sudáfrica a lo largo de casi 60 años. 

En su producción fotográfica, Goldblatt prestó especial atención al sistema del Apartheid, que era la política de segregación establecida en Sudáfrica a partir el año 1948 después de que el National Party (el Partido nacional) suba al poder.2 

A lo largo de su carrera, Goldblatt publicó varios fotolibros y fotoensayos; participó en numerosas exposiciones colectivas como por ejemplo la Documenta 12 de Kassel en el año 2007, así como en exhibiciones individuales. Una de sus últimas exposiciones individuales se presentó en el Centre Georges Pompidou en Paris en el año 2018, titulada Structures of Dominion and Democracy. 

On Common Ground fue la primera exposición post mortem de Goldblatt, inaugurada el 28 de julio del 2018. La misma fue comisariada por Paul Weinberg y presentó el trabajo de los fotógrafos David Goldblatt y Peter Magubane, estableciendo un diálogo visual entre ambos cuerpos de trabajo. 

Una de las exhibiciones colectivas más actuales en las que participaron fotografías de Goldblatt, fue la exposición Dialoge im Wandel (Diálogos en transición) inaugurada en el museo Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen en Düsseldorf, Alemania en abril de 2022, presentando imágenes de The Walther Collection, en su mayoría de artistas fotógrafos africanos.3

El presente ensayo observará la fotografía de David Goldblatt titulada Highly carcinogenic blue asbestos waste on the Owendale Asbestos Mine tailings dump, near Postmasburg, Northern Cape. The prevailing wind was in the direction of the mine officials’ houses at right. 21 December, 2002. (Residuos de asbesto azul altamente cancerígeno en el vertedero de residuos de la mina de asbesto de Owendale, cerca de Postmasburg, Northern Cape. El viento predominante iba en dirección a las casas de los funcionarios de la mina, a la derecha. 21 de diciembre de 2002.). Este análisis propone examinar la fotografía antes mencionada y contemplar a través de esta cómo David Goldblatt aborda temas relacionados a la historia social y política de Sudáfrica en la época posterior del Apartheid mediante una interacción entre mostrar/no mostrar, es decir, proponiendo un diálogo entre visibilidad e invisibilidad. 

Para realizar este análisis me apoyaré en el texto del filósofo Dieter Mersch (1951) Ambiguitäten des Zeigens. Kleine Theorie monstrativer Praktiken (2016) el cual será un instrumento interesante para considerar las decisiones intrínsecas entre el acto de mostrar y no mostrar.

Desarrollo

Un tema fundamental en los ensayos fotográficos de Goldblatt es la vida diaria bajo el sistema de segregación que regía en Sudáfrica desde el año 1948 hasta el año 1991.4 El Apartheid fue un sistema establecido que promulgó la segregación racial y la discriminación en el país y exigía el desarrollo segregado de los distintos grupos raciales de Sudáfrica.5 

En Sudáfrica en épocas del Apartheid, la fotografía documental jugó un papel importante en la difusión y circulación de imágenes que intentaban visibilizar los conflictos internos y el sistema violento que regía al país.6 Por ejemplo, el colectivo de fotógrafos fundado alrededor del año 1981 bajo el nombre de Afrapix, practicaban la llamada “Struggle Photography”;7 estos fotógrafos se concentraban en capturar escenas de los tantos conflictos, protestas y represión que sucedían en las calles del país, con la intención de visualizar y difundir tanto a nivel nacional como internacional lo que sucedía en Sudáfrica bajo este sistema.8

David Goldblatt sostenía, sin embargo, que la cámara fotográfica no debería ser considerada un arma o un aparato encargado de una misión. David Goldblatt persiguió, por ende, otro método para representar la situación, él buscó abordar este conflicto a partir de imágenes de la vida diaria, donde se podía observar los problemas del sistema entramados ya en la cotidianeidad.  Gran parte de sus proyectos fotográficos se enfocan en imágenes de la vida diaria que exponen, por ejemplo, el racismo y la segregación en la época del Apartheid.  Ziebinska-Lewandowska argumenta:

“On several occasions David Goldblatt has affirmed that the photographic apparatus is not a weapon for him, adding that he understood very early on that he was not vested with a mission. These words pronounced publicly- notably during the congress “The Culture and Resistance” […] provoked heated reactions within the activist milieu participating in the event. Among the critics were some of Goldblatt´s colleagues and friends, members of Afrapix […] for whom denouncing the malfunction and crimes of apartheid through photography was a duty. While he supported their actions, Goldblatt was not a member of Afrapix and did not share their strategy. He was nevertheless considered to be one of the most uncompromising detractors of the system of apartheid and his photographs attest to this.”9

Como se ha señalado anteriormente, Goldblatt consideraba que la fotografía no debería tener un rol de activa denuncia y de lucha. Aun cuando David Goldblatt mantenía una opinión diferente en cuanto a la función de denuncia de la fotografía, significó un firme apoyo para sus colegas fotógrafos. 

A lo largo de su carrera, Goldblatt construyó paulatinamente un estilo fotográfico reflectivo y contemplativo. Como se señaló anteriormente, a pesar de la violencia diaria que enfrentaba su país, él tomó la decisión de utilizar un enfoque contemplativo en sus fotografías y buscó un método enfocado en las imágenes cotidianas, para registrar la situación.10 En resumen, Goldblatt puso en marcha una búsqueda de hacer visible el Apartheid empleando una estrategia distinta a la que, por ejemplo, empleaba la Struggle Photography. Como apunta Godby “[…] this was a gradual process and it involved him changing his approach to equipment, style, printing techniques, and book design. Above all, this change in photographic practice involved transforming his relationship to the subject matter.[…]”11

Con el desarrollo de este -enfoque contemplativo- Goldblatt recurrió a la fotografía de estructuras y espacios urbanos para reflexionar sobre la situación en Sudáfrica.12

La fotografía Highly carcinogenic blue asbestos waste on the Owendale Asbestos Mine tailings dump, near Postmasburg, Northern Cape. The prevailing wind was in the direction of the mine officials’ houses at right. 21 December, 2002, en la cual se centra el presente artículo, fue parte del ensayo fotográfico titulado Intersections publicado en el año 2005. Con este ensayo fotográfico, Goldblatt se sumergía por primera vez en la fotografía de color y experimentaba con impresiones digitales.13

La fotografía en cuestión presenta un gran plano general de un paisaje de rocas, en el que la riqueza de texturas es una característica fundamental. La composición está planteada de tal manera que solo una pequeña franja celeste- grisácea del cielo, la cual ocupa solo una pequeña parte del tercio superior de la imagen, contrasta con la porosidad del resto de la toma. Es decir, el paisaje rocoso ocupa la mayor parte de la imagen; el primer plano, el plano medio, así como el fondo. Fusionándose con el color marrón grisáceo de las rocas de este paisaje, el color celeste intenso de las fibras de asbesto es visible en más de ¾ partes de la imagen. Estas fibras celestes se encuentran repartidas por todo el espacio. En el tercio horizontal inferior del encuadre, el ángulo de la toma permite apreciar de forma detallada la textura de las rocas, y entre ellas, el asbesto azul. Este ángulo del encuadre facilita el sentido de espacialidad; el mismo es acentuado por la contrastante perspectiva entre las rocas que se perciben de tamaño grande en la parte inferior de la composición y las rocas del fondo que se aprecian con menos textura y menos contraste de color gris-marrón. Las fibras de asbestos resaltan entre las rocas de tal manera que son capaces de crear una ruta visual y guiar la mirada a través del paisaje. 

En esta imagen, David Goldblatt trata el tema de la minera de asbestos en Sudáfrica y sus fatales consecuencias. La fotografía fue realizada en el año 2002, cuando los restos de este material tóxico aún eran visibles en la tierra, a pesar de que la mina de asbestos había sido cerrada en el año 1984.14  Solamente después de la caída del Apartheid, se empezó a tomar en cuenta como las personas habían sido (y para el momento de la captura de la fotografía) seguían siendo afectadas por esta industria minera, a la vez de la contaminación ambiental que provocaba.15  

David Goldblatt se interesó por mostrar en sus fotografías lugares/estructuras/paisajes aparentemente vacíos y tranquilos, sin embargo, los mismos tras una pausada observación presentan en realidad indicios de cómo las decisiones de una sociedad pueden permanecer -entretejidos- en las estructuras y los paisajes.16 (esto es un ejemplo del enfoque contemplativo que se mencionó anteriormente) Mduduzi Xacaza concluye que David Goldblatt comenta fotográficamente las decisiones de una sociedad.

“In Goldblatt’s exploration of the visible signs of economic violence, what is remarkable in many of his photographs from both Apartheid and post-Apartheid periods (including the one under analysis), is the ability to employ sharp photographic vision of what can say volumes, though in a seemingly mundane manner, about the beliefs and values of the South African society.”17 

Retomando la cita de Xacaza, se concluye que Goldblatt utiliza un lenguaje visual de lo cotidiano en su fotografía, a partir de esto me gustaría retomar el foco de atención en la imagen en cuestión. En esta foto, David Golblatt presenta un paisaje natural cotidiano, en el cual se puede observar riqueza de texturas, colores y tonos. Sin embargo, el fotógrafo utiliza este lenguaje visual para representar un problema que se encuentra enraizado tanto en la naturaleza como en la sociedad post Apartheid. En este sentido, en esta fotografía se puede apreciar la manera en la que Goldblatt presenta un tema sensible a través del uso de imágenes cotidianas.

En proyectos anteriores, Goldblatt ya había trabajado con la problemática alrededor de campos de minería en Sudáfrica durante el Apartheid. En el año 1973 publicó su libro fotográfico titulado On the Mines, en el cual se concentra en la industria minera de oro y su impacto en la gente, en la vida diaria y en el paisaje. Este foto-ensayo incluye una observación del trabajo bajo tierra, de estructuras, además de retratos detallados de personas dedicadas a la minería.18 Sally Gaule destaca como On the Mines presenta una lectura del zeitgeist en épocas del Apartheid. 

“Together, these chapters explore the backbone of Johannesburg’s mining economy; of its technology, the forces that shaped the mining industry itself and the range of persons engaged in mining operations, (…). Moreover, the publication is also a perceptive assessment of the zeitgeist of South Africa during apartheid.”19

En la fotografía Highly carcinogenic blue asbestos waste on the Owendale Asbestos Mine tailings dump, near Postmasburg, Northern Cape. The prevailing wind was in the direction of the mine officials’ houses at right. 21 December, 2002. Goldblatt tiene otro acercamiento a la minería, esta vez a través de la observación de estructuras y de paisajes prácticamente construidos por el ser humano. Otro dato elemental es que esta y las otras fotografías de la serie llamada Intersections (2005), se realizaron años después del Apartheid. 

La pregunta central de este texto busca reflexionar de qué manera la forma en la que Goldblatt construyó esta fotografía demuestra como él trabaja con los motivos, las temáticas que le interesan y a su vez las decisiones que él toma en el acto de fotografiar. Tomando en consideración la interacción entre visibilidad e invisibilidad en esta fotografía, es oportuno observar cómo la misma presenta al espectador un paisaje aparentemente tranquilo que exhibe una armoniosa combinación y gradación de colores y matices pero que en realidad esconde un predominante peligro.  Este juego entre visibilidad y aparente invisibilidad, o, mejor dicho, la decisión consciente acerca de qué mostrar y qué dejar fuera del encuadre, podemos analizarlo trayendo a la discusión la premisa que el filósofo Dieter Mersch provee en su texto Ambiguitäten des Zeigens (2016) acerca del -mostrar-.  Dieter Mersch sostiene que el acto de -mostrar- algo, está necesariamente atravesado por la decisión de -no mostrar-. “[…] mit jeder Entscheidung, auf etwas Bestimmtes zu zeigen, [ist] gleichzeitig schon die Entscheidung, etwas anderes nicht zu zeigen, verbunden […]”20 Lo cual significa que algunos de los elementos han sido excluidos de aquello que está siendo presentado, es decir, lo -no expuesto- tiene, en ese caso, su propio relato. Mersch apunta: 

“[…] Im ersten Fall versteht man Zeigen performativ, im zweiten ostensiv bzw. transitiv, doch birgt letzteres die systematische Schwierigkeit, dass, wo auf etwas Bestimmtes gezeigt und damit etwas anderes ausgeschlossen wird, dieser Ausschluss nicht selbst wiederum gezeigt werden kann, denn Zeigen adressiert immer nur ein Dieses, sei es im Sinne einer Pointierung oder einer Präsentation. Verweigere ich deshalb im Akt des Zeigens ein anderes Zeigen, habe ich es bereits „als“ etwas anderes markiert, d.h. der bestimmten Negation unterzogen, was mit Bezug auf die Zuwendung oder Adressierung sicher eine unangemessene Formulierung darstellt.“21

Es esta conciencia de lo que -no está siendo presentado- que encuentro interesante de observar en la fotografía de Goldblatt. Considero que Goldblatt construye una fotografía, cuya composición establece un juego entre lo que se presenta y no se presenta. En un primer vistazo, la fotografía en cuestión parece mostrar solamente un paisaje de naturaleza. Sin embargo, es después de una observación detallada (y la inclusión del título de la misma, al cual volveré en un instante) lo que lleva a considerar aquello que esta imagen está mostrando entretejido en el paisaje. 

Ahora, retomando el título de la imagen, es importante considerar el papel que este juega en su interpretación. La información que el autor provee a través del título, guía a los sujetos observadores a considerar otros aspectos de lo que la fotografía aparentemente muestra. Esta manera de incluir los títulos de la fotografía en la interpretación es un aspecto que se encuentra a lo largo de su producción. Goldblatt emplea este tipo de títulos de carácter documental en la mayoría de sus imágenes, los títulos proveen normalmente la descripción de lo que se muestra o la persona o personas retratadas, el año y el lugar donde se capturó. Además, muchas veces incluye una explicación un tanto más ampliada, como en el caso de la imagen que hemos analizado en este artículo.

El lenguaje visual que escoge Goldblatt para mostrar y comentar acerca de las huellas de un componente tóxico en el paisaje, es presentarlo de tal manera que parezca ser parte de la vida diaria. Es de cierta forma una manera silenciosa de invitar a observar. Propongo que David Goldblatt, se interesa por el comentario que provee aquello que se muestra en la imagen, tanto como aquello que no se muestra o que pareciera permanecer invisible (como el asbesto azul, por ejemplo). Goldblatt hace uso del mostrar y también de lo que conscientemente deja en campos de lo -no mostrado-.

Conclusion

Después de observar la fotografía de David Goldblatt Highly carcinogenic blue asbestos waste on the Owendale Asbestos Mine tailings dump, near Postmasburg, Northern Cape. The prevailing wind was in the direction of the mine officials’ houses at right. 21 December, 2002, se ha definido que David Goldblatt utiliza una interacción entre -lo que se muestra y lo que no se muestra- para abordar un tema como la presencia de fibras tóxicas de asbesto azul en el paisaje de Sudáfrica, 18 años después del cierre de la mina de asbestos que operaba en este lugar. El presente texto se propuso determinar de qué manera la fotografía en cuestión puede ejemplificar la forma de trabajar de Goldblatt. La imagen que ha sido observada expone un ejemplo del abordaje contemplativo. Es decir, es una muestra de cómo él se interesa en aplicar su lenguaje fotográfico para tratar un tema en específico. 

A pesar de que el fin del Apartheid significó para Sudáfrica un periodo de reconstrucción y cambio político, las relaciones de poder, así como las consecuencias de un largo periodo bajo este régimen continuaron siendo visibles en la cultura material como en la arquitectura, el paisaje y los monumentos.22 La fotografía examinada en este artículo es un ejemplo de cómo él exhibe estos vestigios/remanentes en sus imágenes.

El traer a la discusión la argumentación de Dieter Mersch acerca del acto de mostrar y no mostrar, ha contribuido para considerar el relato/comentario de aquello que se ha dejado conscientemente fuera del encuadre. En el caso de la imagen revisada, Goldblatt incluye en la fotografía las fibras de asbestos, sin embargo, la composición no destaca únicamente estas fibras, por ejemplo, no se ha aplicado un primerísimo primer plano a las fibras azules o no se ha colocado el foco del lente únicamente en estas. 

Se puede argumentar que lo que le interesa mostrar a Goldblatt, es la presencia de estas fibras tóxicas en el ambiente de una manera prácticamente silente. En lo que respecta a esta fotografía, -lo no mostrado-, es decir, lo que se ha dejado fuera del encuadre ha sido de alguna manera incluido en el título de esta. Finalmente, como se ha discutido, la información que se incluye en el título es el elemento que finalmente revela el peligro que sugiere esta imagen. 

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Notas

  1.  Cf. Goldblatt, 55. With an essay by Lesley Lawson, 2001.
  2. Cf. Hayes, P., 2007, p. 144/ Cf. David L. Krantz, 2008, pp. 294-295.
  3.  Ver: Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen,  https://www.kunstsammlung.de/en/exhibitions/the-walther-collection-photography (Recuperado en 10.02.23).
  4.  Cf. South African History Online, A History of Apartheid in South Africa, 2016, URL: http://www.sahistory.org.za/article/history-apartheid-south-africa (Recuperado en 27.01.23).
  5.  Cf. South African History Online, A History of Apartheid in South Africa, 2016, URL: http://www.sahistory.org.za/article/history-apartheid-south-africa (Recuperado en 27.01.23).
  6.  Cf. Newbury, 2009, p.5.
  7.  David L. Krantz explica el término Struggle Photography: “Resistance or Struggle Photography is the term used by South African antiapartheid photographers to describe a genre of photography that is political in its stance. Its intention, beyond the aesthetic, is to document the conflicts between oppressors and their victims so as alert, persuade and elicit support for the oppressed. The reality captured by the photograph is from the vantage point of the subjugated person. Important examples of resistance photography are provided by the work of the Afrapix collective. During the 1980s Afrapix photographs contributed to the culture of struggle that played such an important role in mobilizing local and international response against repression of the country’s vast majority Black population by the apartheid regime.”  (David L. Krantz: Politics and Photography in Apartheid South Africa, History of Photography, 2008, p. 290.)
  8.  Cf. Newbury, 2009, p.240.
  9.  Ziebinska-Lewandowska, Photography as an act of thinking, 2018, p. 21.
  10.  Cf. Godby, David Goldblatt. The personal and the political, 2001, p. 416.
  11.  Godby, David Goldblatt. The personal and the political, 2001, p. 416.
  12.  Cf. Godby, Constructions, Changes in the view of the city in fifty years of David Godlblatt´s photography, 2010, p. 177.
  13.  Cf. Bajorek, 2015, p.222. /Cf. Bester, R., 2007, p. 21. 
  14.  Cf. Xakaza, 2015, p.162.  
  15.  Cf. Xakaza, 2015, p.162.  
  16.  Cf. Godby, David Goldblatt. The personal and the political, 2001, p. 421. / Cf. Linden, 2011, p. 350.
  17.  Cf. Xakaza, 2015, pp.163-164.
  18.  Cf. Bester R., 2007, p. 13. / Cf. Gaule, 2014.
  19.  Gaule, 2014, p.127.
  20. Mersch, Ambiguitäten des Zeigens. Kleine Theorie monstrativer Praktiken, 2016, p. 65. “[…] con cada decisión de señalar algo específico [está] al mismo tiempo, ya vinculada la decisión de no señalar otra cosa” (propia traducción al español).
  21. Mersch, Ambiguitäten des Zeigens. Kleine Theorie monstrativer Praktiken, 2016, p. 67.  “[…] En el primer caso, se entiende el señalar performativamente, en el segundo ostensiva o transitivamente, pero este último implica la dificultad sistemática de que allí donde se señala algo específico y, por tanto, se excluye otra cosa, esta exclusión no puede mostrarse a su vez, pues el señalar siempre se dirige sólo a un esto, ya sea en el sentido de un señalar o de un presentar. Si, por tanto, en el acto de señalar, niego otro señalamiento, ya lo he marcado “como” otra cosa, es decir, lo he sometido a la negación determinada, que es ciertamente una formulación inadecuada con referencia a la asignación o direccionamiento.” (propia traducción al español).
  22.   Cf. Linden, 2011, p. 350.

Bibliografia

  • Bajorek, Jennifer: On Colour Photography in an Extra-Moral Sense, en: Third Text, Noviembre, 2015, pp. 221–235, URL: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/09528822.2015.1106136 (Recuperado en: 10.01.2023).
  • Bester, Rory: David Goldblatt. Buch für Buch, en: Parr, M./ Goldblatt, D. [eds.]: David Goldblatt. Südafrikanische Fotografien. 1952-2006, Christoph Merian Verlag, Basel 2007, pp. 11-24.
  • Gaule, Sally: Mining photographs. David Goldblatt’s On the Mines, en: Social Dynamics 40:1, 2014, pp. 122-139, DOI: 10.1080/02533952.2014.884266. (Recuperado en 10.01.2023).
  • Godby, Michael: David Goldblatt. The Personal and the Political, en: Goldblatt, David Fifty-One Zears, Actar and Macba, Barcelona 2001, pp. 407-425.
  • Godby, Michael: Constructions. Changes in the View of the City in Fifty Years of David Godlblatt´s Photography, en: Farber, Leora [eds]: Representation and Spatial Practices in Urban South Africa, The Research Centre, Visual Identities in Art and Design, Johannesburg, 2010, pp. 170-183.
  • Goldblatt, David: 55. With an essay by Lesley Lawson, Phaidon, London, 2001.
  • Hayes, Patricia: Power, Secrecy, Proximity. A Short History of South African Photography, en, Kronos. Journarl of Cape History, Vol.33:1, Noviembre 2007, pp. 139-162.
  • Krantz, David L.: Politics and Photography in Apartheid South Africa, en: History of Photography, 32:4, pp-290-300, 2008, DOI: 10.1080/03087290802334885.
  • Linden, Anne: Photographs from the Intersections Series by David Goldblatt and the Question of Representation after Apartheid, en: Belting, H. [y.o.]: Global Studies. Mapping Contemporary Art and Culture, Hatje Cantz, Ostfildern, 2011, pp. 348-359.
  • Mersch, Dieter: Ambiguitäten des Zeigens. Kleine Theorie monstrativer Praktiken, en: Sykora, Katharina [y.o.]: Valenzen fotografischen Zeigens. Das fotografische Dispositiv, Band 3, Marburg 2016, pp. 51-73.
  • Newbury, Darren: Defiant Images. Photography and Apartheid South Africa, Unissa Press, Pretoria 2009.
  • South African History Online: A History of Apartheid in South Africa, 2016, URL: http://www.sahistory.org.za/article/history-apartheid-south-africa (Recuperado en 28.01.23).
  • Xakaza, M. M.: Power Relations in Landscape Photographs by David Goldblatt and Santu Mofokeng, Diss. University of the Western Cape, Western Cape, December 2015. Accesible en: (http://hdl.handle.net/11394/4846).
  • Ziebinska-Lewandowska, Karolina.: Photography as an Act of Thinking, en: K., Ziebinska-Lewandowska/ Goldblatt, David: David Goldblat. Structures of Dominion and Democracy [Ex.Cat], Centre Pompidou, Steidl, Paris 2018 pp. 20-27.

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

Adrichem, Jan van: Realism in the smallest details. RIneke Dijkstra interviewed by Jan van Adrichem,  in: Dijkstra, Rineke/ Guggenheim Foundations [a.o]: Rineke Dijkstra. A retrospective, Guggenheim Museum Publications, New York/ San Francisco 2012, pp. 45-60.

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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The Many Selves of Being One Self

or a Call-for-Action Manifesto[1]

That {men} points, disregarding all kinds of prohibitions,
the avenging weapon of the idea against the bestiality
of all the beings and all the things, and that one day,
defeated - but defeated only if the world is really a world-
takes the bullets from his sad rifles like a harmless fire.
Second Manifesto, André Breton
[Can’t avoid mentioning that I ended
this piece
with the obsessive flashing effect
of the phrase
“HUMAN RIGHTS”
tattooed deep into my mindset;
therefore,
to the UN & Associates]
Hey
Been trying to meet you
Hey
Must be a devil between us
“Hey” by Pixies

I often find myself leafing through literary characters whose fictional destiny resonate with certain episodes of my life. The Unnamable (1953) by Samuel Beckett, for instance, constructs such a redundant Cartesian character, in which the obsessive and iterative monologue of the only narrative voice slowly builds a narcissistic tone that at the end of the novel cages the character in a world that has the exact shape of the head of the owner of that voice. Back in 1953, during a post-war period of multiple forms of reconstruction throughout Europe, The Unnamable appeared as a synthetic metaphor of the anxieties of a generation whose imagination was fueled with the fears brought by totalitarian regimes and economic instability. By the time I was finishing my PhD degree at UNC-Chapel Hill, the long-lasting effects of the financial crisis of 2008 whose epicenter was the United States put ahead of myself the possible fate of belonging to the top 2 per cent in terms of academic level but nonetheless having no job whatsoever. During the final stage of the PhD, while submitting job and postdoctoral applications, it was common that night arrived in front of my eyes with the computer flashing its continuous lights and the singing of cicadas making my senses feel slowly numb; it was perhaps due to the cicadas that my inner conversations followed paths that resembled certain passages of The Unnamable. Questioning even the way I was breathing seemed not only a natural analytical reflex but also a worthwhile endeavor to pursue in order to better understand – in the fashion of Heidegger’s existentialist phenomenology – the physiological meaning of being alive.

            In a similar way, Joris-Karl Huysmans’ Á rebours or Against Nature (1884), even despite the chronological distance that set Huysman’s vital time afar from mine, served as an aesthetic model for certain tropes of my own character, such as nurturing a sort of childish devotion for certain artifacts that due to the practice of conviction seemed charged with magical energies that often brought moments of amusement during my boring tenure as both graduate student and faculty member. If back in the 1990’s the Decadent movement had been captured by proto-hipsters and Generation X’s to be translated as a set of cultural practices tuned by a somewhat unmotivated ennui, Á rebours’ decadent practices departed away from a socialized cultural realm to be adapted as a set of behaviors and misanthropic attitudes that created a reclusive and isolated kingdom where the same person was both king and servant, thus suggesting that the self was an ontological edifice that contained multiple layers – or even selves – that up until the wake of the 21st century we begin to understand as the most humane way of being. Or, as it happens to many readers of Proust, each time that I’m about to take a bite of a cornetto or croissant I reminisce that precise moment in which with a cornetto all’albicocca in hand I can see myself walking among complete strangers through Piazza Duomo in Siracusa, in southeast Sicily.

            Furthermore, as my writing practices keep progressing as one of the artistic maneuvers to protect my self/selves from the “existentialist pollution” that constantly attempts to erode our integrity – even if the idealism of owning any degree of integrity appears as a narcissistic utopia, understanding integrity as the radical form of existing both ethically and artistically only within our very self without external interferences-, the simple act of beginning a new literary work makes me reflect about the aesthetic considerations that Miguel de Unamuno brought forward in his Cómo se hace una novela (How a Novel is Made, 1924-1927), a work that to put it in simple words suggests – following the Aristotelian axiom that states that the only way to becoming something is through practice – that the only way to write a novel is achieved by writing it. Back in the summer of 2015, when as a K. Leroy Irvis Fellow at the University of Pittsburgh I was assigned to teach Creative Writing, even though I had already published various works and had received even international prizes, I constantly struggled to transmit to my students a clear “formula” to write either a flash fiction or a short story. After completing the reading list, which included short stories by the kinds of Toni Morrison and Julio Cortázar and two chapters from Six Memos for the Next Millennium (1988) by Italo Calvino, one of my conclusions as the instructor was the confirmation of what Unamuno began to do since the title of How a Novel is Made.

            Therefore, how could one unpack the many selves that inhabit the subjective fiction of only being one single indivisible self? For those of us who have accepted literary fiction as one of the paths to search for existential meaning and aesthetic references, it wouldn’t be uncommon to engage in imaginative practices that aim at unfolding our personality as a complex, multiform, and polyphonic process of self creation that in the best case scenario would make us multiply our “human capital” in the form of expanding our subjective landscape. Once immersed in the meta-neoliberal logic that understands the self as a potential producer of human capital as each individual increases her/his production of subjectivities, the possibilities of self-transformation could seem virtually unlimited.

            Under this meta-neoliberal light the concepts of Movement, Resonance, and Self-Mastery acquire a new dimension as we begin to add subjectivities to the repertoire of our-selves. I’m thinking about these concepts along Calvino’s Six Memos and as the theoretical framework of an in-progress theory of Self Creation under the “new” restrictions brought upon all animal species by Covid-19, which after more than a year of being launched worldwide I understand as a biopolitical and cultural construction whose ultimate purpose is to guarantee the constant coronation of the postmodern status quo through a subtle biological repression that on the surface seems to pitch against one another entire communities from the same social class, thus softening the historical tension between the so-called lower and upper classes. This process of social and biological atomization, whose underlying conditions make us overly and superficially aware of our genetic and social alliances, has triggered a global war of mindsets that on the surface seems a dialectical consequence of the world system global scheme that placed power in regards of both geographical location and financial strength.

            Even though the concept of Movement already contains the essence of its meaning, I’m thinking about it within the broader concept of Cosmopolitanism in the sense that Kwame Anthony Appiah framed it in his homonymous book Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of Strangers (2006), where he meditates about the ethical implications of engaging in a globalized identity-building process that goes beyond global tourism, among other neoliberal quotidian practices of consumption. While not every cosmopolitan individual in Appiah’s fashion may necessarily require to become a frequent flyer or a multilingual prodigy, it does require to become conscious about the fact that our 21st-century reality – thinking about it even at the community-based level – has become a bordered space of multifaceted interactions with what we usually label as otherness. Appiah doesn’t prescribe, however, any formula to become an exemplar cosmopolitan individual, but he does constantly point at the fact that cosmopolitanism and ethics goes hand in hand as global economy keeps pushing forward a neoliberal agenda that is constantly sold to the general public as the friendly face of globalization. Therefore, once we encounter ourselves immersed in an immediate reality where we recognize that we might be the ground-zero level of otherness, navigating through it with not only an informed but also a curious ethical compass becomes perhaps our best ally.

            Seminario sulla gioventú (1984) by Aldo Busi has been the literary work where I first traced this individual cosmopolitan attitude within a post-modern setting. As it is the case of most coming-to-age novels, Busi’s most known work narrates the odyssey of a young character that through endeavoring constant locational movement throughout Italy he not only discovers the meaning of youth but also he comes into terms with his own subjective “local ghosts” that had placed in front of himself the possible fate of constant failure. In a form, once the main character of Seminario sulla gioventú ventures beyond the confines of his own nuclear geographical location he is finally able to be himself through the practice of various personalities that aids him to traverse the deeply bordered Italian social and cultural landscapes.

            As for the concept of Resonance, since its conceptual nature is either sonorous or sonic, I employ it as a cultural weapon that allows an individual to acquire a new sonorous/sonic meaning within her/his communities of interaction. Life: A User’s Manual (1978) by Georges Perec is an excellent literary example of the various forms in which the life of an individual resonates throughout time and space by interacting on daily basis with the lives and afterlives of the others that exist next to us. Perec’s novel narrates in detail the life of all the neighbors of a Parisian building as if each of the characters was the sine qua non element of an existential puzzle of historical transcendence. It would be an exhaustive endeavor to focus on each of the characters that parade in Perec’s novel, but I would like to emphasize that the way the novel is structured suggests – often only by naming the existential contiguity of a neighbor – that the absence of a character would weaken the sonorous/sonic reach of the existence of the character that named that other that in turn happens to be a neighbor or a “sonic mirror” of ourselves. Each of us as members of a social edifice, regardless of the nature of its foundations or teleological purpose, constantly resonate throughout the desires, voices, and even the socialized actions of the people around us. Life: A User’s Manual, through a puzzle-like structure that intertwines the lives of people from very different backgrounds, is already pointing towards a cosmopolitan global future that unavoidably will witness the forced integration of mindsets, cultural practices, collective anxieties, and even the genomic struggles/configurations that in the wake of the 21st century have been exacerbated by economic inequality and the spread of global diseases, thus forcing our very humanity to resonate beyond borders and through possible parallel actions taking place elsewhere beyond our existential orbit as quantum physics – and its byproducts – begin to promise amid the current global crisis. Therefore, if we are meant to inhabit a vital space where we are constantly forced to engage in exchanges of different nature that will bear constant biological consequences to ourselves, life itself – drawing schemes probably developed by various forms of Artificial Intelligence – will be constantly producing rules of interaction, or “a user’s manual”, regardless of our intentions and purposes, posing ahead of us vectors of transgression that in the best case scenario will allow us to create artificial alliances that in turn will strengthen our subjective landscape, thus allowing our-selves to project throughout space and time indefinitely.

            Such scenario will require not only the input of constant energy into each of the endeavors that our-selves overtake on constant basis but also a level of self-mastery, which as our inner landscapes keep increasing amid an atomized reality may seem a never ending activity. This kind of self-mastery is performed by the main character of Palomar (1983) by Italo Calvino, a novel that I read more than a decade ago in front of the turquoise waters of the Caribbean ocean while taking a year off from my university studies. Palomar is an Italian aging man that finds himself trapped in an upper-middle class lifestyle that has allowed him to nurture his intellect in a phenomenological fashion, but that due to the loneliness that he has endeavored suddenly lacks the motivation to keep enduring a future life. Palomar’s reaction to this somewhat fruitless scenario is indeed assuming a detailed-oriented attitude towards the situations that life brings upon himself; for instance, the beginning of the novel beautifully narrates, while Palomar is observing the sea, the birth of a wave and its development among the tide and other waves. This sensorial tuning that focuses on the sense of sight allows Palomar to initiate a personal voyage that takes him to different and heterogeneous spaces that ultimately makes him wonder about how oneself can provide happiness to our life while being submerged in an environment that may exhaust our sensorial energy as it is the case of Palomar’s personal voyage, which often resonates with some of the experiences that Jean des Esseintes – the main character of Huysmans’ Á rebours – accrues among his personal arsenal of sensorial experiences, such as tasting to the very last consequences the feelings that different kinds of combs produce on the scalp, as it happens in Á rebours, or capturing the smells, textures, flavors, and cenesthetic reactions that the different edible items of a Parisian delicatessen grocery store arouse in Palomar’s senses. This detailed-oriented attitude that could potentially lead to sensorial self-mastery, while it’s quite rewarding at the personal level, may appear as an attitude that only those with the means, the time, and the proper intellectual training could aspire to attain. Therefore the challenge emerges from the very functioning mechanisms of an economic system that not only progressively privatizes as many social spaces as possible from public life, including health-related services, education in all its forms, and activities framed as those which may potentially increase our human capital in the form of the acquisition of skills, the expansion of our networking capabilities, and other activities directed towards our-selves such as exercising and other recreational activities; the challenge, from this neoliberal perspective, poses in front of us what at first glace seems a total lack of desire to re-democratize those spaces of self and subjective development in spite of the integrity of our-selves.

            Amid such environment, where the self has already been captured by economic neoliberalism and postmodern modes of personal production, I often wonder in close communication with my own selves that – as Michel Foucault claims in Society Must Be Defended (1976) – if society is understood as a fiction that allows us to navigate the outer world under the pretense of being protected by a “natural” social contract, what ourselves wonder is if that once global society has acquired the means to keep increasing its surviving modes of both production and exchange – as we also become more integrated into existential networks programed by privately-owned Artificial Intelligence platforms – society will gradually fade to open up a new human civilization that will unequivocally depart from the Japanese conceptual framework of Society 5.0.[1] From this perspective of possible atomic reversible transformations, the meaning of individuality may become an ontological relic of self disintegration; therefore, as an early Millennial that encountered 21st-century aesthetic innovations not only bitter – similarly as the way Arthur Rimbaud found beauty in Le bateau ivre in 1871 – but also, often against our anachronous utopian wishes, as an impasse that forced us – and keep doing so – to grow and expand ourselves within a global realm that is only beginning to feel the consequences of the unfriendly post-industrial modernity while also starting to understand the impact of both neoliberalism and post-modernity, I can only encourage ourselves – thinking about the initial quote of this essay as a call-for-action – to embrace our often unnerving battles as the maneuvers required to begin to feel the future that is awaiting for all of us who keep believing in the meaning of life on this planet.

            If L.I.F.E. is transformed into a battle ground

                        We must be ready to fight

                                    (“but only if the world is really a world”)

            If We are reduced to elemental a\n\d\r\o\i\d\s

                        or deformed gestures on a touchscreen

            We must be ready to redefine

                                               Life · itself

                        -from ourselves,

            and to the invisible committee

                        [and calling-to-action to our friends].


[1] DISCLAIMER: This is the first part of a two-part text. Note of the Author/s.

[2] For more details about this concept, consult the Japanese website: Science and Technology Policy. Council for Science, Technology and Innovation > Society 5.0


Yuk Hui e a pergunta pela cosmotécnica

Yuk Hui é um jovem pesquisador que oferece uma visão renovada da relação entre tecnologia e cultura, uma relação que ele resume mediante a noção de “cosmotécnica”. O que significa “cosmotécnica”? Em geral pensamos a tecnologia como um fenômeno universal. Nesse sentido fala-se de civilizações ou povos “mais avançados tecnicamente” que outros. Assim se explicou, por exemplo, a “superioridade” dos europeus ao conquistar o território americano, porém também em suas incursões político-militares na Ásia durante o século XIX e XX.

O filósofo Hui põe em xeque, precisamente, essa premissa universalista. O que aconteceria se não existisse somente uma tecnologia, mas sim muitas cosmotécnicas? Como se veria afetada nossa percepção da história? Talvez o paradigma ocidental, que afirma que o desenvolvimento tecnológico apresenta-se como uma progressão unidirecional acumulativa, seja somente um dos modos de se pensar a tecnologia. O objetivo do seguinte texto é apresentar brevemente as ideias mais importantes que Hui apresenta em seu livro “The Question Concerning Technology in China: An Essay in Cosmotechnics” (‘A questão sobre a tecnologia na China: ensaio sobre a cosmotécnica’, em tradução livre, publicado por Urbanomic, 2016).

O artigo é de Fernando Wirtz, doutor em Filosofia pela Universidade de Tübingen (Alemanha) e membro do comitê diretor da Sociedade Internacional de Filosofia Intercultural, publicado por Código y Frontera, 16-07-2020. A tradução é de Wagner Fernandes de Azevedo.

1. O marco teórico de Yuk Hui

Yuk Hui estudou engenharia informática e filosofia na Universidade de Hong Kong e no Goldsmiths College de Londres, especializando-se em filosofia da tecnologia. Foi pesquisador associado no Instituto de Pesquisa e Inovação do Centro Pompidou, em Paris, e pesquisador visitante nos Laboratórios de Telekom, em Berlim. Lecionou no Instituto de Cultura e Estética dos Meios Digitais, da Universidade Leuphana, de Lüneburg, onde também escreveu sua tese de habilitação em filosofia. Também tem uma relação próxima com o Instituto Strelka de Moscou, onde trabalhou junto a urbanistas críticos, como Benjamin Bratton, em um programa multidisciplinar que busca repensar a relação entre as cidades e a ciência. Atualmente vive e trabalha em Hong Kong.

Além de seus artigos, alguns dos quais se publicam regularmente em revistas como E-flux, Hui conta com três livros importantes (sem publicação no Brasil): “On the Existence of Digital Objects” (‘Sobre a existência de objetos digitais’, 2016), “The Question Concerning Technology in China: An Essay in Cosmotechnics” (‘A questão sobre a tecnologia na China: ensaio sobre a cosmotécnica’, 2016) e “Recursivity and Contingency” (‘Recursividade e Contingência’, 2019). Seus escritos foram traduzidos para uma dúzia de idiomas.

A formação internacional de Hui é visível também nos autores que o influenciaram: por um lado, o pós-estruturalismo francês e a filosofia técnica de Simondon e Stiegler; por outro lado, o idealismo alemão e Heidegger. A estes autores clássicos, que não deixam de reaparecer em seus escritos, é preciso somar correntes de pensamento mais recentes que tentam pensar problemáticas globais atuais. Aqui é preciso nomear, para os fins deste artigo, especialmente os autores do chamado “giro ontológico” no âmbito da antropologia, com autores como Descola, Latour e Viveiros de Castro.

As reflexões destes autores não são tanto uma ruptura total do paradigma investigativo, mas sim uma intensificação de uma atitude crítica já presente na antropologia, acostumada a ser enfrentada com hermenêuticas da realidade diferentes ou estranhas. Assim, pode se dizer que “dar o giro ontológico é fazer perguntas ontológicas sem tomar a ontologia como resposta” (Holbraad e Pedersen, 2017, 11). Se é possível definir ontologia esquematicamente como as reflexões sobre o ser e o que é, a ideia detrás deste giro epistemológico consiste não somente no fato evidente de que os valores variam de cultura a cultura, mas dão conta de que o repertório conceitual da antropologia se encontra atravessado pela pergunta pelo ser das coisas.

Dito de outro modo, interpretar o que pensa (neste caso) um povo sobre determinada “coisa” implica uma categoria prévia de “coisa” já dada. Assim, é preciso se mover um passo para trás para perguntar o que são as coisas. Viveiros de Castro, por exemplo, postula, em vez de um multiculturalismo, um multinaturalismo. O primeiro implica a ideia de que a natureza é uma e o que variam são as perspectivas culturais das pessoas. É possível, no entanto, inverter a pergunta: podem existir muitas naturezas?

Descola, outro dos autores relevantes desta corrente, fala de diversas ontologias (naturalismo, totemismo, animismo, analogismo), cada uma das quais aborda continuidades e descontinuidades diferentes entre o mundo físico e a interioridade. Deste modo, por exemplo, o naturalismo das sociedades europeias modernas marca desde o começo uma forte descontinuidade entre estes dois campos, um abismo que leva paralelamente a uma distinção hierárquica entre natureza e cultura.

Esta descontinuidade ontológica entre a natureza e a cultura implica mais que uma mera gradação, é uma divisão que promove uma determinada hierarquia. Assim, distingue-se entre sociedades “civilizadas” e sociedades “primitivas”, estando estas últimas, aos olhos da etnologia, ligadas intimamente com a natureza. São Naturvölker (povos naturais), com eram chamadas no século XIX. Para Hui, interessa superar esta crítica à relação com a tecnologia. Conforme se entenda o papel das coisas, dos objetos, obteremos um conceito distinto de tecnologia. Por este motivo, não é de surpreender que Hui se encontre próximo ao pensamento da chamada Object-Oriented-Ontology (termo alcunhado pelo filósofo Graham Harman), isso é, filosofia orientada a objetos que busca libertar os objetos de sua determinabilidade por meio da subjetividade.

Frente à primazia dos sujeitos, diferentes autores e autoras tentaram pensar um mundo mais além do antropocentrismo, onde a distinção hierárquica entre sujeitos e objetos se vê difusa. Assim, as fenomenologias alien (Bogost), os hiper-objetos (Morton) e flat ontologies (DeLanda) abundam por estas regiões filosóficas. Seguindo esta linha, Hui apresenta o seguinte raciocínio: se é possível pensar um pluralismo ontológico, e a tecnologia se define em parte em relação à natureza, então deve ser possível pensar igualmente um pluralismo tecnológico.

2. O conceito de “cosmotécnica” e a filosofia chinesa

Depois deste breve esboço que pretende ilustrar o interesse de Hui em uma mudança de perspectiva, o objetivo desta seção é apresentar sua obra “The Question Concerning Technology in China: An Essay in Cosmotechnics”. Como se desprende do seu título, o livro parece se posicionar como uma resposta ao texto de HeideggerA questão da técnica” (1949/1954) (em alemão, a palavra technik não tem as características de “técnica”, que remete mais a uma habilidade prática particular, mas sim se refere a um conceito geral mais abstrato que poderíamos chamar “tecnologia”.

Neste artigo usarei os conceitos de “técnica” e “tecnologia” como sinônimos. Nisso, o pensador alemão caracteriza a tecnologia moderna como aquela que transforma a natureza em uma reserva de matérias-primas, em um estoque disponível para ser explorado (HUI, 2016, p. 3). Pois então, o problema da tecnologia moderna não concerne à Europa ou ao Ocidente, mas Hui está interessado em perguntar em que medida é possível transplantar esta pergunta em solo oriental. Esta pergunta também implica o ponto de vista crítico segundo o qual se questiona o próprio conceito de tecnologia. Portanto, da mesma maneira que o giro ontológico em antropologia perguntava se eram possíveis múltiplas naturezas, Hui propõe pensar em uma multiplicidade de tecnologias.

Existe um equívoco geral de que todas as técnicas são iguais, de que todas as habilidades e produtos artificiais de todas as culturas podem ser reduzidos a uma coisa chamada “tecnologia”. E, de fato, é quase impossível negar que as técnicas podem ser entendidas como extensão do corpo ou externalização da memória. No entanto, eles podem não ser percebidos ou refletidos da mesma forma em diferentes culturas. (HUI, 2016, p. 9)

Hui encontra a possibilidade de romper com o conceito monolítico de tecnologia na relação das culturas com sua cosmogonia. Como diferentes pessoas pensam sobre tecnologia? O mito grego, segundo o qual Prometeu arranca o fogo (ou seja, a tecnologia) dos deuses, descreve a invenção da tecnologia como um conflito violento entre os seres humanos e os poderes da natureza governados por deuses e deusas imortais. A rebelião de Prometeu deu ao ser humano uma enorme vantagem sobre as demais espécies que habitavam a terra, a inteligência discursiva. No entanto, isso também implicava uma separação radical entre a humanidade e a ordem divino-natural. Em uma entrevista com Anders Dunker (disponível neste link), Hui explica:

Para os gregos, ‘cosmos’ significa um mundo organizado. Ao mesmo tempo, o conceito aponta para o que está além da terra. A moralidade é antes de tudo algo que diz respeito ao reino humano. Cosmotécnica, a meu ver, é a unificação da ordem moral e da ordem cósmica por meio de atividades técnicas. Se compararmos a Grécia e a China nos tempos antigos, descobriremos que elas têm uma compreensão muito diferente do cosmos e também concepções muito diferentes de moralidade“.

Fazer referência a este mito é importante porque o próprio Hui pensa a mitologia como uma manifestação do pensamento cosmogônico. Dentro da mitologia chinesa, o paradigma parece ser completamente outro. Lá, o deus relacionado com as invenções da agricultura e outras tecnologias é Shennong (神農). É interessante notar aqui, que, ainda que Hui não se refira aqui a este ponto, havia uma antiga escola filosófica chamada Nongjia 農家 (a escola de cultivadores ou agricultores) para a qual Shennong deu um papel central. Como seu nome indica, Shennong era o “agricultor divino”, o inventor do arado, da cerâmica, da metalurgia e do tecido. A diferença do relato prometeico, aqui é o próprio Shennong, quem ensina sua arte aos povos. Não parece haver, pois, um conflito entre o divino e o humano.

No taoísmo e no confucionismo, as duas principais correntes filosóficas chinesas da antiguidade, dao (道), a ordem cósmica, e ziran (自然, que costumeiramente é traduzida com natureza, mas que implica um sentido sutilmente diferente, parafraseado as vezes como “algo que flui por si mesmo” ou it-self-so-ing, em inglês), são duas noções conceitualmente muito próximas (HUI, 2016, p.64). A prerrogativa destes dois conceitos no pensamento chinês faz com que Hui argumente que, portanto, é provável que se encontre ali um conceito de utensílio ou ferramenta (器, qi) que complemente esta harmonia entre o dao e a natureza. De fato, esta será precisamente uma das principais teses de seu livro: “que podemos entender sistematicamente a filosofia chinesa por meio da análise das dinâmicas entre qi e dao” (HUI, 2016, p.129).

No pensamento grego, a tecnologia enquanto poiesis é algo que produz transformando a natureza. Enquanto que para Hui o conceito grego de natureza (physis) encontra-se ancorado em sua produtividade (pensada como crescimento e desenvolvimento), “esta ideia de que a tecnologia poderia complementar e aperfeiçoar a natureza não poderia ocorrer no pensamento chinês, já que para esta a tecnologia está sempre subordinada à ordem cosmológica” (HUI, 2016, p. 70). Hui busca um indício mais profundo desta intuição no conceito de 器, que geralmente se traduz como “ferramenta” ou “utensílio”, ainda que se refira originariamente aos recipientes rituais de bronze que se usavam durante a dinastia Shang (séculos XVII-XI a.C.).

Portanto, as ferramentas não são pensadas como algo desapegado, completamente autônomo, mas sim como recipientes, como containers. É assim que qi necessita do dao, e vice-versa. “Qi”, as vezes também se traduz como “coisas materiais”, “o que está debaixo da forma”. Os utensílios, entendidos como recipientes, requerem então, quase por definição, algo “mais além da forma” que funcione como seu conteúdo.

Uma melhor aproximação ao conceito de cosmotécnica de Hui é seu próprio exemplo favorito, o caso do açougueiro Pao Ding ou simplesmente o cozinheiro Ding, tal como sua história se conta no texto de Zhuangzi. Este açougueiro é famoso por sua habilidade excepcional para cortar e desmembrar o boi sem tocar seus ossos e tendões. Quando se pergunta a ele sobre a sua técnica, Ding diz: “O que amo é o dao, que é muito mais esplêndido que a técnica (臣 之 所好 者 道 也, 進 乎 技 矣, apud HUI, 2016, p. 102). A palavra para “técnica” ou “habilidade” está aqui dada por 技, que aparece também em chinês moderno em ambas palavras usadas para “técnica” como jishu (技 術) e keji (科 技). Em outras palavras, o segredo da habilidade de Ding não é precisamente sua relação mecânica com as ferramentas, mas sim que as ferramentas funcionam aqui de acordo com o dao, que flui intuitivamente através da mão do açougueiro. A razão instrumental, que poderia se entender casualmente como a lógica que unifica os movimentos individuais com resultados individuais, parece fora de jogo.

3. O sinofuturismo

A cosmotécnica não é um conceito a-histórico, mas se transforma de acordo com o contexto social e político. A exposição de cosmotécnica chinesa de Hui é, na verdade, organizada como uma reconstrução histórica. Após sua apresentação das primeiras ideias confucionistas e taoístas, Hui expõe outros autores do período Tang (618-709), Song (960-1270) e Ming (1368-1644). A transformação mais importante é sentida em toda a dinastia Qing (1644-1912), onde se prevê a ruptura entre qi e dao que ocorrerá após as Guerras do Ópio (1839-1842, 1856-1860), ou seja, depois que a superioridade tecnológica do Ocidente era um fato inevitável para a consciência chinesa. Para superar o atraso, os intelectuais reformistas chineses sentiram a necessidade de reverter a primazia do dao sobre o qi, colocando o primeiro a serviço do segundo. Esse investimento permitiu, por um lado, que a China chegasse ao Ocidente e se posicionasse como potência tecnológica. O preço que teve de pagar é, entretanto, o da aceleração autodestrutiva que a industrialização implica.

O conceito de “sinofuturismo” (também utilizado pelo artista audiovisual Lawrence Lek) implica uma visão do futuro e da tecnologia propriamente chinesa, pensada com ferramentas chinesas. Para Hui, o atual aceleracionismo tecnológico do gigante asiático apenas dá continuidade à lógica capitalista ocidental que coloca em risco a estabilidade climática do planeta. Por esta razão, torna-se mais do que nunca necessário tentar reincorporar a esfera da moralidade cósmica (o dao) no domínio da tecnologia. Não se trata, porém, de um “voltar ao passado” tecnofóbico, mas sim de “reapropriar” a tecnologia moderna de uma nova forma (Hui 2016,309).

Embora Hui não dê muitas dicas de como deveria ser esta nova cosmotécnica, sua proposta é sugestiva. Claro, não se trata apenas de substituir a “cosmotécnica capitalista” por uma “cosmotécnica chinesa”. Cada cultura, diz Hui, deve fazer um esforço para reconciliar a tecnologia com suas próprias práticas e culturas locais, de modo que a razão instrumental seja reorientada para as necessidades da comunidade. Assim, Hui dá um primeiro passo na direção de descentralizar o conceito ocidental e capitalista de tecnologia. Ao propor a possibilidade de múltiplas formas de conceber a tecnologia, múltiplas possibilidades também se abrem para repensar o papel da moralidade no desenvolvimento civilizacional.

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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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BOOK REVIEW: Methods Devour Themselves: A Conversation

Originally published in Marx & Philosophy

Benjanun Sriduangkaew and Joshua Moufawad-Paul
Methods Devour Themselves: A Conversation

Winchester, Zero Books, 2018. 143 pp. £8.47
ISBN 978-1-78535-826-5

While this book was published in 2018, a late review in the context of our current dystopian scenario (global pandemic, police brutality, destructive fires, etc.) seems appropriate. Drawing attention once more to this experimental and fascinating piece of ‘expanded philosophy’ that could also be termed ‘extro-science fiction’ is timely and pertinent. Coined by Quentin Meillassoux, this term is actually used to describe a literary genre not bound to the laws of hardcore science fiction, depicting worlds “inaccessible to a scientific knowledge” (Meillassoux 2015, 6). Since the unusual collaboration of the book between a scholar and a novelist (J. Moufawad-Paul and Benjanun Sriduangkaew) is a provocation against apocalyptic Hollywoodesque narratives, it is possible to consider the work as a whole as an example of radical speculative fiction attempting to envisage a world ‘inaccessible to a capitalist logic’. Here, ‘fiction’ is thus not to be read as the opposite of ‘real’, but rather as a praxis-oriented method of negotiating the real.

Contrary to Meillassoux’s ‘analogical’ use of fiction, Moufawad-Paul’s efforts consist in exploring a ‘non-museological’ philosophical and political treatment of fiction, conceived as a dialogue with a living artist (3) through a creolization of genres (short stories and essays). Literature should not merely serve as an excuse for philosophers to present their theories, but rather should be an opportunity to venture beyond theory, or to expand it. The book’s structure is hence defined by this premise: six chapters consisting of three ‘fictions’ composed by Benjanun Sriduangkaew, and three critical essays written by Moufawad-Paul. With the exception of the first story, each of these is to be considered a reaction to the previous chapter.

Sriduangkaew’s first story takes as its stage the convergence of two dimensions: our reality (in the story, Bangkok) and the mythic Himmapan forest. The main character, Khun Oraphin, happened to be in Himmapan as a child ‘before true convergence’, and, therefore, is now more receptive to the mixed logic of the new hybrid world. For this reason, while helping the old Khun Jutamat to deal with her phantasmagorical disease, after an enigmatic conversation with three giants, Khun Oraphin finds out about some still unresolved issues from the past.

“Debris and Dead Skin: the capitalist imaginary and the atrophy of thought”, Moufawad-Paul’s first contribution, is an exploration of what happens when myth saturates reality. The title of the essay presents quite explicitly his text’s central diagnosis: the “omnipotence of the capitalist imaginary” (31) produces a fettered imagination from which it is hard to escape. Building upon Mark Fischer’s concept of ‘capitalist realism’, the problem addressed in this chapter whether it is possible or not to escape the meta-logic disseminated by capitalist economy, which predicates that capitalism is the only possible organizational system. As in the superposed ‘changed world’ of Himmapan/Bangkok, the mythic fantasies of a fake-news-producing machine have invaded our reality, leaving no place beyond their fictions. According to Moufawad-Paul, this meta-narrative is so powerful that even some aspects of Fisher’s thought were imprisoned within this imaginary. Charging the signifier ‘Stalinism’ with its usual totalitarian connotation (e.g. Fisher 2009, 44), Fisher is unconsciously reproducing the alternative-less realist Manicheism of ‘capitalism or Stalinism (=totalitarianism)’ (where capitalism is the ‘least worst’ choice and, therefore, the only one) (39-40). To counter this pessimism, Moufawad-Paul proposes a re-reading of the histories and methods of “comprehensive, fighting, and revolutionary parties” (35). The battle between two Lefts, consisting of a heterodox wing thirsty for new methods versus an orthodoxy supposedly fixated on the past (34), proves itself sterile without a rigorous historization of their own mythologies. According to Moufawad-Paul, some good antecedents for a post-realist imagination can already be found in the past, for example, in the (Maoist) Communist Party of India or the Maoist movement in Peru. It is, therefore, doubly important (historiographically and politically) to engage with the remnants of peripheral mythologies (36).

Since this is a conversation, it seems pertinent to investigate how Sriduangkaew’s second story contests or reacts to Moufawad-Paul’s first critical text. In “Krungthep is an Onomatopoeia” we encounter the chronicle of Khun Suranut, a historian who lives and works (which seems to be the same here: “To be a citizen is to work”) on a ‘shipworld’ called Krungthep (again, the Thai name for Bangkok). She is requested to participate in an ‘experiment’ which consists in getting along with Gullaya, the pilot and only survivor of a failed expedition to the now devastated earth. The AI that regulates the whole spaceship (the ‘cortex’) suspects that the pilot did, in fact, kill her two other partners (the archivist and the scout), but does not know the details. After the secret is revealed, Gullaya is given the opportunity to decide whether to leave the ship or to stay and face the verdict of the administrative council. In a scenario governed by algorithms (the shipworld is also called a ‘fabric’, 61), this decision forms the climax of the narration. Sriduangkaew’s response to the inevitability of capitalist realism might be: possibility always survives in the liminality or periphery between technology (the AI) and bureaucracy (the council).

In answer to this parable, Moufawad-Paul writes “Living in Amber: on history as a weapon”, where he undertakes a re-evaluation of different historical attitudes. Moufawad-Paul contrasts the static life inside the shipworld with the desire of both characters to break through the fixed path of their destinies. By subsuming political administration under the variables of the efficiency and rationality of statistics and management, the futuristic state-ship still operates according to the less innovative “static doctrine of progress” (79), which is none other than that of our capitalist societies, where no real structural change is desired. This motionless logic inside the ship is also reminiscent of a museum, which Moufawad-Paul sharply compares with colonialism itself (75-76). A transitive inference permits us to deduce that colonial subjects themselves must sometimes endure this same reactionary logic. Not just conservatives are obsessed with a return to an idealized past; native intellectuals living in the colonies, as Fanon pointed out, must also face the temptation of subaltern culturalism, that is, of a simplistic idolization of their pre-colonial situation, something along the lines of ‘if Western philosophy is the ideology of the oppressor, the only remaining alternative is resurrecting aboriginal thought’. As the past is never fully given, but always fragmented, the practitioners of a “radical re-membering” (75) are never exempt from profound conflicts. The question that Moustawad-Paul raises is thus how the ‘weapon of history’ might be used as “a guide to future transformation” (78). Here, the author reintroduces the idea of his previous chapter, namely that the Left should be able to evince a “historical perspective that resists dominant narratives” (80) in its discourse in order to evaluate failures and victories. The historian in Sriduangkaew’s story, Suranut, here offers an extra clue left unthematized by Moustawad-Paul, namely her obsession with proper names. In fact, she becomes very enraged when the AI refers to Gullaya merely as ‘the Pilot’ (50), declaring later: “Did you know, there was a time when two women or two men couldn’t marry each other back in Muangthai? […] [T]heir lives and names deserve memorializing. Their struggles and their deaths. The ones who lived to see their dream, the ones who didn’t. The ones who got to finally marry at eighty-five” (52). Is this tension between the proper names and the onomatopoeia, personal and impersonal, which resonates in a discussion about radical memory? Maintaining the slogan of the second chapter, the historical perspective ‘from below’ (79) and from the ‘global peripheries’ (35) should here also be able to re-signify the power of proper names and embodied experiences.

In Sriduangkaew’s last piece “That Rough-Hewn Sun” (a prequel of her novel Winterglass, 2017) reverberate the concerns of the previous chapters, especially the problem of how to transgress necessity and destiny. Sriduangkaew’s prose is characterized by the introduction of non-binary pronouns. Although Moufawad-Paul’s reticence to make of this a point in his discussion is understandable, since we are facing a literary resource expected to be ‘normalized’ (and not exoticized), it is pertinent as it is closely related to the aforementioned issue of proper names. Accordingly, we encounter in this story Lussadh, the loyal general of the King Ihsayn (she/her). Her rival, the Winter Queen, has sent an envoy, Crow (they/their), to Ihsayn’s land. Lussadh is ordered to escort Crow and show them the palace, taking an active role in building a strategic good relationship with them. Lussadh’s status as general ties her to the commands of Ihsayn, even if the command consists in killing her own lovers.

At this point, the dialectic importance of necessity and contingency in all six chapters becomes evident. In his third and final essay, Moufawad-Paul’s apology of necessity against the superfluous liberal concept of necessity as totalitarian, echoes both the rehabilitation of ‘big party narratives’ within the second chapter, and his previous work such as Continuity and Rupture (2016). What remains slightly confusing here is the meaning of his own notion of necessity, since he does not sufficiently distinguish between the hardly translatable Hegelian concepts of ‘Notwendigkeit’ (necessity), ‘Not’ (exigency), and ‘Bedürfnis’ (need), using the words ‘necessity’ and ‘need’ without further clarification. What kind of necessity is Lussadh’s fixation on status? Rank requirements are not biological needs, nor causal conditions. Moufawad-Paul’s thesis that the “last consummation of [(]her[)] class necessity […] opens the possibility of freedom” (126), while is meant to demonstrate that the necessity of transgression (revolution) is the actual realization of freedom, does little to explain how the ‘peripheral narratives’ of the second chapter, or the ‘subaltern histories’ of the fourth chapter, can be articulated with a discourse of ‘compatibilist’ necessity. Historical materialism should be scientific, and, in this sense, Moufawad-Paul’s final statement that knowing “the necessities of our historical conjuncture” liberates us (130), is not to be rejected. Nevertheless, the problem remains as to how to reconcile the narratives of necessity with those of contingency. Even if we recognize a ‘necessity of contingency’, it should be possible to formulate clearly how to articulate the framework of necessary “comprehensive, fighting, and revolutionary parties” in light of other forms of resistance, such as gender politics.

As in the case of the climatic consequences of global industrialization, necessity should not be neglected. The difficulty consists in inverting the hierarchical supremacy of this necessity. This seems, in fact, to be the original aim of the book: to advocate the view that some ‘unexpected’ political agencies of the Global South are not mere historical and methodological ‘deviations’, but rather examples of global importance. Revealing these questions and proving that the power of imagination is extremely ‘necessary,’ doubtless number among the many achievements of this absorbing work of ‘expanded philosophy’.

21 November 2020

References

Mark Fisher 2009 Capitalist Realism: is there no Alternative? Washington: Zero Books

Quentin Meillassoux 2015 Science Fiction and Extro-Science Fiction. Minneapolis: Univocal

Joshua Moufawad-Paul 2016 Continuity and Rupture. Philosophy in the Maoist Terrain Alresford: Zero Books

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“The Dusty Whisperer or Revolt and The Birth of Postmodernity in ‘The Flounder’ by Günter Grass”

More than a decade ago, I’ve read The Flounder (1977) by Günter Grass in both English and Spanish. It does not take long to realize that the translators departed from quite different cultural frameworks, as the English translation – perhaps because it was crafted under the pressure of publishing it as fast as possible[1] – seems to fall in easy solutions that transmit a crass, often vulgar, interpretation of the original text, which as it is rendered in Spanish appears more like an erudite work of literature. It was due to the reception of the first English translation of The Flounder what made Grass call for a meeting with English translators to craft a revised – and supervised by Grass himself – new version of The Flounder, a novel of more than six-hundred pages.

            Another aspect that the first translation of The Flounder rendered, and that perhaps it may pass unnoticed to a male reader, is the overt symbolic violence that the translator seems to intentionally aim towards women. I myself became aware of this thanks to my first wife. We read The Flounder together, she did it in English, and I did it in Spanish. After the first hundred pages we decided to discuss the text, and it was evident that she was feeling quite exasperated with the reading. If memory doesn’t lie, she said something like: “this Günter Grass is a misogynist asshole.” I had been reading the award-winning translation of the Spaniard Miguel Sáenz and my first impressions were of literary amusement, but as we began to cite certain passages, it was clear that the translators had chosen quite different parameters to render what they wanted to transmit to the reader. Where the English translator labeled women as sluts or easy holes, the Spanish translator decided to invoke silence or omission, or simply create a new text. It would’ve been necessary, for a more philological discussion, to go to the original text in German to find out if the misogyny was indeed part of the novel or it was a creation of the English translator.

            The novel is divided in nine chapters that altogether narrate a birth that takes place over a period of time that spans from the Neolithic and reaches up to the 20th century. It begins with the Pomeranian interpretation of the ancient myth of the stealing of the fire and it ends with a lesbian protest in Germany during the 1970s. As the novel unravels, the reader gets immersed in a carrousel of folk tales, historical gossip, and even deadly recipes, as the one of poisonous mushrooms made by an old nun to kill a group of lecherous clergymen. As it is the case of The Tin Drum (1959), the story recounted in The Flounder begins in the region where Grass was born, Gdansk, in modern-day Poland. Despite the fact that each chapter presents different characters anchored in the vicissitudes of their historical time, there is a recurrent presence that transits throughout the entire novel either as a tangible or symbolical character: a flounder, a one-sided fish, a type of fish that is abundant in cold waters like those of the Baltic sea and that along with potatoes makes the most traditional dish of the place where Grass was born.

            As it is well illustrated in religious mythology, a fish is one of the most widespread Christian symbolical items, as it references the rite of conversion to Christianity thanks to the mediation of Jesus, a kind of fisherman who immerses himself in pagan waters with the sole intention to bring “a catch,” or spiritual strength, to the Christian army. Grass chooses a flounder to represent Christianity not only because of his moral one-sidedness, but also because this anatomical feature makes it a fish that mostly meanders in the bottom of shores with not much depth, which from a hermeneutical standpoint could be understood as the incarnation of a biased ethos that is only able to see one side of reality. Thus his cosmological understanding of history is based on that blurry one-sided vision.[2]

“Der Butt” (“The Flounder”) by Günter Grass himself. This is one of five illustrations that the German author made between 1977-1978.

In the novel, most of the times the flounder is a sonic presence that spends his time whispering in the ears of men how to better proceed for the only sake of the preservation of the masculine vision of the world. When someone happens to see it, a mix of horror and awe takes over her/his senses, for seeing such a horrendous animal that talks through an uneven denture cannot invoke a different set of emotions. However, in most of the novel the fish is only a whisper that unleashes the worst of destinies to humanity with all the wars, unmotivated biological destructions, and social syndroms fueled by an unfulfilled masculinity. It is not surprising that the fish, and what it embodies and represents, becomes not only hated but also a call to reject the world in all its masculine materializations, particularly when we glance at humanity from a non-masculine perspective.

            The closing chapter – that in which the gestation of postmodern history is finally born – brings to the reader’s attention the social and symbolical power of the German lesbian communities of the 1970s, which seen from the phallocentric power structures of the German state represent the end of a form of womanhood at the service of male desires and aspirations, including the realm of the family and the household’s economy. In the wake of the 21st century, a novel like The Flounder appears as a cultural artifact aiming at multiple directions. On the one hand, it narrates from a literary perspective the historical and sociological reasons to seek an absolute Revolution against “the flounder”; on the other hand, the ending of the novel seems to anticipate that the Future was going to become the stage of constant revolts, transforming the world into a place where manifold strategies of both revitalization and destruction were going to be deployed even from unimaginable fronts, such as the kitchen, our inner conversations/monologues, and hygienic biopolitical spaces.

            Only once I’ve been in Gdansk, a small, ultra-clean port city that owns a statue of Neptune in the heart of the city. I travelled there to attend a life-changing event at The Retro Café (a spot where you can eat one of the most delicious chocolate cakes on Earth). Besides having a plate of fried flounder with boiled potatoes (which is traditionally served on a pan of cast iron), while walking along the Martwa Wisla river, as if neuroplasticity had already began to model reality, including us, I saw a man almost with the same physiognomy of Günter Grass staring at me. When our eyes exchanged a serious expression, he looked at the gray waters of the river, as if he was indeed a messenger from The Flounder’s author, a gesture that today I interpret as the fact that the flounder’s body, perhaps lifeless, is still drowning in those waters on his way to the ocean.


[1] The first English translation of The Flounder was published in 1978, one year after it was released in German.

[2] In a way, “a Christian flounder” is a veiled reference to Plato’s allegory of the cave, in which the vision is precluded only to the shadows casted over the rocky walls of a cold cave, becoming impossible to glimpse the slightest atom of the truth that reality could potentially contain.

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From the Isolated Soul Body to the Eccentric Performance of Collaborative Post-Soul Bodies

by Dr. Crank

“Eccentric performances are fueled by contradictory

desires for recognition and freedom” (8–9).

Francesca Royster

When I was twelve or thirteen years old, “Cream” by Prince was continuously played on Mexican television. It was on Channel Four, perhaps the most heteroclite and incoherent channel of national television (some say that Channel Four is the worst channel of Mexican television): in the mornings you could watch old American television shows, almost always portraying white men with cowboy hats and guns or pioneers attempting to survive somewhere that now I imagine as Kansas or Oklahoma or Idaho. Channel Four also broadcasted old films and modern American television series such as Step by Step or Home Improvement. Everyday, at perhaps two or three p.m., Channel Four uninterruptedly screened music videos featuring a wide variety of musicians and styles, including 4 Non Blondes, Mc Hammer, Inner Circle, The Police, Prince, and others. Thus, after school, it was common for me to watch Prince and his sensual troupe performing “Cream” at three p.m.

At first glance, Prince looked like a masculine wonder, a rock star making love to his yellow guitar, constantly surrounded by lots of hot white girls in negligees.

Something in Prince’s “Cream” suggested a path towards miscegenation or performative hybridity, apparently only attainable through the enchantments of sound and dance. That is how I was introduced to Post-Soul music in Mexico City, during times of political turmoil and constant public assassinations. And it was the eccentricity of Prince, his undefined and somewhat irreverent self-portrayal, what allowed me to imagine masculinity —and gender— not only in terms of rigid and traditional definitions, but also as a set of ontological maneuvers directed towards identity redefinition and social change.

Francesca Royster suggests that soul music is “the beat of heart and cock,” a gospel based sonic aesthetic that, Royster suggests, “claims its roots in the shared cultural memory of black history” (9). Indeed, soul music sounds to me as a call for political action and trust in the future, whereas post-soul music sounds more like an invitation to indulgence and individual confinement, either through sensuality or collaborative pleasure. However, Royster accurately suggests that soul music embodies a heterosexual sound and performance, while post-soul music breaks —or at least attempts to break— the boundaries of the dominant heteronormative rhythms and paces constantly shaping the energy of our bodies. Therefore, Royster invites us to listen to post-soul eccentrics as a proclamation for gender and sexual black liberation. It is the concept of the “post-soul eccentric” that I would like to focus on this essay.

Royster proposes that these eccentrics “have created a controversial and deeply historically informed response to the dehumanized black subject and stretched the boundaries of popular forms of music, ultimately shaping a new public dialogue” (8). Royster proposes musicians and performers Eartha Kitt, Stevie Wonder, George Clinton, Michael Jackson, Grace Jones, Meshell Ndegeocello, and Janelle Monáe as the eccentric objects of her study. Nevertheless, I would like to frame soul icon James Brown as a performative catalyzer of the aforementioned musicians and performers, specifically “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag” and “I feel Good” as performed in The Ed Sullivan Show in 1966.

At first, it seems that Brown is electrified, as his body meanders in its own orbit as the witness of an unprecedented corporeal freedom. James Brown is a dancing virtuoso and his body and the inner electricity fueling his performance are the sole witnesses of his virtuosity. Despite the band and chorus playing in the background, Brown’s body seems to perform in isolation, only propelled by an inner strength that will find its post-soul parallel in performances such as Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” or “Bad.”

Both James Brown and Michael Jackson exhaust themselves in their performances, as movement is accompanied in both by tension and a explosion of energy. Prince, however, does not exhaust himself: his body portrays a rhythm at times lethargic and at times gratuitously sensual. Prince’s performances are complex and collaborative mise-en-scènes where a multitude of bodies carousel under the influence of pleasure. In this regard, Royster suggests that “Moments of collaboration and contact are especially important for exposing and exploring the contingency of identity” (27). While James Brown literally sweats alone on the stage, without having any possible physical contact with other electrified bodies, both Prince and Michael Jackson – and generally the post-soul performers analyzed by Royster — articulate a continuous collaborative embodiment of liberation, whereas collaboration serves as the performative framework to suggest both difference and the social acceptance of this difference, at least within the confines of collaborative sonic formations. We could also look at performative collaboration, as displayed in “Cream” or “Beat It” or “Tightrope” by Janelle Monáe, as means of disidentification.

José Esteban Muñoz establishes in Disidentifications that “disidentification is meant to be descriptive of the survival strategies the minority subject practices in order to negotiate a phobic majoritarian public sphere that continuously elides of punishes the existence of subjects who do not conform to the phantasm of normative citizenship” (4). Muñoz draws from Kimberlé Crenshaw’s notion of intersectionality to propose a process of production, a mode of performance, and a hermeneutic (25). I identify in the collaborative mise-en-scène of both “Cream” and “Beat It” performative and sonic strategies that position the “eccentric” as a community-based subject that through collaboration acquires her social validation, even if it is in a marginal way. The eccentric, whereas we want to recognize her as a “radical and dissonant subject,” thus challenges the normative citizenship suggested by Muñoz.

In this regards, Royster proposes the following:

“The Eccentric performance includes an initial off-centeredness, the use of not-so-ordinary means and often seemingly conflicting methods of theatricality: the crossing of generic boundaries of form or the crossing of gender or racial boundaries through twice-removed actions… For musical performance, this off-centeredness is particularly important in terms of sound: falsettos, growls, shifting accents, gasps, shouts, tones that threaten to veer off-key, improvised lyrics, breaks in the ‘fourth wall’ — or silence” (28).

This enactment of eccentricity is evident in both Prince and Michael Jackson, but it acquires a radical theatricality in Grace Jones sonic and performative projects such as “My Jamaican Guy” & “Slave to the Rhythm,” where new notions of black sexuality and, furthermore, human identity are suggested as means of inter-subjective dialogue.

Soul music sonically materialized the black experience in the United States through the poietic transformation of gospel and rhythm & blues into a lyrical and instrumental re-discovery of the black body. But it is through post-soul sound and performance —as Grace Jones enacts them in her disidentified performances— that both black historical memory and the radicalization of afro-national redemption merges into the global stream of capital and neoliberalism. As a corollary, I would like to invite you all to reflect on the role of the State and its dominant axiological systems in the confection of such post-soul sonic postmodernity. To what extent is the eccentricity of such post-soul sonic artifacts a medium of political resistance or mere political neutralization? How does the post-soul aesthetics have shape your lives as postmodern American or global normative citizens? After all, as intellectuals —even if you happen to be an independent and public intellectual like myself— we are constantly confined within the discursive and institutional limits imposed by higher education institutions, even if it is only through the epistemological approaches publicized by university presses.

Furthermore, is the fact that we can theorize such relatively recent sonic and cultural phenomena the evidence of its political failure? As my answer to this final question, I propose that as we keep pushing to the margins and neutralizing cultural and biological artifacts that pose innovative approaches to current bio-political challenges —thus making invisible those disidentified communities—, our maladies and voices will remain weakened echoes of what remains unnameable within the boundaries of the most normative representations of citizenship.

Works Cited

Francesca Royster. Sounding Like a No-No: Queer Sounds and Eccentric Acts in the Post-Soul Era. University of Michigan Press, 2013.

José Esteban Muñoz. Disidentifications. University of Minnesota Press, 1999.

Kimberle Crenshaw. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review, vol. 43, no. 6 (Jul., 1991), pp. 1241- 1299.

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Visibilidad e invisibilidad del racismo, algunos apuntes sobre el cambio de nombre al edificio “David Hume” en la Universidad de Edimburgo

Recientemente se dio a conocer la noticia de que, en la Universidad de Edimburgo, las autoridades de la institución (atendiendo a la petición de un grupo de estudiantes) decidieron retirar el nombre de David Hume a uno de sus edificios. La decisión se tomó con base en la evidencia histórica que se posee respecto de las múltiples opiniones racistas que el filósofo escocés externó en algunas de sus cartas, y también por considerar que dichas actitudes racistas, dado que no expresan la diversidad histórica del hombre contemporáneo, no deben tener un lugar dentro de la institución.  

Lo anterior no significa que David Hume haya dejado de ser un pensador importante no sólo en filosofía, sino en otras disciplinas (como la historia o la economía). Tampoco hablamos de la prohibición de sus obras dentro de la universidad, sino que la medida se tomó con el propósito de hacer visible el problema del racismo y, dado que Hume fue un hombre racista y esclavista, se piensa que al retirar su nombre de un edificio universitario se contribuye a este propósito.

Si bien es cierto que, en nuestra época, es evidente que tenemos un severo problema con el racismo y que, sin duda, esta práctica discriminatoria debe erradicarse; me parece que sí es criticable pensar que una medida como cambiar el nombre de un edificio puede contribuir a generar una cultura no racista, aunado a que pasa por alto problemas de otra índole que no me parecen adecuados.

El edificio se encuentra dentro de un recinto universitario. No hablamos de cualquier universidad, sino de la Universidad de Edimburgo (la tercera más importante de Reino Unido después de Oxford y Cambridge y una universidad ubicada en el top 20 de las mejores universidades del mundo).  ¿No tienen los universitarios de Edimburgo el criterio suficiente para entender que si el edifico se llama “David Hume” es en virtud de su obra y no de sus ideas racistas? ¿No les parece paternalista que sea la institución o un grupo de estudiantes quienes tengan que efectuar esa separación y no el resto de la comunidad? Yo creo que la formación del criterio propio es fundamental para erradicar la cultura del racismo y no veo cómo las opiniones (porque ni siquiera hablamos de sus teorías) de un filósofo puedan afectar el cauce de la diversidad histórica y contemporánea. ¿Qué tan frágil tiene que ser la concepción de dicha diversidad como para pensar que el nombre de un edificio pueda afectarla?

La intención primordial de este acto, como he dicho, responde al hecho de visibilizar el problema del racismo. En ese sentido, dicha intención es efectista y, en tanto tal, podría decirse que funciona adecuadamente (el hecho mismo de que estemos reflexionando respecto de lo ocurrido en el edificio de la Universidad de Edimburgo puede ser una evidencia de ello). Sin embargo, habría que preguntarse si sociedades europeas como la escocesa necesitan (a estas alturas) visibilizar este tipo de problemas, más aún cuando a nivel mundial y en tiempos recientes han habido numerosos acontecimientos (como el asesinato de George Floyd) que han puesto al descubierto la gravedad que acarrea la cultura del racismo. Ante estos hechos ¿Es necesario continuar en la lógica de visibilizar los problemas sociales? ¿no sería mejor que las sociedades contemporáneas comenzaran a modificar las jerárquicas estructuras sociales que, históricamente, han coadyuvado al surgimiento de prácticas discriminatorias y que, en la actualidad, aún siguen operando casi de la misma manera?

Desde mi punto de vista, las acciones para visibilizar el racismo fueron pertinentes inicialmente, cuando éste realmente se encontraba oculto en el discurso institucional, pero después de hechos históricos como, por ejemplo, la adopción por parte de la ONU de la Convención Internacional sobre la Eliminación de todas las Formas de Discriminación Racial en 1965, parece que el problema ya no consiste en visibilizar, sino en transformar aquello que ya se ha visibilizado. Y es, en este último punto, en el que las sociedades contemporáneas se han estancado, a tal grado de que la perpetración de las acciones que intentan visibilizar los problemas sociales han comenzado a obstaculizar, incluso, el cumplimiento de sus propios objetivos.  

¿Qué es lo que se in-visibiliza cuando se pretende visibilizar el problema del racismo cambiando el nombre de un edifico? En mi opinión, toda la estructura social que, inconscientemente, legitima las prácticas discriminatorias. La Universidad de Edimburgo posee una íntima relación, de carácter histórico, con la Realeza Británica. Las autoridades de la institución hablan de la necesidad de reflejar en la comunidad universitaria la diversidad histórica y contemporánea, pero en ese proyecto no se contempla algo como la separación de la universidad con la Realeza (lo cual pienso que coadyuvaría mucho más a fomentar una cultura no racista y discriminatoria). Muchos rectores de la Universidad de Edimburgo han sido militares, que trabajaron para la Corona Británica en ciertos acontecimientos, como la reconquista de Sudán o la Guerra de los Boéres y que han pertenecido a la Cámara de los Comunes. Su rectora actual es una princesa que es parte de esa realeza. ¿Piensan ustedes que instituciones monárquicas fundadas en conceptos como “Familia real” o “Realeza británica” reflejan o deberían reflejar la diversidad histórica contemporánea? Las acciones efectuadas por dichas instituciones han tenido mucho mayor peso en la propagación del racismo y del esclavismo que las opiniones personales de un filósofo como David Hume. En ese sentido, quizá el universitario escocés y la universidad escocesa deberían estar más preocupados por replantear las bases estructurales de su sociedad que por la denominación de sus edificios.  Pueden cambiar el nombre a los recintos, pero en sus mecanismos se continúa reproduciendo la misma anquilosada estructura medieval ¿O acaso ha habido algún rector afrodescendiente en la Universidad de Edimburgo?, recordemos que Reino Unido es el noveno país del mundo con la mayor migración de poblaciones afrodescendientes.

Por último: hablamos de aspectos personales de un filósofo. ¿Era Hume deleznable como persona? Por supuesto que sí. No sólo era racista, era mujeriego, burlón, soberbio. No era una buena persona, eso está claro. Sin embargo, un problema político como el racismo no puede ni debe pretender solucionarse desde el ámbito particular. El problema no es si el individuo posee creencias falsas (como “los afrodescendiente son inferiores”), el problema es la estructura social a la cual pertenece legitima esa creencia desde su operatividad. En la época de Hume había una estructura social que, desde su operatividad, legitimaba el racismo. En nuestra época tenemos estructuras sociales que también lo hacen y que, en el mejor de los casos, sólo se han limitado a señalar el problema a nivel discursivo, pero no a solucionar el problema de fondo: el asesinato de George Floyd nos muestra que no hemos progresado mucho en relación a la época en la que vivió Hume y la idea de la diversidad histórica sigue siendo, en la práctica, un mito del hombre contemporáneo.   

Lo anterior me hace pensar que la acción efectuada por las autoridades de la Universidad de Edimburgo responde más a una necesidad de fomentar una buena imagen de la institución a partir de la corrección política (que es una genuina obsesión de las sociedades contemporáneas), pero no me parece una medida mínimamente resolutiva para erradicar la cultura del racismo.

*Las opiniones expresadas son responsabilidad exclusiva de lxs autorxs y no necesariamente reflejan la posición del equipo editorial.

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Yuk Hui y la pregunta por la cosmotécnica

(Artículo publicado originalmente en Código y Frontera)

Yuk Hui es un joven investigador que ofrece una visión renovada de la relación entre tecnología y cultura, una relación que él resume mediante la noción de ‘cosmotécnica’. ¿Qué significa ‘cosmotécnica’? En general pensamos a la tecnología como un fenómeno universal. En ese sentido se habla de civilizaciones o pueblos ‘más avanzados técnicamente’ que otros. Así se explicó por ejemplo la ‘superioridad’ de los europeos al conquistar el territorio americano pero también en sus incursiones político-militares en Asia durante el siglo 19 y 20. El filósofo Hui pone en duda, precisamente, esa premisa universalista. ¿Qué pasaría si no existiera sólo una tecnología sino muchas cosmotécnicas? ¿Cómo se vería afectada nuestra percepción de la historia? Quizás el paradigma occidental según el cual el desarrollo tecnológico se presenta como una progresión unidireccional acumulativa sea sólo un modo de pensar la tecnología. El objetivo del siguiente texto es presentar brevemente las ideas más importantes que Hui presenta en su libro La pregunta concerniente a la tecnología en China: un ensayo sobre cosmotécnica del año 2016.

1. El marco teórico de Yuk Hui

Yuk Hui estudió ingeniería informática y filosofía en la Universidad de Hong Kong y el Goldsmiths College de Londres, especializándose en filosofía de la tecnología. Fue investigador asociado en el Instituto de Cultura y Estética de los Medios (ICAM), investigador postdoctoral en el Instituto de Investigación e Innovación del Centro Pompidou en París e investigador visitante en los Laboratorios de Telekom en Berlín. Enseñó en el Instituto de Cultura y Estética de Medios Digitales de la Universidad Leuphana de Lüneburg, donde también escribió su tesis de habilitación en filosofía. También tiene una relación estrecha con el Instituto Strelka de Moscú, donde trabajó junto a urbanistas críticos como Benjamin Bratton en un programa multidisciplinario que busca repensar la relación entre las ciudades y la ciencia. Actualmente vive y trabaja en Hong Kong.

Además de sus artículos, algunos de los cuales se publican regularmente en revistas como E-flux, Hui cuenta con tres libros importantes: Sobre la existencia de objetos digitales (2016), La pregunta concerniente a la tecnología en China: un ensayo sobre cosmotécnica (2016), y Recursividad y Contingencia (2019). Sus escritos, por otro lado han sido traducidos a una docena de idiomas.

La formación internacional de Hui se deja ver también en los autores que lo influyeron: por un lado, el post-estructuralismo francés y la filosofía técnica de Simondon y Stiegler; por otro lado, el idealismo alemán y Heidegger. A estos autores clásicos que no dejan de reaparecer en sus escritos hay que sumar corrientes de pensamiento más recientes que intentan pensar problemáticas globales actuales. Aquí es preciso nombrar, para los fines de este artículo, especialmente a los autores del llamado ‘giro ontológico’ en el ámbito de la antropología, con autores como Descola, Latour y Viveiros de Castro. Las reflexiones de estos autores no son tanto una ruptura total del paradigma investigativo, sino más bien la ‘intensificación’ de una actitud crítica ya presente en la antropología, acostumbrada a enfrentarse con hermenéuticas de la realidad diferentes o extrañas. Así, puede decirse que “dar el giro ontológico es hacer preguntas ontológicas sin tomar la ontología como respuesta” (Holbraad y Pedersen 2017, 11). Si es posible definir ‘ontología’ esquemáticamente como las reflexiones sobre el ser y lo que es, la idea detrás de este giro epistemológico consiste no sólo en el hecho evidente de que los valores varían de cultura a cultura, sino más bien en dar cuenta de que el repertorio conceptual de la antropología se encuentra ya atravesado por la pregunta por el ser de las cosas. Dicho de otro modo, interpretar qué piensa (en este caso) un pueblo sobre determinada ‘cosa’ implica una categoría previa de ‘cosa’ ya dada. Así, es preciso moverse un paso hacia atrás para preguntar qué son las cosas. Viveiros de Castro, por ejemplo, postula, en lugar de un ‘multiculturalismo’, un ‘multinaturalismo’. El primero implica la idea de que la naturaleza es una y lo que varían son las perspectivas culturales de las personas. Es posible, sin embargo, invertir la pregunta: ¿Puede haber muchas naturalezas? Descola, otro de los autores relevantes de esta corriente, habla de diversas ontologías (naturalismo, totemismo, animismo, analogismo), cada una de las cuales plantea continuidades y discontinuidades diferentes entre el mundo físico y la interioridad. De este modo por ejemplo, el naturalismo de las sociedades europeas modernas marca desde el comienzo una fuerte discontinuidad entre estos dos campos, una grieta que conlleva paralelamente una distinción jerárquica entre naturaleza y cultura.

Esta discontinuidad ontológica entre la naturaleza y la cultura implica más que una mera gradación, es una división que promueve una determinada jerarquía. Así, se distingue entre sociedades ‘civilizadas’ y sociedades ‘primitivas’, estando estas últimas, a los ojos de la etnología, ligadas íntimamente con a naturaleza. Son ‘Naturvölker’ (pueblos naturales), como se las llamaba en el siglo XIX. A Hui le interesa trasponer esta crítica a la relación con la tecnología. De acuerdo a cómo se entienda el papel de las cosas, de los objetos, obtendremos un concepto distinto de tecnología. Por este motivo no es de sorprender que Hui se encuentre cercano al pensamiento de la llamada ‘Object-Oriented-Ontology’ (término acuñado por el filósofo Graham Harman), es decir, filosofía orientada a objetos que busca liberar a los objetos de su determinabilidad por medio de la subjetividad. Frente a la primacía de los sujetos, diferentes autores y autoras han intentado pensar un mundo más allá del antropocentrismo, en donde la distinción jerárquica entre sujetos y objetos se ve difuminada. Así las fenomenologías ‘alien’ (Bogost), los hiperobjetos (Morton) y ‘flat ontologies’ (DeLanda) abundan por estas regiones filosóficas. Siguiendo esta línea, Hui presenta el siguiente razonamiento: si es posible pensar un pluralismo ontológico, y la tecnología se define en parte en relación a la naturaleza, entonces debe ser posible pensar igualmente un pluralismo tecnológico.

2. El concepto de ‘cosmotécnica’ y la filosofía china

Después de este breve esbozo que pretende ilustrar el interés de Hui en un cambio de perspectiva, el objetivo de esta sección es presentar su obra La pregunta concerniente a la tecnología en China. Como se desprende de su título, el libro parece posicionarse como una respuesta al texto de Heidegger La pregunta por la técnica(1949/1954) (en alemán, la palabra  ‘Technik’ no tiene las características de ‘técnica’, que en español recuerda más a una habilidad práctica particular, sino que se refiere a un concepto general más abstracto que podríamos llamar ‘tecnología’. En este artículo tomaré los conceptos de ‘técnica’ y ‘tecnología’ como sinónimos). Allí, el pensador alemán caracteriza la tecnología moderna como aquella que transforma a la naturaleza en una reserva de materias primas, en un ‘stock’disponible para ser explotado (Hui 2016, 3). Ahora bien, el problema de la tecnología moderna no solo concierne a Europa u Occidente, sino que Hui está interesado en preguntar en qué medida es posible trasplantar esta pregunta en suelo oriental. Esta pregunta también implica el punto de vista crítico según el cual se cuestiona el concepto mismo de tecnología. Por lo tanto, de la misma manera que el giro ontológico en antropología preguntaba si eran posibles múltiples naturalezas, Hui propone pensar en una multiplicidad de tecnologías.

Hay un concepto general erróneo de que todas las técnicas son iguales, que todas las habilidades y productos artificiales procedentes de todas las culturas se pueden reducir a una cosa llamada ‘tecnología’. Y, de hecho, es casi imposible negar que las técnicas pueden entenderse como la extensión del cuerpo o la exteriorización de la memoria. Sin embargo, es posible que no se perciban o reflexionen de la misma manera en diferentes culturas. (Hui 2016, 9)

Hui encuentra la posibilidad de romper con el concepto monolítico de tecnología en la relación de las culturas con su cosmogonía. ¿Cómo piensan la tecnología los diversos pueblos? El mito griego, según el cual Prometeo arrebata el fuego (es decir, la tecnología) de los dioses, representa la invención de la tecnología como un conflicto violento entre los seres humanos y los poderes de la naturaleza gobernados por dioses y diosas inmortales. La rebelión de Prometeo le dio al ser humano una enorme ventaja sobre las otras especies que habitaban la tierra, la inteligencia discursiva. Sin embargo, ésto también implicó una separación radical entre la humanidad y el orden divino-natural. En una entrevista con Anders Dunker, Hui explica:

Para los griegos, “cosmos” significa un mundo ordenado. Al mismo tiempo, el concepto apunta a lo que hay más allá de la tierra. La moral es, ante todo, algo que concierne al reino humano. La cosmotécnica, según entiendo, es la unificación del orden moral y el orden cósmico a través de actividades técnicas. Si comparamos Grecia y China en la antigüedad, descubrimos que tienen una comprensión muy diferente del cosmos, y también concepciones muy diferentes de la moralidad. (https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/on-technodiversity-a-conversation-with-yuk-hui/)

Hacer referencia a este mito es importante porque el propio Hui piensa a la mitología como una manifestación del pensamiento cosmogónico. Dentro de la mitología china, el paradigma parece ser completamente otro. Allí, el dios relacionado con las invenciones de la agricultura y otras tecnologías es Shennong ( 神農). Es interesante notar aquí, que, aunque Hui no se refiere aquí a este punto, había una antigua escuela filosófica llamada Nongjia 農家(la escuela de ‘cultivadores’ o ‘agricultores’) para la cual Shennong jugó un papel central. Como su nombre lo indica, Shennong era el “granjero divino”, el inventor del arado, la cerámica, la metalurgia y el tejido. A diferencia del relato prometeico, aquí es el propio Shennong, quien enseña su arte a los pueblos. No parece haber, pues, un conflicto entre lo divino y lo humano.

En el taoismo y el confucianismo, las dos principales corrientes filosóficas chinas de la antigüedad, dao (道), el orden cósmico, y ziran ( 自然, que se suele traducir como ‘naturaleza’ pero que implica un sentido sutilmente diferente parafraseado a veces como ‘algo que fluye por sí mismo’ o ‘it-self-so-ing’ en inglés (ver Wang 2003, 227)), son dos nociones conceptualmente muy cercanas (Hui 2016, 64 ). La prerrogativa de estos dos conceptos en el pensamiento chino hace que Hui argumente que, por lo tanto, es probable que se encuentre allí un concepto de ‘utensilio’ o ‘herramienta’ (器, qi) que complemente esta armonía entre el dao y la naturaleza. De hecho, ésta será precisamente una de las principales tesis de su libro: “que podemos entender sistemáticamente la filosofía china por medio del análisis de las dinámicas entre qi y dao” (Hui 2016, 129).

En el pensamiento griego, la tecnología en tanto ‘poiesis’ es algo que produce transformando la naturaleza. Mientras que para Hui el concepto griego de naturaleza (physis) se encuentra anclado en su ‘productividad’ (pensada como crecimiento y desarrollo), “esta idea de que la tecnología podría complementar y ‘perfeccionar’ a la naturaleza no podría ocurrir en el pensamiento chino, ya que para ésta la tecnología está siempre subordinada al orden cosmológico” (Hui 2016, 70). Hui busca un indicio más profundo de esta intuición en el concepto de ‘器’, que generalmente se traduce como ‘herramienta’ o ‘utensilio’, aunque refiere originariamente a los recipientes rituales de bronce que se usaban durante la dinastía Shang (siglos XVII-XI a. C.). Por lo tanto, las herramientas no son pensadas como algo desapegado, completamente autónomo, sino como recipientes, como contenedores. Es así que qi necesita del dao, y viceversa. ‘Qi’ a veces también se traduce como ‘cosas materiales’, ‘lo que está debajo de la forma’. Los utensilios, entendidos como recipientes, requieren entonces, casi por definición, algo ‘más allá de la forma’ que funcione como su contenido.

Una mejor aproximación al concepto de cosmotécnica de Hui es su propio ejemplo favorito, el caso del carnicero Pao Ding o simplemente el cocinero Ding, tal como su historia se cuenta en el texto de Zhuangzi. Este carnicero es famoso por su habilidad excepcional para cortar y desmembrar al buey sin tocar sus huesos y tendones. Cuando se le pregunta a éste acerca de su técnica, Ding dice: “Lo que amo es el dao, que es mucho más espléndido que mi técnica  [ 臣 之 所好 者 道 也, 進 乎 技 矣]” (citado en Hui 2016, 102 ). La palabra para ‘técnica’ o habilidad’ está aquí dada por 技, que aparece también en chino moderno en ambas palabras usadas para ‘técnica’ como jishu (技 術) y keji (科 技). En otras palabras, el secreto de la habilidad de Ding no es precisamente su relación mecánica con las herramientas, sino que las herramientas funcionan aquí de acuerdo con el dao, que fluye intuitivamente a través de la mano del carnicero. La razón instrumental, que podría entenderse causalmente como la lógica que unifica los movimientos individuales con resultados individuales, parece fuera de juego.

3. El sinofuturismo

La cosmotécnica no es un concepto ahistórico, sino que éste se transforma según el contexto social y político. La exposición de Hui de la cosmotécnica china de hecho está organizada como una reconstrucción histórica. Después de su presentación de las primeras ideas confucianas y taoistas, Hui expone a otros autores del período Tang (618-709), Song (960-1270) y Ming (1368-1644). La transformación más importante se siente a lo largo de la dinastía Qing (1644-1912), donde se anticipa la ruptura entre el qi y el dao que acontecerá después de las Guerras del Opio (1839-1842, 1856-1860), es decir, después de que la superioridad tecnológica de Occidente fuera un hecho inevitable para la conciencia china. Para superar el atraso, los intelectuales reformistas chinos sintieron la necesidad de invertir la primacía del dao sobre el qi, poniendo al primero al servicio de este último. Esta inversión permitió, por un lado, que China alcanzara a Occidente y se posicionara como una potencia tecnológica. El precio que debió pagar es, sin embargo, es de la aceleración autodestructiva que implica la industrialización.

El concepto de ‘sinofuturismo’ (que también fue utilizado por el artista audiovisual Lawrence Lek, ver https://vimeo.com/179509486) implica una visión del futuro y la tecnología propiamente china, pensada con herramientas chinas. Para Hui, el aceleracionismo tecnológico actual del gigante asiático no hace sino continuar la lógica capitalista occidental que pone en riesgo la estabilidad climática del planeta. Por ello se vuelve necesario más que nunca intentar reincorporar la esfera de la moralidad cósmica (el dao) en el reino de la tecnología. No se trata, sin embargo, de un ‘volver al pasado’ tecnofóbico, sino por el contrario de ‘reapropiarse’ de la tecnología moderna de un modo nuevo (Hui 2016,309). A pesar de que Hui no da demasiados indicios de cómo debería lucir esta nueva cosmotécnica, su propuesta es sugerente. Por supuesto, no se trata sólo de reemplazar la ‘cosmotécnica capitalista’ por una ‘cosmotécnica china’. Cada cultura, dice Hui, debe hacer un esfuerzo por reconciliar la tecnología con sus propias prácticas y culturas locales, de modo que la razón instrumental vuelva a orientarse a las necesidades comunitarias. Así, Hui da un primer paso en dirección a ‘descentralizar’ el concepto occidental y capitalista de tecnología. Al proponer la posibilidad de múltiples formas de concebir la tecnología, se abren también múltiples posibilidades de repensar el papel de la moralidad en el desarrollo civilizatorio.

Bibliografía

Holbraad, M. y Pedersen, M. A., The Ontological Turn. An Anthropological Exposition, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2017.

Hui, Y., The Question Concerning Technology in China. An Essay in Cosmothechnics, Padstow, Urbanomic, 2016.

Wang, Q., «It-self-so-ing and Other-ing in Lao Zi’s Concept of Ziran», en Mou, B. (ed.) Comparative Approaches to Chinese Philosophy, Burlington, Ashgate, 2003, pp. 225-244.

Fotografía: Hudson Hayden

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Una interacción entre -mostrar y no mostrar

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

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

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Maniobras: las políticas internacionales que militarizan las vidas de las mujeres

Maneuvers: The International Politics of Militarizing Women's Lives Cynthia Enloe University of California Press, 2000, 437 pages.  ISBN: 9780520220713 Traducción...
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Maniobras: las políticas internacionales que militarizan las vidas de las mujeres

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I Can Only Wonder

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Reseña poetizada de “Le Pont du Nord”, Jacques Rivette

Anarchism, philosophy, technology: a Nepantla interview with Daniel Baryon

interview

The editors at forum-nepantla.org got the chance to talk to Daniel Baryon about anarchism and its relation to philosophy and technology. In a time in which anarchism is starting to be highly used in a variety of political narratives, this interview helped us get a better understanding of what anarchism stands for and how it was often misinterpreted or misused throughout history.

Daniel runs a youtube channel on anarchism, providing detailed and in deep analysis of the relation between the state, power structures within the state, and means of organisation of political agents.

You can see Daniel’s content here:

and our interview here:


Mirar la maternidad a través de las fotografías de la serie New Mothers de Rineke Dijkstra

En el año 1994, Rineke Dijkstra realiza una serie de tres fotografías llamada New Mothers
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We began building mom's  home the day the bombings  began. First it was the smoke.  Later it arrived the fire...
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Una interacción entre -mostrar y no mostrar

en la fotografía en color Highly carcinogenic blue asbestos waste on the Owendale Asbestos Mine tailings dump, near Postmasburg, Northern...
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Una interacción entre -mostrar y no mostrar

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

Machine Gun Confusion

The shapes are that of two people. They do each have a soul, But it’s hard for them to remember...
Read More

Brand New Heaven

I tried to accept everything, so that I could come to Heaven. But when I got there, Heaven was closed...
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Brand New Heaven

Maniobras: las políticas internacionales que militarizan las vidas de las mujeres

Maneuvers: The International Politics of Militarizing Women's Lives Cynthia Enloe University of California Press, 2000, 437 pages.  ISBN: 9780520220713 Traducción...
Read More
Maniobras: las políticas internacionales que militarizan las vidas de las mujeres

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If we are always foreigners when one  of us walks across the Pont de Sully [what is then foreigner?]  I...
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I Can Only Wonder

Before Lockdown

Cuando cruzar un puente al aire libre era parte de la normalidad (autoetnografía) "Y el tiempo dirá si al final...
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Before Lockdown

Reseña poetizada de “Le Pont du Nord”, Jacques Rivette

Una claustrofóbica en prisión y una gemela con un hermano igual,             de otro país. Una llamada por cobrar ya pagada. ...
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Reseña poetizada de “Le Pont du Nord”, Jacques Rivette

“Revelation and ‘pathos’ in Beloved Monster by Javier Tomeo”

“Javier Tomeo uses these three characters to make a parody not only of a reclusive household – which echoes the lockdowns and quarantines brought by Coronavirus over the course of this year -, but also of the market economy….”

I don’t get used to the postmodernist self-reflectivity. There is something in the images that this ontological practice renders that gives me the feeling that we are becoming, paraphrasing Radiohead’s song, “Fake plastic trees.” Behind the fantasy of postmodern self-reflectivity, Postmodernity seems to become a reality show’s character that constantly hides behind an impossible being, which from a global perspective pretends to be a sort of cosmic multiplicity that is supposed to bring satisfaction to all humans despite their complex or simplistic – individuality. In order to illustrate this set of ideas, I am going to use the novella Beloved Monster (1985) by Spanish author Javier Tomeo, a work that has not been translated to English to this date, but that provides a fundamental cultural framework to locate the place of single motherhood and nihilist pathologies within modern Western societies. Tomeo’s novella echoes works like Samuel Beckett’s Company (1980)and Thomas Bernhard’s Yes (1978), as it successfully brings forward discursive obsessions as the stage of both narrative inspection and the re-construction of broken individualities. While reading Tomeo’s work, one gets the impression that the Spanish author met his characters walking through the landscapes of Bernhard’s novels like Gargoyles (1968), where a medical doctor meanders in rural Holland visiting ill individuals unable to attain physical normalcy, and ultimately meets a wealthy landlord only to confirm that the entire countryside is infected with both physical and mental disease.       

            Beloved Monster is one of those novellas that could be defined as dialogical, that moves away from the narrative attempt to incorporate monologues as the diegetic force that brings together the characters in one single discursive torrent, as it happens in Herman Melville’s Bartleby, Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, or any Samuel Beckett’s novel. Even though the dialogue between Juan D. and H.J. Krugger – the main characters of the novella – often acquires the form of a monologue, what Beloved Monster does best is assembling a mise-en-scène in which the monologue turns into the personal revelation of the most intimate social fears of the characters. The novella’s plot is somewhat simple: thirty-year-old Juan interviews for the job of night guard with Krugger, who is the Human Resources director of an important foreign bank. As the interview unravels, the exchange between Juan and Krugger will progressively become more and more intimate to the point that Krugger will deem that Juan is unable to perform the job due to his mental obsessions, such as reading and listening to music. I must mention that at thirty years of age Juan is attempting to get a job for the first time in his life.

            Hundred years before, Juan would’ve incarnated Jose Enrique Rodo’s free-spirited Ariel, a fictional character that was supposed to express both aesthetic refinement and intellectual strength within the Latin American realm. Nevertheless, in post-Franco’s Spain, Juan is only an unproductive young man that has lived all his life under the protection and financial umbrella of his mother, who according to Juan’s revelations has not allowed him to seek one single relationship outside his mother’s home, which is a metaphor of an oppressive and castrating world. This social lockdown – for which Juan only blames his mother – has not allowed him to acquire consciousness of his own personhood without referencing his mother, thus placing single motherhood as a postmodern cultural construction that imposes both reclusion and an unavoidable attachment to the realm of motherhood. Juan aspires to become a free spirit, but his mother has sentenced him to a perennial lockdown at home, for she constantly persuades his to hide from the sight of others due to the insecurities that his mother has inoculated in him since childhood. Such is the obsession of Juan’s mother with her only son, that at some point it seems that the ultimate purpose of Juan’s mother is to bring total humiliation as the sine qua non condition of his manhood. From this subordinated – castrating – perspective, Juan’s future only offers failure and frustration as his only means to experience life. This teleological condition, in which the future is anchored to the perspectives offered by the present, resembles Giovanni Sartori’s Homo Videns, which anticipated in the late 1990s that global society was going to be controlled through the mediation of screened gadgets, leaving humans disconnected from physical immediate reality, as if life was a virtual experience lived through the people showed in television as prototypes that offer either consolation or despair to the audiences.

            Krugger’s interview challenges the life that Juan has endeavored since his childhood precisely because Krugger stops looking at Juan’s outer self and focuses on what he has to say about his candidacy to the job, which ultimately disqualifies him to become the bank’s night guard. It is not that the psychological pathologies of Juan reveal a prospective criminal, it is indeed the opposite, for Krugger deems that the castrating and inorganic social life of Juan would make him a mediocre employee without aspirations to excel within the company. Furthermore, this proclivity to failure makes Krugger decide that Juan would be a terrible guard as he would easily avoid confronting, for instance, a bank robber or would fall asleep during the night shift. While Krugger considers that Juan is unfit for the job, he does think that under the pathetic life of Juan there is one layer to be saved, which is Juan’s relationship with his mother. The way Juan narrates his lack of work experience through the situations he’s lived next to his mother, who has spoiled and overprotected him as her strategy to keep him always next to her, the reader gets the impression that Juan’s mother is a sort of Dra. Frankenstein who has created an anti-Prometheus, for Juan is neither the friend of humans nor he has received the “punishment” of the Gods thanks to the constant mediation of his mother. Nevertheless, and paradoxically, Juan suffers and remains chained to a present that doesn’t offer him any perspective of personal development.

            In The Ecstasy of Communication – published the same year that Beloved Monster – Jean Baudrillard states that, “Public space is no longer a spectacle, private space no longer a secret” (130). Following this axiom, Juan tells Krugger at the beginning of the interview that, “I will have to answer all your questions, even those that may seem excessively intimate, and I will make sure not to avoid one single detail because it is in those details where revelations usually hide” (7). Juan says so as his strategy to set himself up to not getting the job, for he knows that he does not have neither the experience nor the desire to get a job that would take him away from the constant protection of his mother. Juan’s predisposition to reveal anything he’s asked about his private life is also understood as a necessary catharsis that will allow Juan to justify himself for his personal failures, as he is prompt to suggest that his mother is the only person that has kept him away from gaining more life and work experience. In a way, Juan’s plan is to use the interview to become Krugger’s psychiatric patient, but the Human Resources director refuses to assume that role and, instead, he uses the interview as a criminal interrogation that allows Krugger to reveal with impunity his most traumatic life experience, which happens to be an accidental crime committed when he was only a child.

            Added to the discouraging words of Juan’s mother, who even dares to tell him that he would fail at anything that he ever attempts to do in life if he walks away from her, as Krugger learns about Juan’s mother, the Human Resources director begins to idealize her to the point of attempting to convince Juan that his life would be always more worth it – and even beautiful – if he stays next to his mother. Based on this, Juan gets the impression that his fate is to remain unproductive, aging next to his old mother. Even though Juan is not a child or a teenager, in the novel he symbolizes the generational clash between youth and adulthood, the latter characterized in Juan’s mother and Krugger. Javier Tomeo uses these three characters to make a parody not only of a reclusive household – which echoes the lockdowns and quarantines brought by Coronavirus over the course of this year -, but also of the market economy that relegates young people to a subordinated economic relationship with aging individuals, as it is the case of Krugger, who uses his established position in a company to dictate Juan’s future, which in the best case scenario would be that of a subaltern.

            The key moment of the interview takes place when Krugger reveals – somewhat nostalgic and overwhelmed for Juan’s story – that he was responsible for the death of his mother. Even though this revelation carries a terrible truth, Krugger’s secret acquires a derisory dimension when he adds, “Do you want me to tell you about all my sleepless nights thinking about those damned garbanzo beans” (108). This revelation occurs only after Krugger has told Juan that he is not the right candidate for the job, thus he uses this opportunity, for he is not going to see Juan ever again, to tell a macabre, yet playful story from his childhood. When he was a child, Krugger put in his home’s stairs dried garbanzo beans, which made his mother fall to death. Juan replies, without feeling sympathy for Krugger, that “it was you the one who killed your own mother, it was you the one who placed those garbanzo beans in the stairs. Only God knows how come you could’ve done such a stupid thing. You placed a few dried garbanzo beans in each step of the stairs and hid waiting for the first victim. You were hoping to see one of the maids falling for your own amusement, but it was your mother” (108-109). After this exchange, it is made quite evident that between Juan and Krugger there is only place for antagonism, and even though Krugger’s moral quality has been fractured since his childhood, it is the Human Resources director the one who uses Juan’s virtues to disqualify him and even ridicule him. Right when Juan recovers some hope about getting the job, as he thinks that Krugger’s revelation gives him some kind of power over his potential future employer, Krugger officially tells Juan that his candidacy for the job has been dismissed, justifying his decision summarizing his impressions about the interview with the following words, “You have indeed some virtues, but your defects are nonetheless greater: you have read too many books, you enjoy music, you have never used a gun and, just to make your case worst, you have six fingers in each hand. Your mother knows it quite well: men like you must quit their attempt to become active members of society, before society rejects them due to their defects” (110-111). Krugger deems that Juan would be a deficient guard because his “hobbies” would potentially distract him while on duty, and since he lacks the experience of using a firearm, he is an imperfect candidate for the job. Juan could argue, in his defense, that the fact that Krugger is a matricide morally disqualifies him to decide upon the future employees of any company, in this case a bank, but the interview ends without any attempt of Juan to defend himself or verbally attack Krugger.

            In Abnormal (1975), Michel Foucault states, “There is, then, a transition from the monster to the abnormal. This transition cannot be explained by assuming something like an epistemological necessity or scientific tendency according to which psychiatry would pose the problem of the smaller only after having posed the problem of the bigger, the less visible after the more visible, the less important after the more important” (110). In Beloved Monster, the most visible layer of the characters is articulated through their neurotic discourse – on the one hand, Juan seems to have the voice of his mother constantly whispering inside his head that he is a failure, while on the other, the childish inner voice of Krugger makes him feel a constant guilt for having killed his mother, a voice that paradoxically gives him a sense of empowerment -, while the least important, in Juan’s case, is the anatomical fact of having six fingers in each hand, which in front of Krugger’s eyes places him on the side of the unproductive and abnormal members of society. Juan is an explicit active nihilist – borrowing Friedrich Nietzsche’s taxonomy of nihilism -, who clings to the possibility of an alternative future where he would be independent from his mother’s economic and psychological tutelage, while Krugger is an implicit passive nihilist, for he is unable to conceive any future that is not only the replication of his company’s organization. Furthermore, Juan often forgets his anatomical difference, and believes – as if having six fingers in each hand was a postmodernist symptom – that his hand’s “abnormality” would allow him to develop skills that a “normal” hand would never be able to perform.

            As Juan walks out of the bank’s building, suddenly wondering about his mother and his reclusive life – mentally returning to the constant self-reflectivity mode that has set him up since childhood – we as readers are placed next to Juan. As the 21st century keeps unraveling, and the Coronavirus pandemic keeps molding our quotidian responses to both disease and pathways to a healthier human experience, the realms of the household and employment remain the most crucial issues of the time to come. As many humans worldwide, particularly young people, are losing their jobs, reality seems to replicate Juan’s reclusive experience as a metonym of both quarantine and lockdown, which in turn seem to offer unproductive responses to social and economic anxiety. Despite these challenges, which encompass physical and mental illness – and Coronavirus as well – young people will be the ones, through organized protest and the development of grassroots economic strategies, who will have to decide what is important and what is not in the task of moving global society forward as a project of healing and self re-discovery, for postmodernism has also brought to the ontological stage the constant interrogation of finding meaning in a life under attack by new diseases, while also lacking the motivation to find a way out of our self-imposed lockdowns.

REFERENCES

Abnormal. Michel Foucault. Picador, 2007.

Beloved Monster. Javier Tomeo. Anagrama, 1985.

Homo Videns. Giovanni Sartori. Taurus, 1998.

The Ecstasy of Communication. Jean Baudrillard. Semiotext(e), 1988.


Mirar la maternidad a través de las fotografías de la serie New Mothers de Rineke Dijkstra

En el año 1994, Rineke Dijkstra realiza una serie de tres fotografías llamada New Mothers
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Biopolitical Re-colonization in Contemporary Mexico

In November 2017, I was invited to deliver a talk about Sonic Borderspaces at Emory University, besides the activities involved in my visit, what remained in my memory was the University Hospital – one of the top research institutions devoted to the eradication of Ebola – and the construction sounds and noises coming from a building across the street, where a group of Spanish-speaking workers carried out their jobs. I was walking with a couple of graduate students and I couldn’t help to comment that we were witnessing a sonic borderspace. On the one hand, a complete silence emanated from the University Hospital, while, on the other, the mix of dissonant and cacophonic sounds produced by the construction workers set an invisible biopolitical border that could metonymically be compared to Trump’s Wall on the US-Mexico border, for north of the border there’s the scientific infrastructure to combat diseases such as Ebola, while south of the border there’s a scientific dependency (paraphrasing Theotonio dos Santos dependency theory) that echoes throughout the Latin American continent as a shout for equal access to biopolitical development without the mediation of financial institutions like the International Monetary Fund.

            Over the decade that I taught at American universities, I used to fly between the US and Mexico on a regular basis, often with the research purpose of tracing the pathways of those working communities labeled as subaltern. My students, and even some colleagues, were always surprised when I told them that Mexico was also a republic, and as such its political organization was similar to the United States. Comments such as “I didn’t know that the Third World had republics as well” or “I thought Mexico had only dictators” were common responses. However, a closer look to the social dynamics and the division of labor of places such as Mexico City – which based on the numbers and statistics is usually catalogued as a Global City – would challenge the efficiency of the constitutional republicanism that has ruled over the Mexican people since the 19th century.

            When I began my doctoral studies, my research interests focused on decolonial theory, subaltern studies, and the so-called “long nineteenth century,” for that reason I developed the critical compulsion of noticing colonial practices everywhere I went. Nevertheless, through my continuous travelling between Europe, Northern Africa, Latin America, and the US, Mexico always stood up as a place where colonialism lingered in the most quotidian habits and practices of the working and disempowered classes, which in Mexico compose most of the population. I do not want to make an exhaustive compilation of such habits and practices, but a close look at the distribution of the health services and the traditional channels to access fresh foods would provide enough evidence to claim that over the last decades Mexico has experienced an intense process of re-colonization that has jurisdictionally crystalized with the election in 2018 of the first left-wing president in modern Mexican history. One would imagine that the election of a self-called socialist president was going to bring structural and institutional changes that would create the means to empower those communities linked to agrarian social spaces. Instead, one of the most noticeable measures enacted by the new administration – which at first glance seemed harmless – consisted in changing the titles of the public servants and the administrative jurisdictions. For a scholar like me who didn’t live in Mexico and didn’t experience the transition from the soft-dictatorship of the PRI to the presidential election of Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, Mexico seemed to remain intact in its core, but a closer look at those nominal changes would render the fact that the new titles were those which in turn were used during colonial times.

            Worldwide the media coverage of the Coronavirus pandemic, in regards of political figures, has focused on the role of Donald Trump, who has been criticized for not listening to his advisors to find more effective and inclusive strategies to fight the pandemic. In Mexico, Lopez Obrador has been also criticized for ignoring, for instance, the guidelines suggested by the World Health Organization and for getting closer to criminal groups linked to drug trafficking, all while the pandemic is deepening social inequalities and public hospitals are at their full capacity or simply don’t have the resources to take care of the Covid-19 patients. On both sides of the border, Mexican farmers (campesinos) are among the most vulnerable communities; due to their working conditions, diet, exposure to pesticides, and the medical attention they receive. Coronavirus spreads among them at higher rates. The Columbian Exchange brought deadly diseases to the Americas, mostly in detriment of indigenous peoples. Today, I suggest that the Coronavirus Exchange, while it has impacted the health of the global population, as it advances is producing its worst effects among indigenous communities, who historically have been placed in disadvantaged biopolitical situations.

            The Coronavirus pandemic has also brought to the surface an aspect of global racism that had passed unchallenged until recent times: DNA. Medical research has historically focused on developing vaccines and medications based on white subjects. Diabetes, for instance, is one of the global diseases that – while it affects people from all ethnicities – has become endemic among non-white people, thus suggesting that both colonialism and coloniality are also practices at the genomic level. As 2020 progresses, the entire world keeps awaiting the arrival of the one vaccine that will defeat Covid-19, a vaccine – or better put, a set of vaccines – that is being developed in laboratories of the First World serving the interests of those who will be able to afford it. The bid of the US government to buy such vaccine for the exclusive use of the American people seemed not only outrageous, but it also made evident what was already clear for any biopolitical analyst, which is that the Coronavirus pandemic is only the tip of the iceberg of a genomic war that at first glance is confronting China against the US, both economic superpowers battling for the financial control of the world. The role of both the Developing World and the Third World in this global war is somewhat unclear, some may argue that this genomic war is vanishing the World System divisions in order to pitch people against one another based on their ethnicity, unleashing not only a clash of civilizations – paraphrasing Samuel P. Huntington’s controversial book – but a biological crisis that will displace the most disadvantaged communities to the very margins of civilization. Mexico, a nation known over the last decade mostly for having the second highest rate of feminicides (only after Brazil)[1] and a political culture linked to drug cartels, is now among the nations with the highest rates of Coronavirus deaths.

            All the attempts to display a “new normality” have failed in Mexico for various reasons. Mexico’s structural dependency in terms of both logistics and health-related information has been poorly administered by the nation’s leaders. At the street level, Mexican people attempt to keep carrying out their surviving endeavors, some wearing the sanitary facemask and using a hand sanitizer that has been banned in the US due to its high methanol content. However, with food prices rising and drug cartels displaying unprecedented forms of violence allover the country, Mexico’s exit to the pandemic seems like a chimera. In the meantime, Mexico’s most vulnerable keep awaiting that the world’s superpowers give them the magical vaccine – as if Coronavirus was affecting only the Mexican nation -, while politicians regardless of their ideological affiliation seem more invested in joining the forces of institutional corruption. Contemporary Mexico seems like a neocolonial puzzle where re-colonization practices are beginning to vanish the spiritual humanity that used to characterize Mexican people, who are surrendering to both lockdown anxiety and the violent imagination – emerging from drug cartels – that pop culture and media reified on daily basis. Lopez Obrador will be traveling soon to Washington D.C. to meet Donald Trump. On the surface the purpose of the meeting is to discuss matters regarding the new trade agreement between Canada, Mexico, and the US (‘USMCA’ in the US, ‘CUSMA’ in Canada, and ‘T-MEC’ in Mexico), but what most Mexican citizens want to hear when Lopez Obrador comes back from north of the border is that there’s a way out of this pandemic, as if the US owned the secret to defeat Coronavirus, while scientific research keeps showing that Latinx and Black communities are the ones at higher risk in the global genomic war that is dictating the biopolitical pace of 2020.


[1] https://oig.cepal.org/en/indicators/femicide-or-feminicide


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En el año 1994, Rineke Dijkstra realiza una serie de tres fotografías llamada New Mothers
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Maniobras: las políticas internacionales que militarizan las vidas de las mujeres

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Reseña poetizada de “Le Pont du Nord”, Jacques Rivette

Wissenschaftliches Arbeiten: Literaturrecherche und Forschungsstand


Der Kanal “Wissenschaftliches Coaching” von Xenia Wenzel richtet sich an Studienanfänger*innen und Studierende, die mit wissenschaftlichem Arbeiten noch nicht vertraut oder erfahren sind und verständliche, praxisnahe Anregungen und Erklärungen für Frage- und Probelmstellungen suchen, die beim wissenschaftlichen Arbeiten aufkommen.

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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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Poetry and thinking in Percy Shelley’s essay “A Defence of Poetry”

One year before his tragically premature death in 1822, the English poet Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote an essay called A Defence of Poetry, that was only to be published posthumously, in 1840, in order to present his own take on the subject. In the essay he deals with questions that range from the metaphysical to matters of metre, he discusses the human relationship with the world and existence, thinking and the production of poetry, what counts as poetry and the role it plays in people’s lives.

A “widespread dissatisfaction” with the way the act of thinking has been portrayed in Western philosophy since the 17th century  – reduced to reason; meaning rationality – has been identified in representatives of various styles of modern thought.[1] In his Defence Shelley develops his theories concerning thought, poetry and their relationship, such as the analogy between the objective and subjective realms and the way in which poetry mediates this connection.

Shelley traces a fascinating parallel between the way wind harps produce sound and poets write poems, both being the result of the interaction between different entities, the harp/poet and the wind/reality, i.e. the translation one makes of the other in the very act of that interaction.

***

The Defence starts out proposing a dichotomy of “two classes of mental action”, which are: reason and imagination. Reason is the type of mental action that deals with the relation between thoughts and what differentiates them, its objects are “common to universal nature and existence itself”[2]. In other words, for Shelley Reason is preoccupied with the relations between what we think and all that actually exists in the horizon of our experience; it is the principle of synthesis. Imagination – whose expression Shelley calls poetry (in a wide sense) – deals with thoughts as “the algebraical representations which conduct to certain general results”[3], it is the principle of analysis. The imagination imparts to thoughts some of its own quality, and composes from them, other thoughts.

He affirms that “reason is to imagination as the instrument to the agent, the body to the spirit, the shadow to the substance”[4]. Note that in these comparisons the first term of each pair (reason, instrument, body, shadow) possesses its own specific properties but is constrained in its effect by the second term (imagination, agent, spirit, substance). Reason contemplates the relations between thoughts (or concepts) but imagination provides it with them.

Shelley claims that humans are somewhat similar to Aeolian lyres (wind harps) – “Man is an instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions are driven”[5]; he is the passive percipient of this current of impressions. The instrument, very popular in Britain during the Enlightenment and Romantic periods, consists of an oblong wooden box with strings running lengthwise across the top, stretched over bridges at each end and attached to tuning pegs.[6] Placed on a windowsill, the harp vibrates to the pulsation of air currents producing sound. For Shelley, humans are similarly subject to the influence of external (sense perception) and internal (feelings, emotions) stimuli resonating accordingly. The language he employs often blurs the lines of his analogy but, at the same time, hints at the recondite conjunction between sensation, thinking and the production of poetry.

The analogy – between humans and Aeolian harps – was influenced by materialist philosophers of sensation and identity such as David Hartley, whose work Observations on Man, his Frame, his Duty, and his Expectations (1749) had dedicated advocates in Britain, and proposed the correlation between physiological and psychical facts.[7] But Shelley goes further in affirming that – differently from the wooden instrument – humans “and perhaps all sentient beings” are endowed with a principle of internal adjustment between the sounds excited and the impressions that excite them; we are capable of producing not only melody (passively) but harmony (actively) as well. This can be read under the light of the Kantian idea, as expressed by Stanley Cavell, “that knowledge is active, and sensuous intuition alone passive or receptive”[8], impressions happen to a person like the wind licks the strings of the Aeolian lyre, and in a subsequent stage the person acts upon the stimuli using their harmonizing principle. This special harmonizing principle, which reveals new thoughts to those more finely attuned – “new materials of knowledge, and power, and pleasure”[9] – as well as previously unapprehended relations between old ones, allows them to perceive the good that Shelley asserts to be inherent to the relations between existence and perception. Shelley locates the imagination between perception and expression, also referring to it as the “creative faculty”[10] , “faculty of approximation to the beautiful”[11] or the “poetical faculty”[12].

The way Shelley continuously refers to an eternal realm – home of  beauty, truth and the good – sounds strangely platonic, in a time when Plato was “still regarded in schools and universities as a subversive and corrupting author”[13]. Though Shelley studied many philosophers, Plato influenced him greatly. Shelley not only incorporated aspects of his philosophy, but he reworked Plato’s metaphysical ideas through his poetry to create his own unique metaphysical view.

Under yet another influence – that of the early Coleridge – Shelley is willing to go beyond anthropocentrism and develop a philosophy that includes the nonhuman when he extends his claim to include all sentient beings.[14] Hartley´s theory of vibrations accords with the sentience Shelley proposes: being sentient is vibrating in tune (or out of tune), under the influence of some other entity.  One is more or less attuned according to one´s propinquity to the (platonic, ideal) realm of what Shelley sometimes calls the beautiful (but also: the good and the truth); and this approximation consists in the observation of similarities between relations in the order of the natural things of the world and those in the order of thoughts. From this platform Shelley is able to imagine thinking as analogous to a physical process: a vibration or an interference pattern between vibrations. For him sensation and thinking are ontologically similar.[15] The harp produces sound because the wind blows over it making its strings vibrate; the mind thinks because sensations/impressions go through it, making it produce thoughts (the mind’s own vibrations). This parallel has its implications, one of them being the opening up of a vast subjective inner-space – a copy of the objective universe that is subject to the re-workings of the imaginative faculty – the conceptual vocabulary one must have in order to interpret reality and existence (or express it).

Shelley goes on to give a narrower definition of poetry: it is essentially arrangements of language, especially metrical language, which are created by imagination. And poetry is the best possible medium for the expression of imagination because its raw-material – language – is “arbitrarily produced by the imagination, and has relation to thoughts alone”[16], it is a “more direct representation of the actions and passions of our being”[17], while other materials, instruments and conditions of art add a step (the translation from the language of the concept to the language of the material) between conception and expression. This idea is in line with what Susan Stewart says when she affirms that poetry is taken to be the “speculative art least bound to materiality, and most productive of symbols”.[18] For Shelley there is a double process of translation going on in the mind of the painter, for example, first from sensations into thoughts – the building of his repertoire of concepts – and later the movement from thinking into the shapes and colours that will compose his work, whereas the poet must perform only the first of these conversions, from sensations into concepts, and these will be directly expressed in arrangements of language, i.e. poems.

When left outside by itself the Aeolian harp will now and then emit its eerie vibrations, caused by the friction of the air currents against it. Martin Heidegger asserts that we can never hear the wind in itself, there isn’t such a thing as the sound of the wind.[19] What we hear is the wind whistling in the chimney, the wind rustling the leaves of a tree, the wind on the strings of an Aeolian harp. We hear the wind´s translation of the strings; the hollow sound box´s translation of the string´s vibration into amplified pressure waves. Entering our inner ear, these waves are translated by a pressure cell. This cell acts as a transducer, translating mechanical vibrations into electrochemical signals.[20] Therefore, a  series of conversions must take place in order for us to process perception (αἴσθησις – aisthēsis). Shelley describes the activity of the poet in similar terms. The poet, exposed to (external and internal) impressions will translate their influence into thoughts and language. There is for him, as well as for Heidegger, a step, or a difference, between these impressions and the words used to talk about them. They are not one in the other, they are different things that we correspond. It is possible to contrast this idea with what Stewart argues when she talks about poems being “capable of expressing embodied consciousness” and “made of our own natures”[21]. For Stewart there doesn’t seem to be a separation, language embodies, its form literally is what it wants to convey. Whereas for Shelley the poem is a translation, it is the transformation the poet operates upon impressions through his refined and sensitive imagination; the poet creates an object (a poem) that will have an effect over those who read it, it will point out to the very structure of their subjectivity producing a frame of mind that will allow them to have a glimpse of the “eternal truth” of life and things – to which only poets have any access. [22]

It is important to highlight the way in which, for Shelley, the poet’s imagination is responsible for this translation, which is the creation of representations that correspond to the influence of certain impressions – the poet’s imagination is responsible for poetry and poetry is essencial for humans to make sense of the world. For him, in order to render this conversion poets make vital use of metaphorical language, because it “marks the before unapprehended relations of things and perpetuates their apprehension”[23]. Interestingly, the Greek word for translation is metaphor .[24]

In his attempt to trace back the origins of poetry Shelley talks about the youth of the world and the origins of language. According to him during the infancy of society all language was poetry (in the wide sense of the expression of the imagination) and every author was a poet, because at that point the very first translations (from the realm of sensations and that of feelings and emotions) were being made – the first metaphors were being created – and most relations were still unapprehended. Humans would observe and imitate nature, getting more or less intense pleasure out of these mimetic representations according to their degree of approximation to the natural order, or rhythm, of things. Shelley quotes Francis Bacon who affirmed that there are similarities between the order of nature and the order of subjectivity: “[These similitudes or relations are] the same footsteps of nature impressed upon the various subjects of the world.” [25] What Shelley believes is that the architecture of man´s subjectivity is analogous to that of nature itself, the one being a kind of copy of the other, its conversion from objective, material, into subjective and subtle.

He points out this parallel in the relations within the order of sounds (sensations) and those in the order of thoughts (thinking), that justify the patterns of sound (e.g. rhythm, rhyme) present in poetry, and he emphasises its role (when compared to the meaning of the words themselves) towards the communication of the poem’s influence.  Even though for Shelley metre is just part of a system of traditional forms – and is not essential to poetry in the wider sense – when it comes to poetry in his narrower sense he says that “every great poet must inevitably innovate (…) in the exact structure of his peculiar versification”[26].

The distinction between poets and prose writers is for Shelley erroneous because he acknowledges two modes of harmony that are expressed in poetry (in the wider and narrower senses respectively): harmony of thought and harmony of form. Therefore, poetry is for him any type of text that will reveal the underlying beauty and truth of things. He includes in the hall of great poets Plato, Francis Bacon and all the “authors of revolutions”[27].

Shelley also says that eventually words become signs for portions or classes of thoughts instead of pictures of integral thoughts, and because of that we constantly need new poets to arise and renew language, or, as he puts it: “to create afresh the associations which have been thus disorganized”[28], otherwise language is at risk of becoming useless to the “nobler purposes of human intercourse”, people may become desensitized to language through a process not dissimilar to that which Giambattista Vico describes in his New Science[29]: civilized people become unable to imagine the great animated reality that was the result of the early analogies established between human subjectivity and natural phenomena.

As mentioned before, for Shelley poetry has the fundamental role of reproducing the universe (“of which we are portions and percipients”), in the sense that one must recreate it – translate the universe into a language one’s own mind is able to process – in order to “feel that which we perceive and to imagine that which we know”[30]. Poetry (in the wide sense previously defined) is, therefore, responsible for opening up this inner-space, “it creates for us a being within our being”, it unlocks subjectivity and translates the universe into thoughts that will be dealt with further by reason and imagination. In that sense Shelley echoes the words of Tasso and says: “No one merits the name of creator except God and the Poet”[31].

Shelley´s assertion “All things exist as they are perceived: at least in relation to the percipient”[32] shows his ideas were swimming in the waters of the 18th century philosophies, and expresses once again the step one’s mind takes in the translation (or conversion) of reality into thinking. The experience of reality is dependent on this act. And not everyone is able to perform this act of translation with the same accuracy; the poet seems incomparably better equipped to do so, for he “participates in the eternal, the infinite, and the one”[33]. For Shelley the poet possesses a more developed faculty of imagination than any other man, and his social significance lies in the way his fine understanding of reality gets expressed and perpetuated within a community. It is not surprising that Shelley puts poets right at the top of a hierarchy of sensibility, in a moment when thinkers and philosophers had started to think about the concept of genius as a quality of the individual artist instead of something in the work produced.

What is being affirmed is the dependence of the mode of perception on the percipient; there is no direct access into reality. It all gets translated into our minds and must be organized in language in order to be communicated.

Poetry does not participate in specific contexts of time and space, and the poet should not try to embody in his work the conditions of his age or region. Again in contrast with Stewart´s essay, in which she places within the realm of the poem information about its “somatic, emotional, and social conditions beyond whatever meanings their language conveys”[34], for Shelley, if poetry points toward something beyond its words that is not the context of its creation, it, rather, points toward “the life of truth”[35], “echoing the eternal music”[36], granting humans some access to the ultimate knowledge of things.

“Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the centre and circumference of knowledge; it is that which comprehends all science, and that to which all science must be referred. It is at the same time the root and blossom of all other systems of thought; it is that from which all spring, and that which adorns all; and that which, if blighted, denies the fruit and the seed, and withholds from the barren world the nourishment and the succession of the scions of the tree of life. It is the perfect and consummate surface and bloom of all things; it is as the odor and the color of the rose to the texture of the elements which compose it, as the form and splendor of unfaded beauty to the secrets of anatomy and corruption.”[37]

Poetry is placed at the very top of the agenda of his metaphysical investigation. Timothy Morton points out that in the last sentence Shelley shifts from metaphor to reality: “[Poetry] is the perfect and consummate surface and bloom of all things; it is as the odor and the color of the rose to the texture of the elements which compose it”. Here, he is talking about thinking, but he’s also talking about roses, once more approximating and tracing the parallel between internal/external impressions and thinking.

Not even time is objective for Shelley. Despite his inability to predict the form of the future, the poet “foreknows the spirit of events”[38]. He draws from his proximity to the (eternal) order of truth and beauty, material to compose his poems, and a poem is an inexhaustible source of new thoughts and relations. Shelley says that time only serves to increase the possibilities of a poem, in opposition to its effect over – non-poetical – stories, which will lose their meaning or significance as time passes.

“All high poetry is infinite (…) a fountain forever overflowing with the waters of wisdom and delight; and after one person and one age has exhausted all its divine effluence, which their peculiar relations enable them to share, another and yet another succeeds”[39]. Therefore a poem can never have a final, definite, interpretation – its meaning lies always ahead, in the future. The famous quote by the French poet Paul Valéry, in which he says that a poem is never finished, it is merely abandoned, is imbued of the same spirit as that of Shelley´s assertions. For Shelley, the judgment upon the work of a poet “belongs, as he does, to all time”[40].

The idea that time flows in one direction and consists of a sequence of now-points is – according to Shelley´s theory – a certain version of time produced by a certain way of looking  at reality; and poets “are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration, the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present”[41]. The role of the poet’s imagination is to constantly rework old translations, and come up with new ones that will – in the future – allow (once more) for reinterpretations.

Another example of the idea that the meaning perhaps lies in the future is expressed by Nietzsche in the preface of his Antichrist, whence one reads the warning saying that book was written for humans that probably aren’t yet alive, and that its meaning will only be realised in the future.[42]

***

Thinking, in Shelley’s A Defence of Poetry, consists on man´s (creative) conceptualization of reality and on the way he organizes those concepts. This process can be explained in the terms of a translation the mind performs, converting external and internal impressions (sensorial input, emotions, feelings) into thoughts – or concepts – that will function as a mental reproduction of the universe of our experience.  Imagination allows one to produce these thoughts, that are compared and contrasted by reason.

Shelley proposes that poets are specially suited for this job because they stand in peculiar proximity to the ideal realm of truth and beauty (unchanging and beyond the experiential material world), and the reason for that is that poets have a special attunement to the world that allows them to produce good translations of reality which will stand the test of Time by constant reinterpretation.

As an Aeolian harp produces sounds through its interaction with the wind, man thinks through his interaction with – and translation of – material reality; Shelley identifies an analogy between physical processes (such as the sound of the harp) and thinking.

Consequently the poet has an absolute role – he is “the unacknowledged legislator of the world”[43] – in the mediation between reality and the mind, for he is the holder of the key (poetry) to this inner-universe, be means of which one perceives reality and that determines how one understands and interacts with it.


[1] Cavell, S. Aversive Thinking: Emersonian Representations in Heidegger and Nietzsche pp.132-33  In: New Literary History, Vol.22, 1991/Winter pp.129-160

[2] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry, The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis 1904 p.12 All quotations from Shelley are from this edition

[3] Ibid.,p.12

[4] Ibid.,p.12

[5] Ibid.,p.13

[6] Rzepka, C. The Aeolian Harp In:  http://www.bu.edu/cas/magazine/fall09/wagenknecht/ – where you can listen to an Aeolian Harp. (accessed on 25/07/2013)

[7] Allen, R. David Hartley  In: Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/hartley/#6 (accessed on 25/07/2013)

Hartley (…) presented a “theory of vibrations” that explained how the “component particles” that constitute the nerves and brain interact with the physical universe suggested by Newton — a world composed of “forces of attraction and repulsion” and having a minimum of solid matter.

[8] Cavell, S. Aversive Thinking: Emersonian Representations in Heidegger and Nietzsche p.137

[9] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.75

[10] Ibid.,p.75

[11] Ibid.,p.17

[12] Ibid.,p.35

[13] Holmes, R. Shelley: The Pursuit,  New York: E.P. Dutton and Co, 1975 p.26

[14] Morton, T. An Object-Oriented Defence of Poetry p.205 In: New Literary History, Vol.43 2012/Spring pp.205-224

[15]  Ibid, p.205

[16] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.22

[17] Ibid.,p.21

[18] Stewart, S. What Praise Poems are for p.236 In: PMLA, Volume 120, Number 1, January 2005, pp.235-245

[19] Heidegger,M. The Origin of the Work of Art p.10  translated by Roger Berkowitz and Philippe Nonet, 2006 available at http://www.academia.edu/2083177 /The_Origin_of_the_Work_of_Art_by_Martin_Heidegger      
  (accessed on 25/07/2013)

[20] Morton, T. An Object-Oriented Defence of Poetry pp.206

[21] Stewart, S. What Praise Poems are for p.235 In: PMLA, Volume 120, Number 1, January 2005, pp. 235-245

[22] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.27

[23] ibid. p.17

[24] Morton, T. An Object-Oriented Defence of Poetry pp.206

[25] Bacon, F. De Augmentis Scientiarum, cap.1, lib.III In: Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.18

[26] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.25

[27] Ibid p.26

[28] Ibid p.18

[29] Vico, G. The New Science of Giambattista Vico (1725) book II, 378 available at: http://archive.org/details /newscienceofgiam030174mbp (accessed on 25/07/2013) 
But the nature of our civilized minds is so detached from the senses, even in the vulgar, by abstractions corresponding to all the abstract terms our languages abound in, and so refined by the art of writing, and as it were spiritualized by the use of numbers, because even the vulgar know how to count and reckon, that it is naturally beyond our power to form the vast image of this mistress called “Sympathetic Nature.” “

 [30] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.83

[31] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.83

[32] Ibid, p.82

[33] Ibid, p.20

[34] Stewart, S. What Praise Poems are for p.235

[35] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.26

[36] Ibid. p.27

[37] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry pp.76-77

[38] Ibid., p.20 (my stress)

[39] Ibidp. 67

[40] Ibid. p.30

[41]Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.90

[42] Nietzsche, F. The Antichrist,  translation Mencken, H.L. The Project Gutenberg, 2006, p.37 available at: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/19322/19322-h/19322-h.htm

[43] Shelley, P. A Defence of Poetry p.90


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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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Wissenschaftliches Arbeiten: Das Trichterprinzip

Egal ob Themeneingrenzung, Literaturrecherche, Forschungsfrage oder Schreibarbeit: Im wissenschaftlichen Arbeiten sind wir permanent damit beschäftigt einzugrenzen, um möglichst konkrete Ergebnisse zu schaffen und damit wiederum all jenes auszuschließen, das nicht zur Erreichung des Forschungsziels beiträgt. In diesem Video erkläre ich dir, wie du das Schaubild des Trichters für deine wissenschaftliche Praxis nutzen kannst.

Der Kanal “Wissenschaftliches Coaching” von Xenia Wenzel richtet sich an Studienanfänger*innen und Studierende, die mit wissenschaftlichem Arbeiten noch nicht vertraut oder erfahren sind und verständliche, praxisnahe Anregungen und Erklärungen für Frage- und Problemstellungen suchen, die beim wissenschaftlichen Arbeiten aufkommen.

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Sursele creștine ale științei moderne

Demontarea mitului cum că creștinismul ar fi blocat progresul științei

Autor: James Hannam

Traducere de Dan Siserman

Sursa: First Things ( https://www.firstthings.com/ )


În 1978, Carl Sagan a inclus în cartea sa Cosmos o cronologie a progresului științific, arătând că nu s-a întâmplat nimic între anul 415 d.Cr. și anul 1543 d.Cr. Această perioadă stearpă, a presupus el, a fost cauzată de dominația de o mie de ani a creștinismului. „Teza conflictului” dintre știință și religie s-a născut în saloanele ancien régime din Franța, unde filosofi precum Voltaire și d’Alembert au folosit-o ca o armă împotriva Bisericii Catolice. Această teză a fost dezvoltată mai departe în Anglia victoriană de T. H. Huxley în lupta sa pentru a diminua influența clerului în Royal Society din Londra și a fost perfecționată în universitățile americane de către Adrew Dickson White, primul președinte al Universității Cornell, care în masiv adnotata carte A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology (O istorie a conflictului științei cu teologia) de la sfârșitul secolului al XIX-lea a înzestrat teoria cu balast intelectual. Această carte a fost promovată în nenumărate articole de reviste de popularizare și în manualele școlare elementare.

Istoria științei este povestea modului în care am trecut de la a fi în mod fundamental eronați în ceea ce privește lumea naturală la a fi, în mare parte, corecți. Știința așa cum ne-o imaginăm noi astăzi – cu laboratoare, experimente și o cultură profesională – nu apăruse până în secolul al XIX-lea, dar originile ei pot fi găsite mult mai devreme, în perioada cunoscută drept „revoluția științifică”. Iar „revoluția științifică” a fost o continuare a evoluțiilor care începuseră adânc în Evul Mediu în rândul oamenilor care își exprimau credința religioasă prin activitatea științifică. Cu alte cuvinte, teza conflictului este un mit.

Teza conflictului dintre știință și religie se bazează pe alte două mituri despre progresul științific. În primul rând, mulți oameni încă cred că știința a avansat luptând cu superstiția religioasă și făcând lumea sigură pentru cercetări raționale. Este adevărat că anumite doctrine religioase contrazic unele descoperiri științifice. Controversa dintre creație și evoluție este un exemplu, dar aceste conflicte au fost surprinzător de rare. Chiar și infamul proces al lui Galileo, celălalt exemplu de conflict foarte des citat, a fost o abatere în obișnuita atitudine de susținere a Bisericii Catolice față de știință.

„Revoluția științifică” din secolul al XVII-lea a coincis cu perioada în care credința creștină în Europa era cea mai puternică. Abia după ce știința a triumfat, religia a început să sufere un oarecare declin. Și, dacă creștinismul ar fi încercat să blocheze progresul științific, șansele sunt ca acesta să fi reușit, iar știința modernă nu ar fi apărut deloc în Europa creștină.

Așa cum se întâmplă, o mare parte din dovezile aduse în favoarea tezei conflictului se dovedesc a fi false. Biserica nu a încercat niciodată să interzică numărul zero sau disecția umană; nimeni nu a fost ars pe rug pentru idei științifice; și nicio persoană educată din Evul Mediu nu credea că lumea era plată, indiferent de interpretarea Bibliei. Papii au avut lucruri mai bune de făcut decât interzicerea vaccinării sau a paratrăsnetelor pe biserici. Ideea unui papă care excomunică cometa Halley este absurdă, dar acest lucru nu a împiedicat intrarea în folclorul științific a poveștii conform căreia Papa Calixt al III-lea († 1458) ar fi făcut acest lucru.

Este uluitor faptul că autori care se consideră sceptici pot înghiți întregi astfel de povești. De exemplu, Sagan, în ultima sa carte, The Demon-Haunted World (trad. rom.: Lumea și demonii ei), și-a introdus cititorii într-un „detector de nonsensuri”.  Este o mare rușine că el nu l-a folosit niciodată pe propriile sale scrieri. În Cosmos a prezentat o relatare complet fictivă despre uciderea filosoafei păgâne Hypatia și i-a învinovățit în mod fals pe creștini pentru distrugerea bibliotecii din Alexandria.

Zeloșii istorici victorieni au identificat ocazional exemple de stupiditate ecleziastică, precum în cazul pastorului din Boston care atenționase lumea că electricitatea cauzează cutremurele. Însă ei au rescris istoria pentru ca aceste figuri marginale să fie transformate în lideri de opinie. Disidenții religioși care au plătit prețul ultim pentru credința lor au fost transformați în campioni ai rațiunii. Papa Bonifaciu al VIII-lea, care emisese o bulă menită să-i împiedice pe cruciați să-și trimită osemintele acasă pentru înmormântare, ar fi fost foarte surprins să afle că, potrivit lui Andrew Dickson White, el a legiferat de fapt împotriva disecției umane. Când preoții au pus sub semnul întrebării o teorie științifică, pe care o făceau deseori doar în calitate de oameni de știință amatori, scepticismul lor științific a fost reținut ca un exemplu de obscurantism religios. Istoricii au deconspirat aceste legende de mai bine de un secol, dar fiecare nouă generație de scriitori de popularizare a științei continuă să le recicleze.

Dar legendele sunt false, iar falsitatea lor sugerează problema. Știința modernă reprezintă una dintre marile realizări ale civilizației occidentale – nu a Islamului, a Chinei sau chiar a Greciei antice. Mulți istorici ai științei sunt încă reticenți în a admite acest lucru. Ei laudă științele antice grecești și arabe ca fiind de succes în proprii lor termeni, dar au pierdut din vedere faptul că teoriile propuse de știința timpurie erau în mare parte false.

Al doilea mit despre ascensiunea științei este că occidentalii au preluat ștafeta de la grecii antici sau, cum s-a pretins mai recent, de la califatul Islamic. Concluzia naivă a ideii cum că Biserica a blocat progresul științific este că trebuie să privim în afara creștinătății pentru a descoperi originea științei moderne. În realitate, știința modernă este diferită din punct de vedere calitativ de filosofia naturală practicată, de exemplu, de Aristotel sau Avicenna. Aristotel a pornit de la observarea pasivă a naturii și apoi a construit un sistem bazat pe argumentare rațională. Acest lucru a avut două dezavantaje enorme: în comparație cu experimentele controlate, observația pasivă este de obicei înșelătoare și nici măcar puterea rațională a lui Aristotel nu ar fi putut împiedica erorile din argumentele sale.

Teoria sa despre mișcare este un exemplu. El a observat că obiectele de zi cu zi tind să se oprească atunci când nimic nu sunt mișcate și a dedus principiul conform căruia toate obiectele în mișcare trebuie să fie mișcate de altceva. El a ridicat acest principiu la statutul de certitudine logică și apoi l-a folosit pentru a explica alte tipuri de mișcare. Astfel, el chiar a crezut că a dovedit cu succes existența lui Dumnezeu. Dacă universul ca întreg este plin de mișcare, a argumentat el, el necesită un mișcător nemișcat exterior care să îl țină în mișcare. Dar, desigur, Aristotel observase doar o instanță specifică, care nu era însă general aplicabilă. Știm acum că obiectele nu se opresc atunci când nu acționează asupra lor o altă forță. Ele tind să își continue starea de repaus sau de mișcarea rectilinie uniformă – un principiu consacrat drept prima lege a lui Newton.

Alte observații l-au determinat pe Aristotel să declare că vidul nu poate exista deloc, că obiectele grele cad mai repede decât cele ușoare și că pământul trebuie să ocupe centrul universului. Toate acestea au fost greșite. Aristotel, din păcate, a greșit în aproape toate afirmațiile sale despre fizică, nu pentru că era un prost, ci pentru că practica o filosofie naturală care nu putea conduce niciodată la teorii adevărate.

Pentru a da un alt exemplu: medicina premodernă a fost un dezastru total, mult mai predispusă să ucidă pacienții decât să-i vindece. Tratamente precum sângerarea și purgația nu puteau decât slăbi și mai tare constituția bolnavilor, reducând astfel capacitatea corpului lor de a combate infecția. Având în vedere ineficiența medicilor învățați, nu este de mirare că oamenii puneau atât de mult preț pe minuni și magie. Poate cel mai surprinzător este faptul că medicii au reușit să-și mențină statutul profesional de-a lungul secolelor, când de fapt ei nu puteau face cu nimic mai mult decât să-și grăbească pacienții în mormânt. Este medicina modernă, medicina occidentală modernă, aceea care chiar poate vindeca boala.

Știința islamică suferea de deficiențe similare. Progresele înregistrate de filosofii naturaliști musulmani au fost semnificative, dar încă modeste. De exemplu, este incontestabilă importanța cercetărilor lui Alhazen cu privire la proprietățile luminii. Acestea au fost utilizate de Roger Bacon în scrierile sale despre perspectivă și de la el au fost integrate în teoria modernă a percepției vizuale dezvoltată de Johannes Kepler. Chiar și așa, metoda experimentală a lui Alhazen a fost limitată și nu a fost continuată de succesorii săi imediați. În mod similar, intuiția lui Ibn al-Nafis în secolul al XIII-lea privind circulația sângelui între inimă și plămâni este cu totul impresionantă. Dar nu există dovezi că a influențat redescoperirea acestui fenomen de către Michael Servetus și Realdo Colombo trei secole mai târziu.

În consecință, ar trebui să fim sceptici cu privire la unele dintre afirmațiile făcute pentru știința islamică în recentele emisiuni de televiziune, cărți, fără să mai vorbim de Wikipedia. Din nefericire, atribuirea greșită a progreselor științifice surselor islamice a fost uneori chiar din vina a însăși celor care le-au descoperit. Alchimia este un exemplu. În Evul Mediu, alchimiștii creștini obișnuiau să își scrie tratatele sub numele fictivului savant arab Geber. Ulterior, istoricii au atribuit în mod eronat lui Geber descoperiri precum prima producție de acizi tari sau izolarea alcoolului. Alcoolul a primit chiar un nume arab din partea autorilor creștini. Acum însă știm că Geber probabil nu a scris niciuna dintre lucrările care i-au fost atribuite.

Exista o foarte importantă excepție de la regula conform căreia știința timpurie tindea să eșueze. Atât grecii, cât și arabii au excelat la matematică. Acest lucru se datorează faptului că raționalismul pur funcționează când este limitat doar la geometrie și aritmetică. Imamii aveau o mulțime de întrebuințări pentru matematică: calendarul musulman urmărește luna, nu anul solar, iar moscheile trebuiau să fie orientate spre Mecca. Ambele probleme religioase au necesitat soluții matematice. S-a spus că regulile complicate ale moștenirii islamice au făcut indispensabilă algebra. Chiar și cuvântul nostru algebră este o denaturare a lui al-jabr, numele unei manual arab utilizat foarte frecvent de către creștini.

Cu excepția matematicii, în Europa medievală lucrurile erau diferite. Metoda greșită a lui Aristotel a fost respinsă de Biserica Catolică, permițând înflorirea ideilor anterior interzise. De asemenea, Biserica a făcut din filosofia naturală o parte obligatorie a educației viitorilor teologi. Așadar, știința a avut un loc central în centrele creștine de învățământ, loc pe care nu îl deținea în madresele islamice. În plus, creștinismul însuși a oferit o viziune asupra lumii compatibilă în mod special cu știința experimentală.

În anul 1085, marele oraș islamic Toledo a căzut în mâinile lui Alfonso al IV-lea, regele Castilei. Forțele creștine au capturat intactă magnifica bibliotecă, iar în curând s-a răspândit vorba despre bogățiile fabuloase conținute în ea. Europenii au fost conștienți de faptul că au pierdut o mare parte din învățătura lumii antice după căderea Romei și erau dornici să o redobândească. Mișcarea rezultată de a traduce știința arabă și greacă în latină a însemnat că, până în 1200, creștinii reveniseră în viteză în știință și matematică.

Inițial, unii oameni ai Bisericii fuseseră suspicioși cu privire la toate aceste cunoștințe noi și se temeau că vor fi folosite greșit pentru a contesta credința. Când s-a găsit un cuib de eretici în Paris și în împrejurimile sale, panica rezultată a condus la interzicerea temporară a filosofiei naturale a lui Aristotel în cadrul universității pariziene. Savanții s-au înfuriat și au cerut reintroducerea cărților interzise. Așa că, după un interval decent, papa a anulat interdicția și Aristotel și-a reluat locul în centrul educației creștine.

După cum putem vedea, pericolul lui Aristotel consta în metoda lui. Era suficient de rău faptul că mai multe dintre concluziile sale contraziceau teologia revelată, însă problema a mers mai adânc decât atât. Deoarece a încercat să genereze rezultate în mod deductiv, Aristotel le-a făcut să pară logic necesare. Admiratorii săi nu au pretins doar că a avut dreptate; au spus că trebuie să aibă dreptate. Însuși Dumnezeu era legat de ceea ce credea Aristotel, deoarece teologii medievali timpuri erau de acord că, deși atotputernic, nici chiar Dumnezeu însuși nu poate sfida logica. Dar, în realitate, cea mai mare parte a filosofiei naturale a lui Aristotel a fost greșită. Știința nu putea înainta nicăieri până când mâna moartă a înțeleptului grec nu a fost ridicată de deasupra ei.

Biserica a trebuit să se ocupe de acest lucru, deși ea era interesată în primul rând de teologie și nu de știință. În 1277, Episcopul de la Paris, cu aprobarea papală, a emis o listă de opinii, extrase din opera lui Aristotel și a urmașilor săi medievali, pe care le-a declarat ca fiind eretice. Efectul a fost în mod paradoxal eliberator. Dintr-odată, filosofii europeni au fost eliberați pentru a putea gândi în afara cadrului aristotelic. Nu mai puteau presupune că grecii aveau întotdeauna dreptate. Astfel, dacă Dumnezeu dorea spațile vide, acestea nu mai erau considerate imposibile. Ba chiar ar putea exista mai mult decât un singur univers. Filosofii naturaliști acum puteau specula cu tot felul de lucruri anterior excluse din primă instanță. Rezultatul a fost că secolul al XIV-lea a devenit o epocă de aur a științei, atunci când au fost puse o mare parte din temeliile pentru ideile care au stat ulterior la baza operei lui Copernic și Galileo Galilei. Permiteți-mi să dau câteva exemple.

Copernic, desigur, este faimos pentru faptul că a propus teza că pământul se rotește și orbitează soarele, mai degrabă decât ca acesta este staționar în centrul universului, așa cum arătase Aristotel. Este cu totul fundamentat din punct de vedere senzorial să credem că pământul este în repaus, mai ales că nu putem simți că se mișcă. Cu toate acestea, în Parisul secolului al XIV-lea, filosoful Jean Buridan și discipolul său Nicole Oresme au dezvoltat pentru prima dată argumentele, ulterior folosite de Copernic, pentru a explica de ce nu putem spune dacă pământul este în mișcare.

Aristotel propusese ideea că universul se rotește în jurul pământului în fiecare zi. Buridan a întrebat de ce nu poate fi invers, realizând că ceea ce observăm ar fi exact la fel. El a folosit analogia cuiva aflat într-o barcă: „Dacă cineva se află într-o barcă în mișcare și își imaginează că se află în repaus, atunci ar trebui să vadă o altă barcă care este cu adevărat în repaus și atunci i se va părea că cealaltă barcă este mișcată. . .  Și astfel, postulăm, de asemenea, că sfera soarelui este pretutindeni în repaus, iar pământul care ne poartă s-ar roti.”

A se compara cele afirmate de Buridan cu argumentul folosit de Copernic în cartea sa din 1543, Despre revoluțiile sferelor cerești: „Atunci când o corabie navighează pe o mare liniștită, toate lucrurile de afară par pasagerilor că se mișcă conform unui model care este o imagine a lor înșiși. Pasagerii cred, dimpotrivă, că sunt ei înșiși și toate lucrurile aflate cu ei se află în repaus. Deci, se poate întâmpla cu ușurință în cazul pământului ca întregul univers să fie perceput ca mișcându-se într-un cerc, [în timp ce pământul este în repaus].”

Desigur, la fel ca și alți scriitori renascentiști, Copernic nu își recunoaște niciodată îndatorarea față de predecesorii săi medievali. Mai degrabă, el citează un vers din Eneida lui Virgil, oferind argumentului său un luciu clasic pe deplin prefăcut. Pentru ceea ce merită, Copernic a folosit și fructele astronomiei matematice islamice fără le preciza sursa. Așa cum cerea moda vremii sale, el putea recunoaște că utilizează doar surse grecești și romane.

În ciuda argumentului său corect despre mișcarea relativă, Jean Buridan a decis în cele din urmă că pământul nu se mișcă. Și-a imaginat că, dacă s-ar roti, o săgeată trasă direct în aer ar ateriza la o distanță mai mare, deoarece pământul s-ar fi mișcat înainte ca ea să ajungă la pământ. Elevul său, Nicole Oresme, și-a dat seama că acest argument este fals, deoarece săgeata urmează mișcarea pământului atunci când este trasă. Pământul, arcul și săgeata se rotesc împreună. Galileo Galilei utilizează aceste experimente de gândire în detaliu în al său Dialog despre cele două sisteme principale ale lumii (pentru care a fost judecat de Papa Urban al VIII-lea). Doar că din textul lui Galilei nu ați fi ghicit niciodată că argumentele sale sunt de fapt o pălărie destul de veche.

Chiar și cea mai importantă lucrare a lui Galileo, Dialoguri asupra celor două noi științe, conține ecouri puternice ale ideilor dezvoltate în secolul al XIV-lea. Formula pe care o derivă pentru mișcarea uniform accelerată a unui corp fusese descoperită în secolul al XIV-lea la Merton College din Oxford. Iar dovada schematică pe care Galileo o oferă acestei teoreme fusese ilustrată pentru prima dată chiar de Nicole Oresme.

Nu mai poate fi nici o îndoială asupra faptului că pionierii științei moderne timpurii erau mult mai îndatorați predecesorilor lor medievali decât erau înclinați ei să admită. Dar, prin secolul al XVI-lea, umanismul, corectitudinea politică din acele vremuri, însemna că era ceva demn de respect a se recunoaște influența lumii clasice, în timp ce Evul Mediu era denigrat. În mare măsură, acest lucru este valabil și astăzi.

Importanța științei medievale se extinde dincolo de simpla furnizare a teoriilor pe care oamenii de știință ai modernității timpurii le-au exploatat. Teologii creștini medievali au dezvoltat, de asemenea, cadrul metafizic în care avea sens practicarea științei.

Chiar și în fața percepțiilor comune de astăzi privitoare la un conflict între știință și religie, creștinismul s-a dovedit a se adapta într-un mod unic la studiul științific al naturii. În primul rând, deși în Biblie există puține lucruri care ar putea fi numite știință, cartea Genezei este foarte clară cu privire la originea universul. Contrar opiniei lui Aristotel cum că universul este etern, Biblia spune că Dumnezeu a făcut lumea la începutul timpului. Creștinii cred că lumea a fost creată ex nihilo, din nimic. Dumnezeu nu a trebuit să prelucreze un material preexistent care era rezistent scopurilor sale. Aceasta a însemnat că creația este „bună” și așa cum a dorit Dumnezeu ca ea să fie.

Teologii creștini au susținut că El a permis de asemenea lumii să se dezvolte liber prin legile naturale pe care El le orânduise. Ordinea naturii urma aceste legi. Dumnezeu nu manipula în mod personal fiecare atom. Până în secolul al XII-lea, Guillaume de Conches deja realizase acest lucru. „Nu iau nimic de la Dumnezeu”, a scris el: „Toate lucrurile din lume au fost făcute de Dumnezeu, cu excepția răului. Dar El a făcut și alte lucruri prin lucrarea naturii, care este instrumentul lucrării divine.”

În al doilea rând, Dumnezeul creștin este de încredere. El nu este capricios precum olimpienii Greciei antice sau dincolo de înțelegerea umană precum Allah. Filosofii naturaliști (oamenii de știință, în termenii noștri) știau că pot depinde de legile pe care El le-a stabilit. Natura însăși ar trebui să reflecte creatorul ei ascultând poruncile sale. Acest lucru le-a oferit creștinilor un motiv întemeiat să creadă că știința era o aventură practică, că natura respecta legi fixe care puteau fi descoperite. După cum afirma Thierry de Chartres, un alt teolog al secolului al XII-lea:

„Deoarece lucrurile din lume sunt schimbătoare și coruptibile, este necesar ca acestea să aibă un autor. Deoarece sunt aranjate într-un mod rațional și într-o ordine foarte frumoasă, este necesar ca acestea să fi fost create în conformitate cu înțelepciunea. Dar, fiindcă Creatorul, rațional vorbind, nu are nevoie de nimic, El având perfecțiunea și suficiența în sine, este necesar ca El să creeze ceea ce creează numai prin bunăvoință și iubire.”

În al treilea rând, creștinismul a făcut din știință o cale justificată teologic și chiar dreaptă de urmat. De vreme ce Dumnezeu a creat lumea, explorând modul în care funcționează, știința își onorează Creatorul. Și pentru că știința studiază cursul obișnuit al naturii, nu este necesar să vă faceți griji pentru rarele ocazii în care Dumnezeu intervine direct prin minuni. După cum a explicat Jean Buridan în secolul al XIV-lea, „Este evident pentru noi că fiecare foc este fierbinte, chiar dacă contrariul este posibil prin puterea lui Dumnezeu. Și o dovadă de acest fel este suficientă pentru principiile și concluziile științei.”

Cu toate acestea, fiindcă Dumnezeu a fost liber să facă așa cum i-a plăcut, creștinii și-au dat seama că este imposibil să prelucreze legile naturii doar prin analize raționale. Singura modalitate de a-i descoperi planul a fost de a ieși afară și a privi. Știința nu se poate baza doar pe o rațiune pură pentru a genera teorii, cu atât mai puțin pe concluziile „logic necesare” ale lui Aristotel. Dumnezeu a creat lumea așa cum și-a dorit, nu după modul în care Aristotel a spus că trebuie.

Având în vedere avantajele pe care creștinismul le-a oferit, nu este surprinzător faptul că știința modernă s-a dezvoltat doar în Occident, în cadrul unei civilizații creștine. Deși alte tradiții religioase ar fi putut oferi un teren metafizic la fel de fertil pentru studiul naturii, niciuna nu a făcut acest lucru. Creștinismul a fost o cauză crucială a dezvoltării unice a științei occidentale, singura știință care a produs în mod constant teorii adevărate ale naturii.


A se prelua indicând următoarele surse: Traducere de Dan Siserman pentru Forum Nepantla ( https://forum-nepantla.org/ ). Text în original: https://www.firstthings.com/

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Plictiseala lui Agamben

de M. T.


Refuzul martorului de a mărturisi atunci când vremurile cer asta poate fi considerat o formă de perversitate. Cel puțin din punct de vedere moral, dacă nu chiar din considerente psihofiziologice. În ce măsură putem fiecare dintre noi să ne considerăm mărturisitori ai adevărului însă, postură în care Giorgio Agamben și apostolii săi par a se erija fără nicio reținere, rămâne a fi stabilit, probabil, la Judecata de Apoi. Pentru moment, cercul deschis al mărturisitorilor e nevoit să se mulțumească cu adevăruri parțiale, cu știri și idei stabilite prin metoda imperfectă a dialecticii.

În aceste condiții, eticheta pe care Agamben o pune medicinii, de “credință victorioasă”, reclamă o analiză mai atentă și o discuție ceva mai nuanțată. În decorul actual al pandemiei cu care întreaga lume se confruntă, filosoful italian acuză știința  medicală de concurență neloială și de acapararea, prin mijloace improprii, a unor aspecte ale vieții umane care revin în mod normal altor domenii. Comparând-o cu creștinismul și capitalismul, în calitatea lor de religii (deși, probabil termenul mai potrivit ar fi cel de “ideologii”), filosoful de la Roma ne avertizează în legătură cu drepturile și libertățile sacrificate pe altarul profan al unui cult deghizat în știință.

Pentru că și sufletele mai puțin luminate ale nefilosofilor au dreptul la prezumția de nevinovăție și pentru a nu da dovadă de rea-credință, vom evita punerea sub semnul întrebării a ipotezei lui Agamben, menționând doar în trecere evidenta ei contestabilitate. Din dragoste pentru jocul rațiunii vom accepta deci categoria agambeniană a religiilor și vom fi de acord cu dânsul că medicina poate fi privită în aceste săptămâni tulburi drept o religie sau un cult. Însă a doua parte a ideii pe care filosoful ne-o prezintă, titlul subînțeles și alarmant conform căruia acest nou cult ar fi ieșit învingător în fața veteranilor din această categorie, este doar un semnal gol de conținut. Dacă a fost dusă vreo luptă care și-a decis deja învingătorii, atunci ea a fost una dreaptă, iar Agamben e nevoit să renunțe, în urma articolului publicat, la medalia de arbitru imparțial pe care orice filosof nepărtinitor o ține la mare prețuire.

1. În primul rând, nu este ruptura între dogmă și practica cultică inerentă oricărui domeniu? Credinciosul se poate închina Crucii și fără a face exegeză biblică și nu de puține ori viața creștină este doar o zonă gri de aplicare a diverselor dogme albe sau negre prevalente într-un anumit spațiu sau timp. Dacă vrem să punem la zid virusologia, atunci va trebui să facem la fel și cu filosofia antică, care se poziționează undeva între studiul limbilor clasice și hermeneutică. Realitatea de care Agamben nu ține cont aici este că de la virusolog și până la patul pacientului (până la trasarea unor precepte practice), există un lung șir de alți specialiști, printre care se numără epidemiologul, infecționistul, juristul, pneumoftiziologul, medicul de Anestezie Terapie Intensivă, asistentul medical etc. Virusologia nu se ocupă cu trasarea unor reguli de conduită medicală mai mult decât se ocupă exegetul de aranjamentul scaunelor în lăcașul de cult. Cât despre “exagerata opoziție dualistă”, de care și medicina se face vinovată, Agamben identifică greșit principiul benefic cu vindecarea, căci nicăieri în dogma la care aderă medicii nu primează procesul, ci totdeauna rezultatul – adică tocmai starea de sănătate. În continuarea acestei remarci ajungem la:

2. Noutatea acestei dogme medicale este că nu mai există o limită de timp, ne atenționează Agamben. Dar Omenirea s-a mai confruntat cu epidemii și a trecut peste ele. Nu știu în care interpretare a știrilor s-a spus vreodată că pandemia de COVID19 este cu noi pentru totdeauna. Va trece și ea, așa cum au trecut și altele, acest aspect invocat de Agamben nu e doar greșit, este de-a dreptul gratuit și fals. Au trecut doar 2 luni și credinciosul deja poate să întrevadă mântuirea. Dar probabil că timpul subiectiv e hipersensibil la imperceptibilele variații fizice ale timpului relativ și a pierdut din vedere curgerea lui newtoniană. Curgere care, deși evitabilă prin artificii intelectuale, este în continuare cea care dictează destinul tuturor formelor de viață – fie ele cu drepturi depline, precum oamenii, sau doar parțial tolerate, precum virușii. Nu ne-am propus să ardem cărți sau să aruncăm blamul de știri false, dar retorica alarmistă poate sugera tendințe spre o patologie paranoică.

3. E bine că cel puțin “complicitatea dintre religie și puterea profană” nu este pusă pe seama noului cult, întrucât Agamben admite că acest modus operandi a fost folosit cu succes și de ideologiile predecesoare medicinii. Cum anume a ieșit din făgașul “exigenței științifice raționale” și a devenit o “practică cultică” este însă neclar, pentru că tot ce reușește să ne arate Giorgio Agamben în lupta sa cu balaurul este că nu cunoaște deloc fiara cu care se confruntă. Bolile cardiovasculare nu sunt contagioase. În mărinimia ei, dogma medicală lasă liberul arbitru al individului să decidă asupra propriului corp și se folosește de firul roșu pe care îl are cu puterea profană doar atunci când e imperios necesar. Ne putem gândi doar la interzicerea fumatului în locuri publice sau la accizele impuse pe alcool și dulciuri în unele state, pentru a observa că argumentul încercat în acest punct este complet invalid. Da, religia medicală se folosește de reglementări legale pentru a-și promova principiul conducător, dar nu e nimic nou în asta și chiar mai mult, medicina nu este nici pe departe fruntașă printre religii în astfel de practici.

Și dacă vrem să ducem analogia mai departe și să reamintim Bisericii principiile și practicile uitate, poate ar trebui să alăturăm îmbrățișării leproșilor de-mult-uitatul festum fatuorum, îndemnându-i pe clerici să coboare printre laici și să experimenteze, măcar pentru o zi, ruga lipsită de sinceritate a unui necredincios țintuit la pat de o mască de oxigen. Iar de partea capitalismului și a presupuselor sale ”pierderi de productivitate”, filosoful nu este vinovat ci doar afectat de o ușoară tulburare a percepției. Fiind ca întotdeauna învingătorul din umbră, și de data aceasta capitalismul a avut grijă ca la finalul luptei să rămână în avantaj – ce a pierdut prin turism și industria vechilor tehnologii, a recuperat fără probleme pe laturile sale mai noi: tehnologia informației, industria digitală și sectorul bioingineriei. Cu ocazia ultimei lovituri puternice primită de zeul creștin din partea medicilor și filosofilor din secolul trecut, capitalismul a înlocuit fără probleme vizitiii cu șoferi; acum își înlocuiește inginerii cu programatori. Nu-i cazul să-i plângem de milă. Eventual să amintim celor preocupați de acest subiect că dacă vor să-și îndrepte atacul spre cineva, atunci clerul capitalist și nu cel medical, trebuie vizat. Dimpotrivă, alianța ar trebui să fie între religia medicală și cea creștină, pentru a face față dușmanului comun – religia capitalistă.

4. Starea de excepție este percepută ca atare doar de către necredincioșii religiei medicale. Cei din interiorul noului cult știu că evenimentele actuale sunt doar o parte din cursul firesc al lumii, exact așa cum la patul bolnavului medicul este cel care aduce calmul acceptând eventuala moarte a bolnavului ca parte din viață. Tocmai pentru capacitatea lui de a se poziționa deasupra imediatului situației în timpul crizei, medicul este cel chemat pentru a evalua posibilele rezultate. Dar evaluarea posibilităților nu înseamnă puterea de decizie asupra lor. Așteptând eschaton-ul creștinul știe că prin cuvântul zeului, și nu al său, timpul acestuia va fi decis, adoptând astfel o sănătoasă umilință în fața celor ce-i sunt inaccesibile. Lumea acesta ”care se simte la sfârșit și totuși nu este în stare, ca și medicul hippocratic, să decidă dacă va supraviețui sau va muri”, are acum ocazia să-și reamintească propria-i micime și să recurgă din nou la sistarea răzvrătirii adolescentine. Unind ”criza perpetuă a capitalismului cu ideea creștină a unui timp ultim”, religia medicală readuce în prim plan practici spirituale pe care omul lumii moderne pare să le fi uitat – bucuria lucrurilor simple, căutarea libertății individuale în interior și nu în exterior. Dacă lumea și-a găsit o nouă religie în timpul suferinței, religia medicală este tocmai cea de care avea nevoie.

5. Partea cea mai bună a noii religii este că nu ne promite o singură mântuire și răscumpărare, ci mai multe. Zeul cel Rău, virusul, poate fi înfrânt de nenumărate ori, menținându-ne prin aceasta într-o continuă stare de iubire și recunoștință pentru Zeul cel Bun – sănătatea. Spre deosebire de zeul creștin, care ne-a oferit cunoașterea și ne-a refuzat în același timp veșnicia, folosind-o pe post de momeală existențială, Sănătatea este zeul binevoitor care nu doar ni se promite, ci ni se dă în fapt. Religia științei a câștigat lupta cu creștinismul și capitalismul pentru că este indiferentă la capacitatea noastră limitată de a crede sau nu în Zeul ei.

Filosofii trebuie într-adevăr să intre din nou în conflict cu religia, însă de dragul dreptății și al adevărului, nu din amor pentru conflict în sine. Din păcate, indiferent de perioada istorică, filosofii rămân oameni, la fel de necesari și totuși failibili în idei ca întotdeuna. Rolul nostru, al ignoranților care ne preocupăm cu mântuirea și răscumpărarea lor, este să-i dojenim cu afecțiune și să-i atenționăm atunci când beligeranța lor este greșit direcționată. Timpul ne-a arătat, chiar și prin mari contestatari precum Spinoza, că filosofia și-a găsit locul în lume în măsura în care a fost dispusă să privească inofensiv religia dominantă (să recurgă, eventual, la exegeză și dialog, nu la cârcoteală mascată în critică), că ridicarea unor întrebări sincere a fost mai benefică decât proclamarea unor verdicte și că în definitiv, o gură de aer este singura mântuire la care putem spera.


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agamben amanda vox art brassier Cenzontle chicana collage comix Comprensión corona coronavirus COVID COVID-19 derrida Dtundtuncan feminism film Fortaleza glitch gundam indonesia japan Japanese lockdown meillasoux meme memes mujer Nepantla nepantlera noise philosophy poetry politics post post-digital postdigital punk queer rodin social distancing Soledad video virus zine

Jonathan Avinash Victor / The space of art (interview)

What is the place of art? Let me say that art has no place, it has no definite space, but creeps in the spaces in between fixed realities. This is what I have discovered in Jonathan Avinash Victor’s art. His art seems a continuous transition, a journey between sketch and final product, between lines and broken figures, between color and non-color. In between this non-determinacies pockets of meaning appear that both accentuate the discontinuity between the various lines and non-lines as well as bring them all together. These flowing lines intertwined around exploding pockets of meaning are surprisingly simplistic, they do not overstrain the overall structure but invite us to float with them in between forms. This makes Avinash’ art very attractive, giving the nepantla state a peaceful, creative, pleasurable dimension in contrast to the angst of indeterminacy described by Emilio Uranga regarding the same state. 

Follow Jonathan on Instagram to see more of his art


I have had the pleasure of chatting with Jonathan Avinash Victor about his art. Here are the questions he was kind enough to answer.


FN: Dear Jonathan, thank you for this opportunity to explore the space of art together. Could you tell us more about yourself and your art concept in general?

JAV: In terms of my foray into the artworld, I have been collecting art for over 10 years. This led me to have many discussions and meetings with artists. One of them, Jeganathan Ramachandram, really saw something in me and urged me to try my hand at being an artist. He claimed that thus far, I had used art collecting as a means of expressing my love of art but that really, I was an artist. It’s only that the idea had never occurred to me before. I then decided to apprentice under him from March 2019 until sometime in December 2019. These art classes were more philosophical than traditional. Most classes were merely conversations in art, religion, life and many other subjects. These were then used as my inspiration to draw and paint. I enjoyed this method of apprenticeship, although it is a very much slower way of learning art, and obviously isn’t everyones cup of tea.

My art concept seems to center around my fascination of how the human mind works. I use the phrase “seems to” because when I first started drawing, I didn’t define it as such. The pattern started emerging in my art and I then linked it back to my fascination in understanding this thing we called our mind. One of the most recurring images in my art is the human face. I use it as a way of expressing and exploring emotions/thoughts which I feel the English language (or at least my grasp of it) is inadequate of doing. It isn’t so important to me to give definition to these emotions or the reasons behind a certain state of mind but more to just describe it in my art and leave it up to the viewer to form her/his own opinion. Sometimes I do tell a fixed story with clearly defined emotive conclusions through a particular drawing. But the human experience is so varied that I am sure even these can be interpreted in many ways by the viewer. At the end of the day, I’m really interested in creating art that gives the viewer (and myself) a language or aid in expressing and perhaps understanding her/his own emotions and thoughts.   

FN: You mentioned in our short chat, that nepantla feels close to your art. Could you tell us more about that?

JAV: Before coming across Forum Nepantla’s Instagram page I wasn’t aware of the word nepantla. Reading your website and then doing subsequent research really made me feel that it resonated with me as an artist and human. The in-between states of being an artist or human take on a more beautiful meaning with nepantla. It is an acceptance of the journey between A-B. It is a recognition that in as much as the destination is important, it is the journey (the in between space) that defines, teaches and ultimately molds one. In between-ness is something to be cherished and enjoyed. An example I had mentioned in my short chat with you was questions I get asked often as an artist, “why not use colour? why not try paints? Why not acrylics on canvas?” These are well meaning questions, I admit. Still, for me what is more important is to be comfortable with the in-between-ness, the nepantla. This does not mean one will stay in this space indefinitely or be happy with neither being here nor there but an acknowledgement of the process of being in-between. Another example is how my wife and I live and work between Malaysia and Singapore. Many times, we feel stretched or torn between juggling various elements such as career, money, family and our relationship. It definitely is a state of nepantla! We do try to feel comfortable with this in-between state as much as it is difficult.

FN: Do you think art has a specific space? Or does art create new spaces? Or is it spaceless so to say?

JAV: This is how it think of art in relation to space. Art originates from the mind of humans, as a thought impulse brought to life in many different forms, be it visual arts, or performing arts or something else. Thus, it already took up a certain indeterminate space in the mind, its subsequent expression gave it a physicality. Art then is really a thought impulse finding its physical space. In that sense, I do think it finds a space to exist every time it comes into being in terms of its physicality. In that sense art almost has to find a space to exist in fixed reality. The art produced is definitely influenced by the particular space the artist is in, and that’s why we see a certain geography or society produces a certain type of art. Still with the internet and travel being so cheap this seems to be a boundary that will constantly erode. In as much as art finds a space to exist in reality, in the first place, reality itself has such a big influence on the thoughts of an artist and thus her/his art. 

FN: What is your personal creative process?

JAV: I usually get sparks of ideas from pictures (Instagram), movies and the people around me. I am constantly watching faces. I then start thinking about some emotion or a cocktail of emotions that they are feeling and try to mirror that in my mind. Because there are so many impulses in any given day, a particular work of art is usually an amalgamation of these impulses rather than one particular observation. Though, sometimes, it is. I just let these ideas brew in my mind. After this, the process gets a little less defined. When I pick up my pen or pencil to draw, I trust that something of these thoughts will guide me. I then start with just a line and see where it takes me. Usually, after the first few minutes the ideas start solidifying and images start appearing. Once I get hooked onto a certain concept for that piece, I make a more conscious effort to define the work. I do think this creative process has its limitations especially when it comes to painting big pieces of art. More deliberate planning will have to come into play, especially with the images I want to create.

FN: Who are your greatest influences?

JAV: If I had to pick one artist that I have researched and draw a lot of inspiration from it is Picasso. He went through many phases in his art life, wasn’t afraid of experimenting, constantly pushed his own personal boundaries. Clearly, he was very comfortable with nepantla because his phases sometimes lasted years. My art guru, Jeganathan, has also really shaped how I think about my art journey. He always allows me to venture at my own pace while constantly getting me to improve my skill as an artist. One really needs the skill of drawing and painting properly to express the complex ideas that come.

FN: Do you have any specific projects that you are working on?

JAV: Somewhere in September 2019, together with my art guru I came up with the idea of creating 100 small (A5 and A4) size pen drawings since it looked like I just had so many ideas flowing when it came to this method. Painting or drawing with colour felt harder for me and I just wasn’t getting the flow to produce. I think it will take a lot more practice and then the flow will come. I have already hit the 100 mark, in no small part because am currently in lockdown known as “circuit breaker” in Singapore. I would really like to have an exhibition of these drawings in an art space in Singapore or Malaysia but with the Covid-19 situation things are in flux. In terms of artistic expression, I want to start painting with acrylic (on canvas) rather than just focusing on ink and paper.  

FN: Thank you. Would you have any other points important for you that you wish to share with us?

JAV: Circling back our discussion of art and the concept of nepantla I would like to say to anyone reading this, enjoy the in-between-ness of life. This is opposed to angst, unhappiness or anxiety often felt by us when we are in an in-between space.

FN: Thank you a lot for this wonderful interview. I hope to see more of your art in the future.


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agamben amanda vox art brassier Cenzontle chicana collage comix Comprensión corona coronavirus COVID COVID-19 derrida Dtundtuncan feminism film Fortaleza glitch gundam indonesia japan Japanese lockdown meillasoux meme memes mujer Nepantla nepantlera noise philosophy poetry politics post post-digital postdigital punk queer rodin social distancing Soledad video virus zine

“Cesare Pavese ’s Lyrical Understanding of Human Reality in the Age of the Anthropocene”

pavese

you can see Dr. Crank’s books here: The Invisible Militia / Testament / Utopía poética, Impotencia amorosa e imaginación temporal


A few years ago, while wandering in the streets of Torino, I suddenly stopped by the frontispiece of the Hotel Roma, not far from the train station, which attracted my attention for its somewhat atypical architectural style. Italy is by far the country that I have explored the most, and having spent so much time in manifold hotels throughout Italy, the style of the balconies of the hotel remained in my memory as I made my way back to the place where I was staying in downtown Torino. A fast Google search revealed that Cesare Pavese, one of my favourite Italian authors, had died precisely at the Hotel Roma.  

2020 marks the seventieth anniversary of the suicide of Cesare Pavese, on August 27, 1950, in the room 346 of the Hotel Roma. On the desk of the room, Pavese left his final poetry collection, Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi (Death will Come and (She) will Have Your Eyes) published posthumously in 1951. Pavese’s last diary entry declared, as a fatidic statement, “Non scriverò più” (“I will write no more”). Then his body surrendered to an overdose of barbiturates. 

Leafing through the pages of Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi, one can fathom both the melancholy and the sense of hope that the poetry collection transmits. In the most popular poem of the collection, “Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi,” Pavese draws an image that evokes the nature of being alive while also containing a finite number of time within ourselves:

“questa morte che ci accompagna

dal mattino alla sera, insonne,

sorda, come un vecchio rimorso

o un vizio assurdo”

(“this dead life that lives within us

from sunrise to dawn, sleepless,

deaf, like an old remorse

or an absurd vice.”)[1]

The poem suggests that, right at the time of waking up, the whisper of death is right next to us as an inherent element of our human condition. The fact that Pavese creates an image of death that is sleepless and deaf remarks that even though we continuously attempt to bargain for more time in this life, the nature of death implies that ¾no matter how we try to extend our finitude¾ the only certainty we posses is that of dying. It further alludes that, “per tutti la morte ha uno sguardo” (“Death has a glance for everyone”), which is to say that once the inevitable end approaches the essence of what we are will belong to eternity. After all, we are to spend more time dead than alive, or at least that is what until the early decades of the third millennia we still know.

            However, Pavese was not always hopeless about his understanding of life as in Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi. In Dialoghi con Leucò, published in 1947 by Einaudi, Pavese departs from a romantic vision of the human reality to compile a series of dialogues among Greek mythological characters and natural elements. In the first dialogue, between Ixion ¾the son of Ares¾ and Nephele ¾a cloud nymph¾ there is a glimpse of what has been labelled in recent years as the Anthropocene, a geological time period in which humans have irreversibly altered Earth’s biological systems. Nephele tells Ixion with an admonitory tone, “There is a law, Ixion, which we all must obey,” to which Ixion replies, “That law does not reach this realm, Nephele. Here the law is snow, gale, and shadows.” Later, Nephele states prophetically:

“The fate of humans has changed. There are monsters. They have imposed a limit to you, humans. Water, wind, stone and clouds are no longer yours, you can’t use them anymore by procreating and doing what you call living. Now different hands dominate the world. There is a law, Ixion.”   

The divine law of nature appears as the new force that organizes human destiny. Human activities, as the theories behind the Anthropocene suggest, have enacted such an impact that humans have to be set apart from Gods for the sake of life. There is a glimpse of the complex relationship among nature, Gods, and humans in the dialogue “The Blind,” in which Oedipus and Tiresias engage in conversation. To Oedipus’ question of why are Gods useful, Tiresias replies:

“The world is older than them. Space was already everywhere, bleeding, enjoying, he was the only God – when Time hadn’t been born yet. The things themselves ruled back then. Things used to happen – now, under the rule of Gods, everything has become words, illusions, fear. But Gods can easily annoy, make things get close or push them away. They can’t touch them or change them. They – the Gods – arrived too late.”   

Space and Time, as Pavese eloquently establishes, were ruling over the world even before divinity had captured the human imagination. In the same dialogue, Tiresias declares to Oedipus that for someone blind everything represents a crashing point, thus suggesting that both the natural laws and the divine are realms beyond the human comprehension. Nevertheless, the crashing effects of human actions have a transcendental impact in the development of those laws. Here Pavese echoes one of the main premises behind the Anthropocene, for human activities, like industrialization and its environmental consequences, have reached such intensity that we are living in a new era in which is inevitable not to consider human actions as a direct threat to nature.     

            In the dialogue “The Mares,” Hermes asks the centaur Chiron to raise the child of Coronis, who had died incinerated like an ear of wheat. Chiron, known as the wisest and most just of all the centaurs, tells the child with a sorrowful mood, as if this child had been born amidst the contemporary convulsion of global warming:

“Child, it would’ve been better that you stay among the flames. You did not inherit one single attribute from your mother, except your sad human form. You are the son of a blinding and cruel light, and you must live in a world of dying and desperate shadows, a world of corrupt flesh, of fever and sighs ¾everything comes from the Radiant. The same light that made you will search under every stone of the world, and with implacable hate will show you that everywhere there’s sadness, calamity, and the vilification of all the things made in this world. Only the serpents will take care of you.”  

It is not gratuitous that Hermes, messenger of the gods, brings this child ¾whose destiny is marked by sadness and calamity¾ into the human world, as if he was the symbol of the future generations that will inhabit the Earth. Depictions of the Anthropocene do not have to rely on future possible scenarios, the current effects of post-industrialization are more than visible all over the world. Images of poverty, environmental deterioration, aggressive emissions of toxins, intense drought, annihilation of animal species, overpopulation, and catastrophic natural phenomena compose altogether the symphony of the Anthropocene.[2] These images of collapse are present through mythological allusions in Dialoghi con Leucò, as if Pavese had envisioned – after experiencing the psychological effects of WWII – the world to come. Furthermore, in Dialoghi con Leucò each character aims at symbolizing a personality trait that plays a role against the natural world and the divine powers that ultimately control the destiny of humanity.

            In Lavorare stanca, published in two editions between 1936-1943, Pavese frames the human fate focusing on solitude and masculinity’s lack of vision to establish a meaningful communication with society. Both self-absorption and negligence are at stake in the configuration of the postmodern global order that is currently in crisis as climate change exemplifies. In the poem “Paesaggio VIII,” Pavese creates an apocalyptic image in which memories begin at night with the sound of a river, then he adds that, “L’acqua / è la stessa, nel buio, degli anni morti” (“Water / is the same, in the darkness, of the years dying”), as if the water in its stagnation had been slowly decaying until the water’s death. The last stanza of the poem recovers the image of the water, this time in the form of a dark ocean, as if the river of the opening lines had finally arrived at its fateful destination. The poem ends with a sonic image, “Le voci morte / assomigliano al frangersi di quel mare” (“The dead voices / are similar to the breaking waves of that ocean”). Dead years and dead voices flow into the revolting, yet devastated waters of a dark ocean, as if Pavese had envisioned these catastrophic images as future scenarios.

            In the poem “Lavorare stanca,” in one line Pavese condenses the maladies of both modernity and postmodernity, “Val la pena esser solo, per essere sempre più solo?” (“Is it worth it to be alone, only to be always more alone?”), as if the individualism cultivated by the modern man, suddenly deprived of its former romantic façade, had deepen after WWII to reconfigure individuality as an even more lonely condition. This series of Anthropocenic images acquire a more urgent tone in the poem “Rivolta.” The poem begins underlying the blindness inherent to spiritual death, “Quello morto è stravolto e non guarda le stelle” (“That dead man is deformed and does not look at the stars”), and ends emphasizing that along with spiritual death comes total destruction, “Pure, in strada le stelle hanno visto del sangue” (“Also, the stars have seen the blood in the streets”). In this poem, the stars are the final witness of humanity’s death, echoing the famous beginning lines of Pavese’s “Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi.”

“Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi

questa morte che ci accompagna

dal mattino alla sera, insonne,

sorda, come un vecchio rimorso

o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi

saranno una vana parola,

un grido taciuto, un silenzio.”

(“Death will come and (she) will have your eyes

this dead life that lives within us

from sunrise to dawn, sleepless,

deaf, like an old remorse

or an absurd vice. Your eyes

will be an empty word,

a quiet cry, a silence.”)

The last dialogue of Dialoghi con Leucò, “The Gods,” is a conversation at the top of a sacred hill between two unnamed characters. As the conversation unravels, the natural elements become echoes of ancient primeval divinities, in a time when the air used to provoke shivering memories, nocturnal fears, mysterious threats. Through all the previous dialogues, Pavese establishes a broad conversation about the nature of divinity and the role it plays in the order of the world. The power of words appears as the essential bridge between humans and the divine, and if a human ever encountered or witnessed the existence of a Goddess or a God, it was thanks to the language of nature. The dialogue ends with a question that inquires into the possibility of rebuilding such encounters, “And do you believe in those monsters, in bodies with the appearance of beasts, in the living rocks, in the divine laughter, in the words that annihilated?” The reply is both eloquent and unveils a quandary of our times:

“I believe in what all men have suffered and desired. If in other times they climbed to these rocky heights or searched for deadly swamps under the sky, they did it because they were still able to find something that we ignore. It wasn’t the bread or pleasure or good health. We know where to find those things. Not in this place. And people like us that live far from here, near the ocean or the fields, we have lost that other thing.”

As we worry about the uncertain future that awaits future generations and the relationship that they will be able to establish with the natural forces, particularly considering the wide array of issues that the Anthropocene has placed over the table, one wonders if as Pavese suggests in Dialoghi con Leucò there was indeed a time in which humans wandered among divine entities. The last exchange of the dialogue engages these ideas:

“ – Name it, then, that thing we have lost.

– You already know it. The encounters they once had with them, the Gods.”

As the Earth has been dramatically altered by humans in the current geologic time period, the restoration and the healing of the biological systems of our planet will fall upon the people to come. Meanwhile, we are mere witnesses of a biological system in crisis that keeps bringing to the surface an overwhelming reality of fear and despair. Seventy years after Pavese’s death, a text like Dialoghi con Leucò offers to our imagination many reasons to believe that both the restoration and the healing of Earth’s biological systems are possible. And why not? Perhaps we would be able to also recover the organic communication that once we had with them, the Gods.     


[1] All the translations from the Italian are mine (Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi, Lavorare stanca, and Dialoghi con Leucò).

[2] More visualizations of the Anthropocene can be found at www. anthropocene.info.


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see more literary analysis here

Un hombre se mira al espejo, y dice: “Mascota, ven aquí”

Sobre Los cuerpos del verano de Martín Castagnet

por Alan Ojeda

Este trabajo podría empezar así. Un hombre se mira al espejo, y dice: “Mascota, ven aquí”. A su cuello hay atada una correa que, a su vez, está enganchada en su mano. Acto seguido sale a caminar. Como un Golden Retriever, camina libre, paseándose a sí mismo. Sin embargo, no escapa ni se va demasiado lejos. A la vuelta de la esquina está, quizá, el verdadero dueño de la correa. Sin embargo ese dueño es “[…] traslúcido, inestable, viscoso” (Castagnet, 2012: 20). Como señala el narrador de Los cuerpos del verano (2012), de Martín Felipe Castagnet: “Mientras lo digo imagino una medusa. Millones de algas protegidas para siempre dentro de la campana de la medusa” (Ibídem). Este dueño parece una versión despersonalizada de Yivo, el extraterrestre planeta con genitáculos1 de la serie animada Futurama, puesto que ya no hay un poder central que ejerza el dominio, sino un habitar en un gran organismo. La relación entre el hombre y esa medusa es de co-dependencia.

Este trabajo pretende realizar un análisis de los problemas de las homeotecnologías (Sloterdijk: 2000) en relación con el mercado a través de la lectura una novela contemporáneas del escritor argentino Martín Felipe Castagnet: Los cuerpos del verano (2012). Esta ficción nos permitirá desarrollar posiciones estratégicas y reconstruir una ontología trascendental a partir de la cual plantear nuestro vínculo con el mundo y nosotros mismos frente al actual estado de la técnica.

Mercado, cuerpo e identidad

Si pensamos en estas novelas como lo que Josefina Ludmer llamó “ficciones especulativas”2, Los cuerpos del verano nos ofrece la experiencia de un mundo “post-humanos” o “ciborg”, donde podemos pensar el devenir de lo humano en una nueva etapa de la tecnificación de la vida. En esta novela la tecnología permite a los muertos entrar en un “estado de flotación” en internet, mientras su familia o el Estado (en algunos casos) les consiguen un nuevo cuerpo donde ser “quemado”3. Cada cuerpo puede ser quemado tres veces. Mientras tanto, el mercado de cuerpos ofrece una gran gama de posibilidades: cuerpos de todas las edades, cuerpos para satisfacer fetiches raciales, cuerpos de animales, etc. Para mantener el orden, existe un registro llamado Koseki4 que se encarga de mantener documentada a qué “identidad” designada por el Estado pertenece cada cuerpo, por si es necesario averiguarlo. Estado y mercado parecen fusionados. De esta manera, esta novela nos ofrece un panorama sobre múltiples temas: identidad, mercado, tecnología, poder y límites de la experiencia, entre otros.

Como señala Daniel Link en el prólogo de Escalera al cielo: “Mientras la literatura gótica interroga la muerte, la ciencia ficción se pregunta por la vida y sus posibilidades”. Sin embargo, el hecho pensar estas posibilidades se han visto dificultado por vestigios de una consciencia humanista que se niega a aceptar como positivos los devenires que considera “no-humanos” o artificiales, como los embodiments, modificación genética y la cibernética5, bajo la experiencia paranoica de “El Control”. Gran parte de las lecturas actuales, como señala Sloterdijk en “El hombre operable”, continúan personificando al Capitalismo, pensando en términos de una dialéctica de amo-esclavo y oponiendo lo natural a lo artificial:

La histeria, de hecho, consiste en la búsqueda de un amo contra el que poder alzarse. No se puede descartar que el efecto ‘amo’ esté en proceso de disolución, y subsista más que nada como el postulado del esclavo fijado en la rebelión, como izquierda historizada y humanismo de museo. En contraste, un principio de ala izquierda con algún signo de vitalidad debería reinventarse constantemente por medio de la disidencia creativa, así como el pensamiento del homo humanus sólo puede mantenerse en resistencia poética contra los reflejos metafísicos de la humanolatría. […] (Sloterdijk, 2000: 4)

A lo que agrega:

[…]Si ‘hay’ hombre es porque una tecnología lo ha hecho evolucionar a partir de lo pre-humano. Ella es la verdadera productora de seres humanos, o el plano sobre el cual puede haberlos. De modo que los seres humanos no se encuentran con nada nuevo cuando se exponen a sí mismos a la subsiguiente creación y manipulación, y no hacen nada perverso si se cambian a sí mismos autotecnológicamente, siempre y cuando tales intervenciones y asistencia ocurran en un nivel lo suficientemente alto de conocimiento de la naturaleza biológica y social del hombre, y se hagan efectivos como coproducciones auténticas, inteligentes y nuevas en trabajo con el potencial evolutivo. (Ibidem)

Por ejemplo, es inútil oponer, en términos de control y organización de las formas-de-vida, Mercado y Estado, ya que el estado es el garante del correcto funcionamiento del sistema. En última instancia podríamos, establecer formas de interacción: o el Mercado impone axiomáticas al estado, o el Estado impone axiomática al funcionamiento del mercado.

Estos problemas pueden observarse claramente en Los cuerpos del verano, que se inscribe dentro de una hipótesis liberal, donde el mercado es el que ofrece (aunque con las limitaciones que le son propias) líneas de fuga, exploración y desterritorialización a través de la venta de cuerpos y producción de órganos sintéticos que permiten prolongar y hasta abolir la muerte, mientras el Estado ocupa un mínimo rol de organizador de información y clasificación, re-territorializando las identidades-consciencias en un registro de cuerpos, el registro Koseki, e imponiendo unas mínimas leyes para el funcionamiento del uso de los cuerpos. De hecho, el mercado pena la pulsión de la “mismidad”. Dentro de la novela hay un grupo de personas llamados “panchamas”, palabra que designa a los seres que han decidido ser “quemados” en su antiguo cuerpo. Los panchamas son vistos por la sociedad como seres de mala suerte, sucios y similares a los animales. Esto implica pensar nuestras posibilidades, como lo hace Mark Fisher en Realismo Capitalista, a través de la frase de Tatcher: “No hay salida”. Partir de esta idea significa desarrollar una teoría inmanentista de la apropiabilidad de las condiciones materiales de existencia. No hay ahora (y quizás nunca la hubo desde el comienzo del proceso de globalización) alternativas de construcción identitaria fuera del mercado. Por ejemplo, en Los cuerpos del verano hay dos posibilidades de disolución de la identidad que ofrece la nueva organización de lo viviente. La primera es el estado de flotación donde “Una persona dentro de la red puede convertirse en un Buda, si evita las redes sociales y la pornografía” (Castagnet, 2012: 37). La segunda es resultado del pasaje de la consciencia de un cuerpo a otro. El ejemplo más claro es el de Rama, el narrador y personaje principal que, a lo largo de la novela habita en el cuerpo de una mujer gorda entrada en años, un africano joven y, por último, un caballo. Al final de la novela, en su “devenir-caballo”, el narrador dice:

Vera me llama “papá”. Gales me llama “abuelo”. Septiembre me llama “Ramiro”. Los chicos me llaman “Rama”. Cuzco continúa llamándome “señor”. Puedo oler cómo se disuelve mi ego. Los demás caballos no tienen un nombre para mí. El último miembro fantasma desaparece. (Idem: 114)

Es por eso que, para re-pensar nuestra relación con el mercado y “lo artificial” o la técnica, es necesario reconstruir una trayectoria del desarrollo tecnológico que exponga nuestro papel en relación a sus cambios, de la misma manera que Eric Sadin propone una “antrobología”, es decir una antropología-robótica en su libro La humanidad aumentada. En este caso, Peter Sloterdijk nos ofrece dos términos que nos ayudan a orientar esta reflexión: alotecnología y homeotecnología.

Las alotecnologías son aquellas tecnologías que necesitan violentar la materia para modificarlas. De alguna manera se orienta a la visión de la técnica utilizada hasta Heidegger. La alotecnología engloba desde un martillo hasta la bomba atómica: la técnica como un método que destruye para re-crear. Por otro lado, la homeotecnología surge desde el momento en el que “hay información”, es decir, datos objetivos sobre la materia, lo que permitiría aprovechar esa información para modificar la materia sin violencia. Un claro ejemplo es la manipulación genética, donde materia y forma no son dos elementos opuestos, sino que existe una única cosa: materia informada. Ese “hay información” implica un conocimiento objetivo que el hombre sufre como vejación (una nueva vejación a las tres que ya había señalado Freud) ya que se trata de una experiencia a-subjetiva. Incluso, podríamos pensar que el devenir-Buda en el estado de flotación, está relacionada directamente a esta circunstancia. La consciencia búdica en estado de flotación, libre de los límites corporales, casi indescriptible en términos humanos, es resultado directo de esa experiencia a-subjetiva, de estar en el flujo donde “hay información”. Asumir la condición ciborg implica pensar nuestra condición como hijos bastardos del capitalismo:

El ciborg se sitúa decididamente del lado de la parcialidad, de la ironía, de la intimidad y de la perversidad. Es opositivo, utópico y en ninguna manera inocente. Al no estar estructurado por la polaridad de lo público y lo privado, define una polis-tecnológica basada parcialmente en una revolución de las relaciones sociales en el oikos, la célula familiar. […] A la inversa de Frankenstein, el ciborg no espera que su padre lo salve con un arreglo del jardín (del Edén), es decir, mediante la fabricación de una pareja heterosexual, mediante su acabado en una totalidad, en una ciudad y en un cosmos. El ciborg no sueña con una comunidad que siga el modelo de la familia orgánica aunque sin proyecto edípico. El ciborg no reconocería el Jardín del Edén, no está hecho de barro y no puede soñar con volver a convertirse en polvo. […] Su problema principal, por supuesto, es que son los hijos ilegítimos del militarismo y del capitalismo patriarcal, por no mencionar el socialismo de estado. Pero los bastardos son a menudo infieles a sus orígenes. Sus padres, después de todo, no son esenciales. (Haraway, 1984: 4)

De esta manera, la tecnología no aparece como un simple método de control cada vez más sutil, sino como el ecosistema propio del ser humano que ha desarrollado nuevas formas de conocerse a si mismo y modificarse. Dentro de esta hipótesis liberal que nos ofrece Los cuerpos del verano, donde la única limitación real es el tipo de cuerpo al que podemos acceder gracias a nuestro poder adquisitivo, lo que se pone en juego es nuestra inteligencia creativa, es decir la posibilidad de operar sobre esas limitaciones. Muerta la idea de un “poder-central”, que organiza y vigila, al que oponernos, cuando las relaciones de poder se transforman en esa gran medusa que todo lo envuelve, el paso que debe asumir el individuo es el de la auto-producción. La tecnología es la piel que habitamos (“[…] observaba mi batería por primera vez, enchufada a mi cuerpo como una correa entre el perro y su amo”) (Castagnet, 2012: 11) y, por lo tanto, ya no hay una relación de sujeto vs objeto, donde uno se resiste al otro, sino todo lo contrario. Incluso, podríamos pensarlo en los términos de otro autor de ciencia ficción, Cordwainer Smith, como un “Proyecto de complementación humana”, idea que dio lugar al argumento principal de la serie de animé Evangelion, que también es uno de los materiales con los que trabaja la novela6.

Cuando Rama, el narrador dice que la tecnología “no es racional; con suerte es un caballo desbocado que echa espuma por la boca e intenta desbarrancarse cada vez que puede. Nuestro problema es que la cultura está enganchada a ese caballo.” (Idem: 32) exhibe, todavía, esos restos del pensamiento humanístico en los que la tecnología es una esfera separada de la cultura. Mientras concibamos nuestro ser-tecnológico como una esfera separada de lo humano y de la cultura, nos encontraremos desbarrancando. Asumirse ciborg implica entender que nosotros somos el caballo, la tecnología y la cultura. Es sobre esa premisa que nos volvemos, a un nuevo nivel, dueños de nosotros mismos y capaces de operar sobre nosotros como máquinas. Esto supone, antes que nada, la necesidad de una pedagogía tecnológica, la necesidad de devenir tecnólogos para poder pensar como verdaderos humanistas. Si el artificio es el lugar en el que habita el hombre (incluyendo ahí su conceptualización de eso que llama “naturaleza”), esta nueva variable halotecnológica hacia la que avanzamos rápidamente debe pensarse como un nuevo punto para pensar los nuevos límites de nuestra libertad y nuestras nuevas responsabilidades sobre este cuerpo-máquina hijo bastardo del mercado.

La identidad ya no es lo que era

En Starmaker (1933), la hermosa novela de ciencia ficción del inglés Olaf Stapledon, una consciencia logra alcanzar el estado de “consciencia universal” a través de un proceso similar al que podemos ver en Los cuerpos del verano: la consciencia del narrador descubre que puede despegarse de su cuerpo, y comienza a viajar en el tiempo-espacio hasta otros planetas y galaxias. En ese proceso también descubre que puede habitar cuerpos y experimentar nuevas sensaciones mientras dialoga con la consciencia del dueño original del cuerpo. Tarde o temprano las consciencias se fusionan y salen a buscar nuevos cuerpos. La capacidad de conocer lo diferente reside, principalmente, en la experiencia corporal, en el “habitar un cuerpo”. Esto quiere decir que el cuerpo aún posee una potencia irreductible para el conocimiento y que la experiencia de la consciencia depende, en parte, de él. Pensar lo contrario es, en cambio, volver a los viejos postulados cartesianos de res cogitans y res extensa. El cuerpo es una frontera, al mismo tiempo un límite y un punto de contacto, lo que nos sugiere que no hay solución en pensamientos o posiciones binarias, sino que se piensa dentro o en los límites del problema. En este caso, la novela nos ofrece la posibilidad de una superación de la identidad por dos vías. La primera es la vía ascética a-subjetiva, el estado de privación senso-corporal a través del “estado de flotación” donde, como en la película Her (Spike Jonze 2013), la consciencia como serie de datos con determinados principios y parámetros se somete al camino hacia el conocimiento absoluto gracias a la información disponible en la red. La nostalgia de este estado etéreo es lo que tensiona a los cuerpos “quemados” luego de un periodo largo de flotación: “[…]el periodo de abstinencia a internet luego del estado de flotación puede ser duro” (Idem: 13). La otra vía es la que podríamos denominar como “nomadismo somático”, a través del cual el individuo multiplica sus niveles de comprensión y sensibilidad con cada nuevo cuerpo habitado, tensionando su identidad hasta la disolución.

Como señalan Deleuze & Guattari en “Año 0”, en Mil Mesetas, la “rostridad”, el hecho de tener un rostro identificable, es decir una identidad, se encuentra directamente relacionada con las necesidades de organización estatal. Uno posee una identidad no tanto porque la desee (deseo que se crea posteriormente) sino porque necesita ser identificado. Si bien en un principio esta fue una condición sine qua non para organizar el mercado, podríamos decir que, actualmente, se ha cumplido el deseo de Friedrich von Hayek, como señala Josefina Ludmer en Aquí América Latina, es decir que el mercado se ha transformado en el único espacio-tiempo posible. Si antes la identidad era una cuestión de estado para organizar y ejercer el poder, ahora, flota como un bien dentro del mercado. Uno puede comprar un cuerpo y, por lo tanto, la experiencia de ese cuerpo. De lo contrario ¿Por qué penaría la sociedad la re-utilización del cuerpo propio si no fuera porque es necesario que así sea para mantener el tráfico de cuerpos en el mercado? En el sistema actual y hacia el cual nos dirigimos, nuestra única identidad es la de usuarios o consumidores, ambas dominadas por algoritmos. Entre esos algoritmos se encuentran nuestros deseos de identidad.

La novela de Martín Felipe Castagnet, Los cuerpos del verano, nos permite pensar el problema de la identidad desde una nueva perspectiva. El ciborg, nuestra condición actual como habitantes del mundo ¿Puede decir “yo soy” o es simplemente un choque heterogéneo de agenciamientos post-genéricos y post-identitarios? ¿Es la identidad una ficción tan comercializable como los best-sellers? ¿Qué hacer entonces? ¿Hay alguna resistencia que ejercer? ¿Contra quién? ¿Debemos optar, como los Panchamas, a pudrirnos con nuestro cuerpo mientras dure y quedar al margen del mercado o debemos superar la nostalgia humanista para aceptar nuestro futuro en un sistema homeotecnológico? En este caso, Los cuerpos del verano nos dice, nuevamente, que no hay salida. Ya es hora de mirarse al espejo, ponerse la correa y sacarse a pasear hasta que no nos interese si hay o no un dueño esperándonos a la vuelta de la esquina.

Notas

1 Los genitáculos son tentáculos con fines reproductivos.

2 “La ficción especulativa (un género moderno global, y en este momento latinoamericano, que hoy parece ser más fantasy que ciencia ficción) inventa un universo diferente del conocido y lo funda desde cero. También propone otro modo de conocimiento. No pretende ser verdadera ni falsa; se mueve en el como si, el imaginemos y el supongamos: en la concepción de una pura posibilidad” (Ludmer, 2010: 10)

3 N de A: El verbo quemar es el mismo que se utiliza hacer referencia al acto de grabar CDs o DVD´s.

4 El Koseki o Registro Familiar es, en la vida real, el registro más antiguo del mundo; durante más de un milenio, el gobierno japonés ha registrado los momentos más importantes en las vidas de todas las familias del Japón. El actual sistema de registro familiar se adoptó poco tiempo después de la restauración del Meiji en 1868. Actualmente, el Ministerio de Justicia usa el Koseki para registrar familias, seguir el rastro de nacimientos, matrimonios, muertes, convicciones criminales, etc.

5 Para profundizar sobre la noción de cibernética, leer La hipótesis cibernética de Tiqqun

6 https://revistatonica.com/2012/12/17/la-mitad-de-mi-novela-la-robe-de-evangelion/

Bibliografía

CASTAGNET, Felipe Martín, Los cuerpos del verano, Factotum, Argentina,2012

-HARAWAY, Donna, “Manifiesto Ciborg” (Versión digital https://xenero.webs.uvigo.es/profesorado/beatriz_suarez/ciborg.pdf)

-LUDMER, Josefina, Aquí América Latina, Eterna Cadencia, Argentina, 2010

-SLOTERDIJK, Peter, “El hombre operable” (Versión digital http://www.oei.org.ar/edumedia/pdfs/T12_Docu1_Elhombreoperable_Sloterdijk.pdf)

Sobre el autor:

Alan Ojeda (1991) Cursó el CBC en el 2009. Es Licenciado en Letras (UBA), Técnico superior en periodismo (TEA) y se encuentra cursando la maestría en Estudios Literarios Latinoamericanos en la Universidad Nacional Tres de Febrero. Es docente de escuela media, periodista e investigador. Coordinó los ciclos de poesía y música Noche Equis y miniMOOG, y condujo el programa de radio Área MOOG (https://web.facebook.com/area.moog); colabora con los portales Artezeta (www.artezeta.com.ar), Labrockenface (www.labrokenface.com), Danzería (www.danzería.com), Kunst (http://revistakunst.com) y Lembra (http://revistalembra.com). Es editor de Código y Frontera. Publicó los poemarios Ciudad Límite (Llantodemudo 2014), El señor de la guerra (Athanor 2016) y Devociones (Zindo&Gafuri 2017). Actualmente se encuentra realizando investigaciones sobre literatura y esoterismo.

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Narciso o el nacer de la mirada

Narciso o el nacer de la mirada

Dies also: dies geht von mir aus und löst
sich in der Luft und im Gefühl der Haine,
entweicht mir leicht, und wird nicht mehr die Meine
und glänzt, weil es auf keine Feindschaft stößt.

Dies hebt sich unaufhörlich von mir fort,
ich will nicht weg, ich warte, ich verweile;
doch alle meine Grenzen haben Eile,
stürzen hinaus und sind schon dort.
Und selbst im Schlaf: nichts bindet uns genug.

Nachgiebige Mitte in mir, Kern voll Schwäche,
Der nicht sein Fruchtfleisch anhält. Flucht, o Flug
von allen Stellen meiner Oberfläche.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Jetzt liegt es offen in dem teilnahmlosen
zerstreuten Wasser, und ich darf es lang
anstaunen unter meinem Kranz von Rosen.
Dort ist es nicht geliebt. Dort unten drin
ist nichts als Gleichmut überstürzter Steine,
und ich kann sehen, wie ich traurig bin.«
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
(Aus: »Narziß« von Rainer Maria Rilke. Manuskript.)

Manuscrito: “Narciso“, Rainer Maria Rilke

Y esto: esto emerge de mí y se disuelve
en el aire y en el sentir de la arboleda
Y casi se escapa, y no será más mío
Y brilla, pues ninguna enemistad lo afronta
 
Esto se eleva, incesante, fuera de mí
No quiero estar fuera, espero, me detengo;
Pero todos mis confines me apresuran 
Caen hacia fuera y ya están allá.
Y aún durmiendo: nada puede contenernos del todo.
 
Dócil centro en mí, núcleo poblado de debilidades,
Sin semejanza alguna con la propia carne frutal, fuga 
O vuelo desde cada punto de mi superficie.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Ahora, abierto, yace en el agua imparcial,
desperdigada y, bajo mi corona de rosas,
consiento admirarlo largamente.
Allá no es amado. Allá dentro,
en el fondo, no hay más que ecuánimes piedras apiladas,
y puedo mirar: qué triste me encuentro.

El poema se encuentra citado en la nota al pie no. 5 del texto de Lou Adreas Salome “Narzißmus als Doppelrichtung”. Buscando, aún no encontré una traducción previa al español. Esto, por supuesto, no significa que no exista. Sin embargo, aquí presento mi propia traducción, aún inédita.

“Weg-sein”: estar fuera, desprendido, disuelto el vínculo primario/elemental consigo mismo, desvinculación del narcisismo primario

En la literatura alemana abundan las líneas con las palabras “weg-sein” o simplemente “weg”, acomparsadas con un “quiero” o “no quiero”. En este poema, “Narciso“, de Rilke, por ejemplo, en el segundo verso de la segunda estrofa: “ich will nicht weg“, “no quiero estar fuera“. Otro ejemplo paradigmático es la primera línea del Werther, que también es eco profundo del Narciso mítico: “Wie froh bin ich, dass ich weg bin…”, “Qué alegre estar fuera de mí“. Resulta un enigma lingüístico imaginar el sentido de este “weg“, de ese lejano y misterioso “no estar-estando“, “estar sin estar“. Al contrario del heideggeriano “Dasein”, ser-ahí, parece oponerse a este “weg-sein“, como un no-estar-ahí, y no obstante, estar ahí sin desearlo.

Lou A. Salome cita estos versos en su texto hermenéutico del término “narcisismo” freudiano, en donde esclarece su duplicidad, la dinámica de sístole y diástole del yo en una pérdida y una ganancia conjuntas de si mismo y del mundo “allá fuera”. El núcleo de la doble naturaleza del narcisismo se encuentra claramente imaginado en el poema de Rilke dedicado a Narciso, aquel “padrino de bautizo” de semejante fenómeno humanamente precioso.

La emergencia o Nacimiento del yo es una pérdida para Narciso, un dolor de parto, es su salir de si, de su ser-uno-con-todo, a ser uno-sin-todo, pero: cabe-todo. Su salida significa descubrir el horizonte no-yoico hacia la naturaleza, hacia lo no-yo que es cualquier cosa, pero es, precisamente, en esa salida donde se encuentra consigo mismo, donde reconoce su yoicidad. El “re-encuentro” consigo mismo es un salir de si hacia lo “otro”, lo “natural” que, al partir hacia allá, sufre una pérdida: en este salir algo se pierde. Aquello perdido en el encuentro con lo otro es la union elemental de todas las cosas, un hipotético estado anterior de union cósmica, universal y absoluta.

Es imposible evitar una dosis de oxímoron y paradoja al hablar de esta salida-entrada, pérdida-encuentro, porque expresa  precisamente la naturaleza misma del Nacimiento del yo y de lo otro. El Nacimiento del yo emerge de esta unión prístina y oscura a la vez, pues se le ve como unión solo una vez que ha acaecido el divorcio con ese todo difuso. Se le ve tarde, se le encuentra solo en retrospectiva nostálgica, como la nostalgia de Narciso al encontrar su reflejo. Pero no es una nostalgia por ser el mismo en el momento en que se mira en el Espejo del agua, sino una nostalgia por lo que ya no es, por lo que ha perdido en el encuentro con su reflejo, porque antes no había reflejo y por ende, él mismo era su propio reflejo y podía amarse enteramente en un gesto casi antropofágico de ser y consumirse a si mismo. 

La fuga nombrada reside justamente en el huír del yo hacia el reflejo o mejor dicho, en la incapacidad innata de ser y reflejarse simultáneamente, en la imposibilidad de ser y verse siendo. Se vive como una fuga, siendo más bien un autoreconocimiento. Es así como el nacer del yo, cuando Narciso cobra conciencia de que él no es todo, duele, se padece como una pérdida, un fracaso, siendo, quizá, más bien una Victoria. La Victoria de haberse encontrado en el todo, como individuo arrojado a si mismo y al mismo tiempo arrojado a lo otro, en un doble-arrojo que lanza la mirada al agua, al Espejo. Nada resiste la salida del pre-yo hacia el afuera, nada se le opone o lo confina, sino que el yo naciente estira sus “pseudopoda”, sus “falsas extremidades”, infinitamente hacia lo lejano, para así, al unísono, caminar de regreso hacia si mismo, en una “acto acrobático” sinigual, de ida y retorno coincidentes. Y en ese camino-retorno, el pre-yo se resiste, su única Resistencia no está allá, afuera, está en la nostalgia de ser todo. No obstante “todos sus confines lo apresuran”, es decir, las extremidades incipientes del yo recién nacido lo fuerzan, lo apremian a salir, a trascender su estado de microscópico y monocelular pseudo-todo. Pues en ese estado prematuro de difusa union no hay, en verdad, nada, sino una confusion de narcisimo primario, sin sentido ni sentimiento alguno de amor ni a si mismo ni al todo, aparentemente anclado en el yo. Incluso el sueño que pareciera una suerte de “criptobiosis” –estado durmiente semejante a la muerte – no es capaz de retornar a esa unión: una vez que el yo ha salido de su estado de pre-yo, no encuentra el retorno perfecto “ahí”, que es, por razones casi naturales, imposible de rescatarse. 

Y Rilke retorna al concepto clave “Fuga”, donde el yo, cual Tardigrado, que respira sin necesidad de órgano específico, sino inhalando y exhalando desde toda la cutícula que lo rodea, o sea, respirando con todo su cuerpo: el yo transpira, se suda a través de todos los puntos de la epidermis. La piel del yo es demasiado delgada para contenerlo, el yo se le escapa al yo constantemente, y entre más se aferra a apropiarse de si mismo, más fácil se pierde en el fondo rocoso de océanos mortales. La pretension de aferrarse a ese yo primigenio se parece a la vana intentona por capturar los peces húmedos y resbalosos con los dedos al cambiarlos de una pecera a otra, entre más se apretujan, más se resbalan y se cuelan hasta caer de nuevo en su pecera; o incluso es como querer contener el agua misma con las manos, y entre más se aprieten los puños, más facilmente se fuga el agua entre los dedos. Narciso se encuentra por primera vez con el líquido del yo y no conoce aún su naturaleza líquida, resbalosa, furtiva, que se escapa en cada intento de captura, de caza. 

El yo es una ladrón que se oculta de si mismo, que se roba a si mismo la identidad y en ese robo se la entrega. Es el ladrón en el Espejo, sin saber que él mismo es víctima de su propio hurto. Narciso pretende robarse el rostro, en el enamoramiento primigenio del yo consigo mismo, que, no obstante, implica la imposibilidad de unión auténticamente amorosa, pues se desperdiga, se disuelve en el agua del todo que no es él mismo, y a su vez, precisa de esa agua, como el oxígeno vital del pulmón animal. 

La tristeza de Narciso es la tristeza concomitante del narcisimo, la tristeza de jamás ser uno con uno mismo y de la necesidad perenne de salir de si mismo al encuentro o reencuentro con lo otro para regresar siempre derrotado al núcleo “poblado de debilidades” que es el yo reflejado, reflexionado. Entre las “piedras ecuánimes” mira su propia tristeza, mientras que el “agua imparcial” tampoco sufre, la naturaleza no padece lo que padece Narciso, ella está ya afuera, es ese afuera: evento de encuentro con el yo, que no se resiste, que se deja vencer, venciendo de esta manera. Es como una Guerra, donde solo hay un enemigo, mientras que el oponente no es en realidad oponente, sino la proyección especular del primer enemigo que le atribuye deseos bélicos e incluso victorias y derrotas. Es la Guerra contra si mismo, no, no solo contra si mismo, sino contra el narcisimo primario que goza al imponerse, cual tiranuelo de pueblo. 

Quizá va apareciendo, lentamente y a pasos forzados, el sentido o sentimiento enigmático de ese “weg”, de esa ausencia presente, o presencia deseada de lo ausente, de lo que, talvez, ni siquiera existe: de ese yo primigenio y oscuro. Y simultáneamente, se va desvelando la doble estructura del narcisismo, sus victorias y sus derrotas sentidas pero no vividas. 

Sospecho que ese “weg” radica en la raíz bipolar del Nacimiento del yo, singular y plural a la vez. La tristesse de Narciso, su nostalgia, ese dolor por lo lejano, por lo sido, podría desatar el nudo gordiano que se fuga en la trascendencia del yo. La tristeza es el estado adecuado para el encuentro motivado por el des-encuentro. El encuentro con el yo por parte del pre-yo con lo otro, y por medio de lo otro, consigo mismo. Este instante es un momento de encuentro y des-encuentro simultáneo, de lejanías y cercanías mutuas entre el todo, el yo, y lo otro. Es parecido al momento del “aura” cuando se padece migraña. En mi triste caso consiste en mirar fragmentado mi rostro en el Espejo, es un encuentro desfigurado con la figura, en donde el contraste con el yo completo-imposible, aterra y parece casi locura: desfiguración del universo que se habitaba en la comodidad del sin-dolor. 

El encuentro con el yo es muy parecido al inicio de la ceguera, a la pérdida de una vision totalizante que abarca el todo, por no ser en realidad un “mirar”, sino una suerte de mirar previo, que se mira a si mismo como si fuera todo. En el momento en que Narciso comienza a mirar, lo primero que ve es su reflejo, y entonces, queda ciego con respecto a ese pre-mirar, a ese ver “ciego” del naricismo primario. M. Yourcernar afirmaba que Borges era un vidente: “Pongamos al lado de esta imagen, si les parece bien, la fotografía que Ferdinando Scianna tomó en 1983: La mano de Jorge Luis Borges saliendo de la manga de una chaqueta y de una camisa de hoy, «leyendo» el busto de Julio César…” Y continúa comparando la lectura ciega del poeta con la ceguera profana: “Ahora bien, hay muchos de nosotros que no se ven. La inmensa mayoría de los hombres no se ve: la muy noble modestia de Borges proviene de que él se ve como es, único y sin embargo igual a cualquiera, como lo somos todos. Pero la mayoría de nosotros no ve al que tiene enfrente, ni al universo. El vive lo uno y lo otro.” Es sumamente interesante que Yourcenar no afirme que la mayoría “no ve”, sino que magistralmente imprima la reflexión, el reflexivo verbal, el acto reflejo: “la inmensa mayoría no se ve”. La ceguera es múltiple y se multiplica en su flexion, en el reflejo. 

La mirada nace concomitantemente al yo, nace cegado y vidente, ciego para ese todo difuso que le antecede, vidente para un nuevo mundo, donde es posible encontrarse o perderse. El ya conocido verso del poeta aleman, el Hölderlin cegado por lo que Zweig bautizó definitivamente con el nombre de “Umnachtung” (término alemán utilizado para nombrar la locura, cuya etimología más bien refiere a un en-nochecimiento) ,“Edipo, tal vez, tenia un ojo demás”, expresa la ceguera exacta de Borges, sublimada en poesía, en el tacto dócil que acaricia el busto de Julio Cesar, no para mirarlo, sino para exigirle su presencia material, para agarrarlo enteramente. No es coincidencia que Salome recurra constantemente al poeta para explicar el fenómeno del naricismo y, que la cultura del mundo imagine siempre ciego al poeta. El poeta es el Narciso sublimado, aquél que encontró no solo su reflejo, sino en él, a todas las cosas, y las tocó, y las acarició y olvidó que era únicamente un reflejo, un Espejo, una gota de agua empapando el cosmos de lo visible –y quizá, más bien—, de lo invisible. Rilke en sus Cartas desde Muzot de 1935 también recordaba lo invisible…esa dimensión arcaica y sempiterna donde habita todo lo que se ha ido, al no poder imaginar, con todo y su imaginación de poeta, que las cosas pudieran desvancerse cabalmente, desaparecer o fugarse a la Nada. 

La fuga es la semilla del poema, aunque no suene en su centro. La fuga también está en el inicio, en esa voz misteriosa, en ese “weg“: la desvinculación, el arrancarse furioso y violento de la mirada hacia afuera, del pre-yo al yo. El “weg”, el primero de todos que suceden en el tiempo de las despedidas – pues ese es el único tiempo, éste que vive en eterna despedida – , representa una desvinculación atroz del lazo elemental del yo y el todo. De ahí la miseria, la tristeza de encontrarse con ese reflejo adelgazado, nimio, con ese resto del yo imaginado por la fantasía pueril de Narciso.  A veces: más valiera no verse en el espejo. 

La fuga, el “weg”, no obstante, también tiene su alegría. Así Werther lo afirma, lo confirma en esa línea fatal: Qué alegría la de estar “ido”. En español se dice “estar ido” y tal vez consista en un eco mutuo, resonante, de este “weg” werthiano. Su sentido es versátil y a la vez claro, nombra el fenómeno fantástico de ausentarse en carne y hueso. “No-estar-estando” muchas veces resulta propicio en su respectiva potencia de estar, entonces, en todas partes y en ninguna. La obicuidad humanamente acequible es un ausentar-se, una doble reflexión. La primera reflexión consistente en el encuentro de los narcisos infantiles con su imagen; la segunda, en regresar del Espejo, en dejar de mirarse solo a si mismo, y mirar lo demás, lo otro, el afuera fugado. Werther está alegre y está ido, y está alegre porque está ido. 

Huír no siempre es simplemente fugarse, no solo es evadirse, sino que, en esta cadena de paradojas también es un reencuentro. El refugio de la huída no es la mirada obcecada que quiere apropiarse del propio reflejo. Eso no es refugio: es acabar desperdigado en un fondo de piedras amontonadas en oscuras y maternales aguas. El refugio está en trascender, mas no en permanecer fijado en la imagen, estáticamente, como un microscopio ciego. Dejarse apremiar por los propios límites, que ya de suyo desean, se impulsan hacia fuera de la delgada epidermis del yo recién nacido. Dejar que se apresuren, que salten hacia afuera, que se desperdiguen sin perderse como el agua, que sola encuentra su cauce, sin necesidad de algún puño que la estrangule. La evasión confina, mientras que trascender la carne imaginada, especular, resulta –con toda su improbablidad— en no abandonarse a la fuga de la Nada, en el reencuentro con las líneas y horizontes de todas las cosas que nos configuran. 

El yo liberado de su telaraña crepuscular araña, desaforado, los tejidos dérmicos de su prision inmaculada, para salir y padecer y gozar, sin jamás volver, revolver-se en su crisálida originaria. En un solo instante, entonces, a través del deseo, se define el destino de cada cosa.

Preservación o destrucción: supervivencia y técnicas culturales de los Mundos Perdidos

por Alan Ojeda

Introducción

El “progreso” de la humanidad ha sido acompañado siempre por una emoción que parece dirigirse, de forma paralela, en sentido contrario del tiempo: la melancolía. Mientras más violento es el avance hacia ese futuro indeterminado, más fuertes son también las reacciones melancólicas y de resistencia que parecen ligarse al sueño de un origen común, un espacio de calma y descanso o, al menos, una tierra virgen donde el hombre pueda encontrarse cara a cara con el comienzo de la historia. Las ficciones de los Mundos Perdidos parecen poner en juego “la expresión colectiva de los anhelos y esperanzas de la cultura que la acoge y acompaña” (McConnell, 2002:131). Entre la utopía y la distopía, estos espacios necesitan de una lógica interna que permita que se mantengan en pie. Cada Mundo Perdido goza de un equilibrio previo a la aparición del visitante/aventurero, posible, en primera instancia, gracias al aislamiento físico del espacio. Este equilibrio puede dividirse, a su vez, en dos subtipos: natural (donde la naturaleza, no intervenida por el hombre, parece nunca haberse modificado) y cultural (sostenido por una serie de etno-técnicas que cumplen una función coercitiva y niveladora). Este trabajo tiene como fin analizar la lógica de esos equilibrios y su efecto frente a la intromisión del hombre. Para eso se trabajará con El mundo perdido de Sir Arthur Conan Doyle y Horizontes perdidos de James Hilton, novelas que plantean dos modelos antitéticos que permitirán dar cuenta de la fortaleza de un sistema frente al exterior.

Las barreras naturales

Uno de los elementos más obvios de estas ficciones es, quizá, la cuestión geográfica de la delimitación que permite la existencia de un Mundo Perdido. Se identifican tanto por la existencia de una barrera natural que dificulta su acceso (en cada caso la dificultad está directamente relacionada con los límites tecnológicos de la época), como por la ausencia de una cartografía oficial. Cada espacio se establece en un límite perfecto para la literatura fantástica: su cartografía es posible, verosímil y a la vez incierta. Ese espacio debe representar también una otredad total que, a su vez, posee una conexión oculta con el presente. Por ejemplo, en el caso de El Mundo Perdido de Conan Doyle, esa meseta ubicada en Sudamérica representa el pasado de la humanidad, su pre-historia; en cambio, en Horizontes Perdidos de James Hilton, Shangri-La, ubicada en el interior de un valle en las inmediaciones del Himalaya, es un espacio mixto que reúne tanto los tesoros culturales de la humanidad como habitantes de oriente y occidente, lo que implicaría una cultura sincrética capaz de eliminar las divisiones entre ambos hemisferios. Si bien ambos espacios se encuentran en zonas geográficas aisladas y representativas de la otredad, ambas tienen una profunda relación con el afuera.

Podría decirse que la idea de Mundo Perdido es también un arquetipo, es decir una de las tanas imágenes originarias constitutivas del “inconsciente colectivo” que son comunes a toda la humanidad. Estos lugares parecen pretender referir una relación atávica con el espacio edénico, intentando, a su vez, suturar los espacios de división natural. En el caso de Horizontes Perdidos, el mismo título parece señalar un límite geográfico, alguna vez real y palpable, ahora lejano y casi fantástico. El concepto de “horizonte” se encuentra extrañado de su connotación temporal habitual de “futuro”. En pocas palabras, pareciera expresar que el camino del hombre ha sufrido un desvío, y que el futuro ya no es lo que era. También puede entenderse en su literalidad más pura, que nos ofrece un significado igualmente significativo: “Línea donde parecen confluir la superficie terrestre y el cielo”.

Estas condiciones, que oscilan entre la indeterminación y la limitación (aunque parezca un oxímoron) son la primer barrea de supervivencia frente a las contaminaciones del exterior. Vale la pena agregar que la creación de estos espacios es, en su mayoría, obra del azar de la naturaleza (el hábitat de los Vril, Shangri-La, la meseta sudamericana). La naturaleza misma se transforma en gestora de sus propios templos, situación que se combina, usualmente con la voluntad conservadora de los participantes de cada civilización de preservarse, de convertir el terreno en hábitat, interioridad. Ese último movimiento de re-territorialización es el que denominaremos como “procesos etno-técnicos”.

En El Mundos Perdido podemos leer:

No creo que eso sea muy oscuro. Solo cabe una explicación. Sudamérica es un continente granítico. En este sitio debe haberse producido en una remota era un desnivel, como consecuencia de un sismo. Estos acantilados, debo señalar, son basálticos y, en consecuencia, plutónicos. Una superficie tal vez tan grande como Sussex fue levantada en bloque con toda su flora y su fauna, y cortada con precipicios perpendiculares, de una dureza que resiste la erosión. ¿Cuál fue el resultado de esto? Pues que las leyes ordinarias de la naturaleza quedaron en suspenso. Los diferentes factores que influyen en la lucha por la existencia en todo el mundo quedaron neutralizados. (Doyle, 2011: 41)

Challenger deduce una razón azarosa para la creación de esa meseta. La naturaleza parece haberse cerrado sobre si misma evitando todo tipo de cambio. Si ser es devenir, ser-en-el-tiempo, esta meseta no es, al parecer, parte de este mundo. La naturaleza parece ser capaz, incluso, de atentar contra sus propias leyes y crear un estado de excepción capaz de generar un ecosistema equilibrado que asegure su auto-preservación.

En el caso de Horizontes Perdidos es posible encontrar una construcción similar:

Era posible que fuese, pensó Conway, la vista montañosa más terrorífica del Universo, y se imaginaba la enorme tensión de la nieve y los glaciares, contra los cuales la roca desempeñaba el papel de un muro de contención gigantesco.

Al otro lado, la pared montañosa continuaba descendiendo casi perpendicularmente en una hendedura que debía haber sido el resultado de un terrible cataclismo ocurrido muchos cientos de años antes. (Hilton, 1983: 66)

En una primera instancia ambos Mundos perdidos gozan de las mismas propiedades primarias: difícil acceso, accidente geográfico y, el símbolo más notorio del aislamiento, muros. Sin embargo, una vez adentro, el lugar también posee cualidades conservadoras. Así como es difícil entrar, también lo es salir. Los Mundos perdidos se cierran como una planta carnívora. La preservación se simboliza mediante dos acciones: expulsión y captura.

En consecuencia, no va a ser su armazón geográfico el responsable del fracaso o éxito de las formas de vida que lo habitan, sino su lógica interna. Mientras que la meseta de El Mundo Perdido de Conan Doyle está habitado por formas de vida primitivas y dinosaurios, en la Shangri-La de Horizontes perdidos, de Hilton, nos encontramos con una sociedad sincrética que ha perdurado siglos gracias a sus técnicas culturales. Sin embargo, la existencia de una cultura anterior a la llegada de los frailes capuchinos a Shangri-La –sus habitantes practicaban la fe budista- plantea otro problema: ¿los resultados casi milagrosos de preservación, pre-existía a la llegada de los misioneros nestorianos? En el caso de El Mundo Perdido, ¿qué relación mantiene con los “conquistadores”?

Esto nos invita a reflexionar sobre qué es lo que sucede en estos espacios “al margen de las leyes naturales” (Siebers 1989:30) cuando, como en “El perjurio de la nieve” de Bioy Casares, el perfecto equilibrio de ese lugar utópico y fantástico se ve perturbado por la intromisión de un grupo de individuos que viene a representar la realidad.

El contacto de dos mundos

Como hemos mencionado anteriormente, los Mundos Perdidos son una zona de excepción respecto de las leyes naturales, pero creados por la misma naturaleza. De esta forma cada territorio se constituye como una heterotopía, es decir un espacio de funcionamiento no-hegemónico que representa la alteridad, que están a la vez fuera y dentro del mundo, y son fenómenos a la vez físicos y mentales. Sin embargo, (la agregué) estos lugares no están totalmente aislados, por lo que se establecen zonas de contacto –casi siempre mínimas-, donde puede comenzar a plantearse una lógica de dominación o contagio, que se generan con la aparición de los aventureros –por voluntad propia o por azar-.

Según Jean-Yves Tadié, lo que importa de las novelas de aventuras no es “la reproducción de sucesos históricos, sino las de pasiones humanas elementales: el miedo, el valor, la voluntad de poder, la abnegación, el instinto de muerte y el amor” (Tadié, 1989:12). Esto diagrama, desde un comienzo, la respuesta del hombre al enfrentarse a lo desconocido. Frente a la otredad siempre habrá respuestas escépticas como sucede en el caso de los colegas científicos de Challenger o el joven Mallison. Esto sucede porque “la superstición no es una colección de creencias sueltas, sino una lógica unificada para diferenciar un elemento en un conflicto, representándolo como externo” (1989:50). Al momento del contacto de los aventureros con la heterotopía se producirá un conflicto entre rechazo y asimilación, en el que se pondrá en juego no sólo la aptitud del recién llegado para lidiar con lo nuevo sino también la capacidad de cada Mundo Perdido para realizar un trabajo alquímico de conversión con sus nuevos habitantes. Es por eso que, frente a la existencia de varios espacios, cada uno con una lógica particular, no podemos sostener la existencia de un solo tipo de aventurero y un solo tipo de respuesta. Por esto nos vemos obligados a, al menos en estas circunstancias, distinguir primero entre dos clases de héroes-aventureros.

Contra los estereotipos de cualquier novela clásica de aventuras, Horizontes Perdidos propone la creación de un héroe espiritual que podría ser un anti-héroe si se lo compara con cualquier otro personaje de novelas de Haggard, Salgari o London. Sin embargo, si se lo observa de forma detenida, podríamos decir que Conway sólo es la reformulación de las ideas tradicionales de aventura para darle un giro metafísico.

Para acercarnos a una definición de esta categoría, sería útil retomar a Simmel, quien considera que la aventura es una forma del experimentar:

El contenido que se desarrolla no consigue por sí solo que la aventura sea tal: que se supere un peligro mortal o que se conquiste una mujer con un poco de suerte, nada de ello tiene por qué ser, como tal, aventura. Sólo se transforma en ella cuando existe una cierta tensión entre el instinto vital a través del cual se realizan esos contenidos. Únicamente cuando una corriente que se mueve entre las más extremas y externas de la vida y su fuente más central de energía arrastra a aquellas y cuando esta coloración, temperatura y ritmo particular del proceso vital es lo realmente decisivo y deviene en cierto modo dominante sobre su contenido, se transforma el episodio de una vivencia en una aventura. (Simmel, 2002: 4)

Es habitual que esta definición derive en la típica concepción del héroe de aventuras cuyo vitalismo lo somete a una experiencia del “puro presente”, en el que cada episodio aparece aislado del resto de la vida (pasado y futuro), creándose así “una isla en la vida” (ídem:1). Ahí, como el jugador, el aventurero se somete a la falta de sentido tratando de imponer su sistema omnicomprensivo dentro del caos. Bajo estas ideas, sin mucha reflexión, podríamos ubicar a personajes como Allan Quattermain de Haggard –símbolo del cazador blanco- o al Challenger de Doyle quienes, si bien se entregan al devenir puro de la acción, logran imponer su ley sobre el mundo circundante.

En El Mundo Perdido, Challenger organiza una expedición armada que, pese a ser definida como una “invasión pacífica de la Tierra de Maple White” (Doyle, 2011: 99), para que el grupo sobreviva deberá imponer su voluntad a través de la violencia. La expedición se encuentra en la naturaleza en su estado pre-civilizatorio o análogo a la coexistencia de el hombre de cromañón y los neandertales. Es de público conocimiento que ambas especies estuvieron en contacto durante el Paleolítico Superior. Mientras unos se distinguían por su capacidad técnica, como pintar y crear herramientas más avanzadas (hombre de cromañón), los otros se destacaban por su mayor fuerza física (neandertales). Como somos testigos hoy en día, el hombre de cromañón -es decir la técnica- triunfó. No es muy difícil realizar una analogía entre hombres mono y neandertales, y hombres de cromañón y comunidad aborigen:

Tenía paredes cortadas a pico y un fondo nivelado de unos seis metros de diámetro. […] Después de tropezar y caer muchas veces, di con algo firme. Era una gran estaca clavada en el centro del pozo, cuyo extremo no pude alcanzar con la mano y que, aparentemente, estaba cubierta de grasa. […] Se trataba de una trampa obviamente hecha por el ser humano. (Ídem: 132)

Lo humano, para este caso, es sinónimo de técnica en el sentido heideggeriano: una forma de manifestar, descubrir e interpretar la realidad. Se establece una relación entre lo arcaico-animal (dinosaurios y hombres mono) – que representa la pura fuerza y violencia sin forma-, contra lo humano-técnico (expedición y comunidad aborigen) –que representan la técnica como forma de poder-. En definitiva El mundo perdido de Conan Doyle problematiza la “voluntad del poder”, pero lo hace realizando una síntesis ingeniosa. Challenger comparte características físicas y psicológicas con los hombres-mono: su aspecto y su agresividad:

-Creí que era el fin de todos nosotros, pero la actitud de Challenger inició un nuevo tipo de comportamiento entre los hombres-mono. Estuvieron un largo rato parloteando entre ellos. Luego uno de esos brutos se paró al lado de Challenger… Usted reirá, pero le doy mi palabra de que parecían parientes. Si no lo hubiera visto personalmente, no lo habría creído. Este viejo hombre-mono, el jefe de la tribu, era una especie de Challenger rojo, con todos los rasgos de nuestro amigo, si bien un poco exagerados. (Ídem: 140)

¿Qué nos quiere decir la obra con esto? ¿Por qué se produce esta asimilación? Antes de ese acontecimiento vuelve a formularse una hipótesis sobre el equilibrio de la vida en la meseta: “Podemos imaginar, entonces, que el equilibrio biológico se ha preservado debido a algo que limita la cantidad de estas criaturas feroces” (Ídem: 115). Dinosaurios, hombres-mono y aborígenes se mantienen en equilibrio en su relación triádica. Si bien el conflicto entre hombres-mono y aborígenes parece ser muy fuerte, hay un equilibrio entre técnica y fuerza bruta que ha permitido la coexistencia de ambas razas. En esta relación Challenger aparece como una síntesis. Su capacidad de dominio no es resultado de la técnica, tampoco de la fuerza bruta, sino de la posesión y el ejercicio de ambos en simultáneo. Podría decirse que, en un efecto casi cómico, el eslabón perdido no se encuentra en el pasado (el hombre-mono), sino en el presente, que a su vez es el futuro de esa meseta, es decir Challenger. Él es quien rompe el equilibrio y también quien es capaz de conquistar y reinar sobre todo lo existente en ese mundo salvaje.

Lejos de ser un hombre quien va en busca de un Mundo Perdido, podríamos decir que es éste el que demanda determinado tipo de héroe. El Mundo Perdido sólo es el destino fatal de un hombre que se encontrará con su Mundo Perdido, donde será rey. Como en todo relato clásico de héroes hay un caso de anagnórisis que puede ser explícita o no, pero forma parte de la relación de espejo que le genera al personaje descubrir, en esa alteridad, algo que lo involucra interna y externamente.

Entonces, volviendo al caso de Conway de Horizontes Perdidos, podemos empezar a bosquejar un héroe que elimine la visión estereotipada el héroe. Como pudo observarse, lo importante no es únicamente la voluntad conquistadora del hombre que se entrega pura y exclusivamente al devenir de las aventuras, a esa sucesión temporal aislada de lo que sucede en el resto del mundo, sino que eso es sólo una de las formas de poner la vida en juego, tensionando la linealidad de la experiencia vital, llevándolas a nuevas formas más extremas.

Si bien al comiendo de Horizontes Perdidos, el personaje principal será llamado “Conway el Glorioso”(Hilton, 1984: 8), su construcción posterior será más similar a un santo asceta, a un monje, que a un hombre amante de la aventura. Rápidamente es descripto como un personaje cuyas ataduras georgráficas y emocionales son nulas, dando lugar a la primera característica, el desapego:

No tenía nada apremiante que hacer en Peshawur ni había nadie que tuviese que verle con urgencia; por consiguiente, le era completamente indiferente que tardaran en el viaje cuatro horas o seis.

Era soltero; no se tendrían brazos cariñosos a su llegada. Poseía amigos; pero éstos limitarían a llevarle a su casino y hacerle beber. No le parecía mal la perspectiva, pero no le agradaba hasta el punto de obligarle a suspirar impaciencias (Ídem: 22)

El primer fragmento signa la relación intrínseca entre la experiencia del tiempo con aquello que nos ancla a un espacio. Se posee al mismo tiempo que se es poseído, por lo que cualquier pertenencia implica, de alguna forma, una clausura en el devenir.

La descripción se completa poco después, concluyendo esa imagen espiritualmente superior: “Había en su naturaleza un rasgo característico que algunos pudieran haber llamado pereza; pero no era precisamente eso. […] Conway era un apasionado de la paz, la contemplación y la soledad” (Ídem: 33-34). Desde un comienzo Conway exhibe las condiciones para ser catalogado como un bodhisattva, eso significa: alguien comprometido con el camino de Buda y, en la rama mahāyāna del budismo, alguien comprometido en reducir el sufrimiento ajeno. A diferencia de Challenger y su deseo por ser reconocido, “Conway era la antítesis de todos aquellos detentadores de marca mundiales que intentaban continuamente superar los ya batidos. Él se sentía inclinado a no ver más que vulgaridad en la afición occidental a lo superlativo” (Ibídem: 40). Por contraponerse casi punto por punto con Challenger no podríamos decir que su odisea no sea una aventura o que él no sea un héroe. Justamente, porque está en las antípodas podemos plantear la existencia de un héroe metafísico en una odisea espiritual.

Shangri-La, como hemos señalado, posee características geográficas similares a las de El Mundo Perdido de Conan Doyle pero en su interior el funcionamiento es diametralmente opuesto. Todo el camino desde Baskul hasta las inmediaciones de Shangri-La es lo más cercano que el lector va a estar de una novela de aventuras típica. Sin embargo, Conway no ofrecerá resistencia a lo sucedido, tampoco luchará por imponer su lógica o adueñarse de la situación. En pleno viaje en avión “Conway se sentía menos seguro de ser un hombre de verdad. Había cerrado los ojos con un agotamiento físico invencible, pero no dormía” (Ídem: 29). Su entrega a la aventura es pasiva, como la de un hombre reposando en el río mientras es llevado por la corriente. ¿Pero no es una entrega al fin y al cabo?: “Hay momentos en la vida en que uno abre su alma igual que si abriese un monedero en una noche de feria y se da cuenta de que la distracción, aunque costosa, resulta agradable” (Ídem: 60). Ahí aparece el rasgo fundamental: la experiencia por la experiencia en sí, la entrega de uno mismo como un acto de soberanía absoluto, el derroche como un acto anti-utilitario (anti-capitalista), similar a la lógica del potlach, extrayendo al sujeto de la experiencia lineal del mundo de causa-efecto/costo-beneficio.

Una vez camino a Shangri-La con la caravana, el mismo aire del lugar comienza a modificar, como si fuera una droga, la actitud de los recién llegados:

Había que respirar consciente y deliberadamente, lo cual, aunque desconcertante al principio, le proporcionó al poco rato una tranquilidad espiritual extraordinaria.

Todos los cuerpos movíanse en un ritmo único de respiración, avance y pensamiento; los pulmones supeditaban su funcionamiento a la armonía con la mente y los miembros. (Ídem: 59)

El cuerpo y la mente se ven obligados a coordinar, a establecer un pacto o reestablecer una relación antigua que, hasta ese momento, había sido olvidada. Si la meseta de los dinosaurios y los hombres monos requería de la fuerza y la violencia, Shangri-La convoca a todo lo contrario. Para poder lograr el cometido, primero es necesario entregarse sin pedir explicaciones, a lo que el contexto demanda ¿hay mayor ventura que la de entregarse sin imponer resistencia, a lo indecible, a la voluntad de otro desconocido? Nuevamente, como ya fue señalado en la relación entre Challenger y su destino de expedición, no es exactamente el aventurero quien impone las condiciones ni cómo deberá accionar. El Mundo Perdido tiene la presencia de un dios que elige, entre muchos, a su conquistador o, en este caso, a su sucesor. El hecho de que, contra toda lógica, el Lama lo reciba repetidas veces hasta elegirlo sucesor manifiesta una lógica que excede a la novela para manifestar algo del género. Cada mundo perdido es la expresión de los anhelos y esperanzas de un único ser, el héroe. Esto termina por confirmarse cuando se regresa a las primeras páginas de la novela en las que se narra la aparición sorpresiva de Conway con amnesia: Tenía en su rostro una expresión de indecible melancolía, una especie de tristeza remota e impersonal, un Wehmut o Weltohmerz (Ídem: 15). Weltschmerz es un término acuñado por un escritor alemán, usado para expresar la sensación que una persona experimenta al entender que el mundo físico real nunca podrá equipararse al mundo deseado como uno lo imagina. El término también es utilizado para denotar el sentimiento de tristeza cuando se piensa en los males que aquejan al mundo. El significado moderno de Weltschmerz en la lengua alemana, es el dolor psicológico causado por la tristeza que puede sufrirse cuando se comprende que las propias debilidades son causadas por la crueldad del mundo y circunstancias físicas y sociales. En muchos niveles puede identificarse ese lazo espiritual entre el héroe y su lugar de destino. No hay sólo un motivo narrativo lógico –el aventurero tiene que viajar y triunfar (o no), frente a lo desconocido o no hay narración-, sino un vínculo específico que une de forma arquetípica un lugar a un hombre. En esa zona de excepción, el aventurero puede ser de forma plena. No sólo se reconoce, se mimetiza, sino que también se expande hasta vibrar en la misma frecuencia que todo el espacio. Entonces, en ese momento, el hombre se transforma en la sinécdoque del Mundo Perdido. Conway es el “eslabón perdido” de Shangri-La. Es por eso que al llegar poco a poco comienza a descubrir esa sensación o experiencia que los japoneses llamarían “shinto”, sentirse como en casa.

Etno-tecnicas: supervivencia y destrucción

Como hemos señalado con anterioridad, el equilibrio de estos espacios parece pender de un hilo. Aislados del resto del mundo, como un cuerpo que nunca ha sufrido ninguna infección y su sistema inmune se mantiene virgen, parecen correr la suerte del cristal y lo frágil: la posibilidad de hacerse pedazos como el cristal. Sin embargo, esta no es una afirmación universal. Cada Mundo Perdido posee, como se ha podido verificar, una lógica interna particular. Podemos encontrar poblaciones en estado salvaje (El Mundo Perdido), sociedades altamente tecnificadas (Vril), organizadas gracias al monopolio del poder mágico (She) y altamente codificadas mediante rituales y un sistema de creencia que actúa de forma omnicomprensiva (Horizontes perdidos). Esta es la segunda barrera frente a la posible invasión del afuera. Superada la muralla/división material queda, queda la espiritual-cultural.

Los casos de El Mundo Perdido y Horizontes Perdidos, se encuentran en ambos extremos. En el primero reina la violencia y la ley del más fuerte –una visión que podría calificarse de darwiniana-, mientras que en el segundo nos encontramos con un sistema de carácter utópico, altamente organizado y codificado culturalmente capaz de hacer frente a la presencia de la otredad externa, de modo tal que pueda, el mejor de los casos, envolverla e incluirla. ¿Cómo sucede esto? Para explicarlo será conveniente establecer una situación hipotética. ¿De qué manera respondería cada uno de estos mundos frente a la invasión del hombre moderno?

El Mundo Perdido de Doyle, como señalamos anteriormente, está constituido por tres grupos: dinosaurios, aborígenes y hombres-mono. La intromisión de Challenger, lo único nuevo que lleva a ese mundo es la fuerza de las armas. Es decir, el desarrollo más alto de la técnica al servicio de la dominación. La violencia salvaje y natural es combatida con violencia tecnificada. Fuera de eso no se percibe ningún otro tipo de relación de dominio. Pese al peligro que implica ese mundo, la falta de desarrollo cultura en la meseta lo hace permeable a la destrucción, antes que a la dominación. Esto se debe a que el ejercicio de la violencia en la meseta es casi a-sistemático, simplemente coexisten formas-de-vida con potencias opuestas, cuya existencia perdura en detrimento de las otras.

En Horizontes perdidos encontramos lo contrario. Shangri-La se funda en un proceso de asimilación. Cuando se refiere a las misiones religiosas de los frailes capuchinos al valle, Perrault señala: “Los habitantes practicaban la fe budista, pero no se negaron a escucharle y logró un éxito notable” (Hilton, 1984: 145). Desde un primer momento, la fundación de Shangri-La es un proceso sincrético entre el budismo y la fe del cristianismo nestorniano. Este origen es fundamental para sostener lo que será después la meta de este espacio utópico: proteger los tesoros de la humanidad.

En una conversación con Conway, Perrault dice:

Él previó un tiempo en que los hombres, delirantes con su técnica homicida, desahogarán su furia mecánica sobre la tierra de tal forma, que todas las cosas preciosas se hallarán en peligro, como todos los libros, cuadros y maravillas, los tesoros reunidos durante milenios, los objetos pequeños, delicados, frágiles, todo se perdería como los libros de Livy o serían arrasados como los ingleses arrasaron el Palacio de Verano de Pekín (Ídem: 173)

A esta cultura tecnificada del mundo moderno, se contrapone la de formación humanista del fundador de Shangri-La, el mismo Perrault:

Antes de dedicarse a las misiones orientales había estudiado en París, Bolonia y otras Universidades, habiendo adquirido una sólida cultura. […] Era aficionado a la música y a las artes, poseyendo una aptitud especial para los idiomas, y antes de decidirse por su vocación, había gustado todos los placeres que podía ofrecerle el mundo. (Ídem: 146)

De esta manera, Perrault se transforma en el canal de fusión de las culturas, funciona como catalizador. Sin embargo, esto no depende de una voluntad sino de un saber-poder. La ética cristiana, combinada con un ejercicio total de la mesura como forma de vida funcionan como base para la construcción de las relaciones interpersonales. Contra las pasiones que dominan El Mundo Perdido de Doyle, nace el espacio de preservación de Shangri-La. La novela ya da indicios de una primera catástrofe posterior a la primera guerra mundial como resultado de la inhumanidad del sistema económico: “Es muy difícil cuando todo el juego se ha hecho pedazos” (Ídem, 133). Frente a esto, Perrault funda un gobierno donde, como para Platón, gobiernan los mejores y no los más fuertes. Los beneficios son múltiples: no solo se puede gozar de la armonía y de un nivel de vida excelente, sino que la moral de Shangri-La no censura los placeres. Sin embargo, la ausencia de todo exceso los volvería imperceptibles frente al ojo imperial: “no habrá ni escape ni santuario, salvo aquellos demasiado secretos para ser hollados, o demasiado humildes para ser advertidos” (Ídem: 220).

Perrault entiende que la violencia y la técnica han deshumanizado al hombre, y que lo único que puede reconstruir su humanidad es la “cultura” entendido en sentido humanista más clásico. Como espacio de encuentro, Shangri-La permite y fomenta el dialogo intercultural. Lo que distingue a la comunidad es estar fundada en un plan que podríamos decir contra-cultural. Si, como señalaba Marcuse, la cultura es afirmativa –es decir que comprende también todo eso indeseable y que también hace dificultoso el cambio-, Shangri-La es contra-cultural, en tanto invierte la concepción occidental de civilización y prioriza otros valores. A esto se le suma una ventaja: la prolongación de la vida. Shangri-La es un ecosistema que también actúa sobre los cuerpos. No solo es el aire el que invita a alterar el ritmo de la respiración de sus visitantes, sino que también el tiempo comienza a actuar mucho más lentamente sobre los cuerpos. Podríamos decir que Shangri-La se ha apropiado de dos grandes técnicas de la modernidad: la biopolítica y la psicopolítica. La primera actúa sobre el cuerpo y sus condiciones de vida, la segunda sobre la psiquis. Entre ambas mantienen un equilibrio entre nivel de vida y disciplina que es necesaria para mantener el orden.

La prueba del éxito del Shangri-La es su propia existencia y la armonía de su civilización. Son pocos los casos, como Mallison, que se resisten a los encantos y beneficios de una vida en armonía. Mallison se asemeja, por sus pasiones y creciente violencia, a Challenger. Sus arrebatos pasionales sólo son una muestra de aquella “educación sentimental” occidental que ve en la acción y la destrucción un valor. Mallison es el ejemplo del héroe violento que, si bien podría triunfar sobre el Himalaya real, nunca podrá hacerlo contra el Himalaya del espíritu. Sin embargo, la estructura de la sociedad del valle es muy fuerte como para ser perturbada por él. Shangri-La, como Ghandi, opone una resistencia pasiva que termina por expulsarlo.

En pocas palabras, más allá de las especificidades geográficas que dificulten el acceso, Horizontes Perdidos propone una utopía que, lejos de ser conservadora culturalmente, busca ser omnicomprensiva, por lo que necesita de un proceso de sincretismo continuo, que le permita absorber e implementar todo conocimiento humano útil para la preservación del hombre.

Conclusión

A lo largo de este trabajo se han desmontado las técnicas de auto-preservación y las formas de relación con el mundo exterior que caracterizan a un Mundo Perdido. De la misma manera que cada uno parece nacer de las pasiones humanas elementales, en ese mismo movimiento de representarlas, se exponen sus debilidades y fortalezas como principio estructurador de una sociedad. El Mundo Perdido de Conan Doyle pone en juego las pasiones de conquista propias del S XIX. En el acto desesperado por imponer la “civilización”, sólo ha destruido y duplicado la barbarie. Con esa misma pasión, el S XIX ha impulsado los conflictos del S XX, pariéndolo como un hijo entregado a resolver, sea como sea, aquellas tensiones que produjo el siglo anterior. Los resultados fueron obvios: Primera Guerra Mundial, Segunda Guerra Mundial. Esta relación queda expuesta en el resto “salvaje” que posee Challenger y que lo impulsan a actuar. Ese resto es “lo incivilizable”, eso con lo que también se encuentra al estar cara a cara con los hombres-mono, ese resto que es representado como algo que únicamente puede ser gobernado con una violencia superior –solución que se mantendrá vigente en todos los intentos de conquista occidental hasta el nacimiento de la industria cultual-. Por otro lado Horizontes Perdidos de James Hilton, publicada en las puertas del auge nazi en Europa, inmediatamente después del “Martes Negro” (Octubre de 1929), problematiza la herencia cultural occidental poniendo frente al espejo cuales son las consecuencias de su cosmogonía y su plan para la humanidad. Si El Mundo Perdido instala la violencia como acto heroico pero deja entrever la peligrosidad de su ideología, Horizontes Perdidos, ya con plena consciencia de las falencias del sistema y se presenta ya no como mundo a conquistas sino como espacio de salvación. Para eso debe realizar una intensa búsqueda en la memoria de la humanidad (archivismo), y reorganizar el imaginario utópico en torno a todos los saberes útiles al hombre para su cultivo espiritual. Es por eso que, antes que todo, Shangri-La aparece como una comunidad filosófica-artística, ya que es ahí donde pueden rastrearse los sueños de la humanidad, ese horizonte perdido al que habrá que volver al momento en el que la ilusión del mundo que propone el sistema actual se rompa.

Por último, solo cabría señalar que los mundos perdidos son espacios de reflexión, donde el lector sutil podrá leer su pasado y, por qué no, su futuro. Su fuerte relación con la literatura utópica nos invita a pensar ¿por qué parecemos, actualmente, incapaces de gestar la empresa de una creación artística similar? ¿Habrán muerto todas las utopías? ¿Habremos sido atomizados al punto de sólo ser capaces de crear islas menores, débilmente conectadas entre sí? Reconocer las falencias de nuestras propias pasiones representadas de forma sistemática nos permite evitar caer en la equivocación nuevamente. Un mundo perdido es tan resistente, honorable y durable como puede serlo la pasión con la que se lo construyó, tan como nuestro propio mundo. El hombre que llega a él no se encuentra sino en el mundo bajo un microscopio, donde todo aumenta lo suficiente en tamaño e intensidad, como para que logre verse en el espejo en cada detalle.

Bibliografía

  • Doyle, Arthur Conan. El Mundo Perdido, Buenos Aires: Robin Hood, 2011
  • Hilton, James, Horizontes Perdidos, España: Plaza & Janes, 1984.
  • McConnell, F. “Los leopardos y la historia: el problema de los géneros cinematográficos” en El cine y la imaginación romántica. Barcelona: G.G., 2002.
  • Siebers, T. en Lo fantástico romántico. México: F.C.E., 1989
  • Simmel, G. “Para una psicología filosófica” en Sobre la aventura. Barcelona: Península, 2002.
  • Tadié, J. “Introducción”, en La novela de aventuras. México: F.C.E., 1989.

Sobre el autor:

Alan Ojeda (1991) Cursó el CBC en el 2009. Es Licenciado en Letras (UBA), Técnico superior en periodismo (TEA) y se encuentra cursando la maestría en Estudios Literarios Latinoamericanos en la Universidad Nacional Tres de Febrero. Es docente de escuela media, periodista e investigador. Coordinó los ciclos de poesía y música Noche Equis y miniMOOG, y condujo el programa de radio Área MOOG (https://web.facebook.com/area.moog); colabora con los portales Artezeta (www.artezeta.com.ar), Labrockenface (www.labrokenface.com), Danzería (www.danzería.com), Kunst (http://revistakunst.com) y Lembra (http://revistalembra.com). Es editor de Código y Frontera. Publicó los poemarios Ciudad Límite (Llantodemudo 2014), El señor de la guerra (Athanor 2016) y Devociones (Zindo&Gafuri 2017). Actualmente se encuentra realizando investigaciones sobre literatura y esoterismo.

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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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Recuerdos del profesor Heidegger

Kiyoshi Miki

Heidegger se mudó de Freiburg a Marburg aproximadamente al mismo tiempo que yo me mudé a Marburg desde Heidelberg. Yo había ido allí para escuchar sus lecciones.
Poco después de llegar a Marburg, visité al Sr. Heidegger sin ninguna referencia previa. Las clases no habían comenzado, Heideegger recién se había mudado y había alquilado un cuarto, donde lo visité. Me preguntó qué iba a estudiar, y respondí que pensaba estudiar a Aristóteles, pero que durante mi tiempo en Japón me había interesado por la filosofía de la historia y que tenía pensado continuar mi investigación en esa dirección. Le pregunté qué me recomendaba leer. Entonces el profesor Heidegger respondió que si quería estudiar Aristóteles, estudiar Aristóteles significa ya estudiar filosofía de la historia. En aquel momento, realmente no entendí las palabras del profesor, sólo después de asistir a sus conferencias su sentido se volvió más claro. En otras palabras, según él, dado que la filosofía de la historia no es más que hermenéutica, uno puede aprender qué es la hermenéutica a partir de leer por sí mismo a los clásicos. Sus conferencias en la universidad se centraban en la interpretación de textos, traía una gruesa colección de obras completas como las de Aristóteles, Agustín, Santo Tomás y Descartes al aula y la abría, la clase avanzaba mientras él interpretaba los pasajes de manera extremadamente creativa. Tal vez pueda decirse que aprendí a leer libros gracias a Heidegger.

Ocasionalmente visitaba la casa del profesor localizada en la SchwanAllee, y lo que particularmente me llamó la atención fue la colección completa de literatura clásica alemana que estaba alineada en su biblioteca. Contemplé aquello de manera extrañada, pero cuando leí su artículo “Hölderlin y la esencia de la poesía” el año pasado, la relación se hizo evidente. Últimamente en sus conferencias el tema de la filosofía del arte se encuentra muy presente. En ocasión de ser nombrado rector de la Universidad de Freiburg escribió su discurso “La autoafirmación de la Universidad Alemana, pero probablemente debido a su relación con los nazis, su nuevo puesto no funcionó muy bien y lo abandonó en seguida. Se dice que en ese momento se retiró y principalmente dictó conferencias sobre filosofía del arte. Al recordar que en Japón, cuando se intensificó la represión contra el marxismo, muchas personas habían escapado a la teoría del arte, pensé en el estado mental actual del profesor Heidegger, y me hizo pensar en general sobre la relación entre política y filosofía.

Otra cosa que noté en el estudio del profesor Heidegger en Marburg fue un escritorio alto donde podía leer y escribir mientras estaba parado como un predicador de iglesia en el centro de la sala. A veces me acuerdo de ese escritorio y me dan ganas de poseer uno igual, aunque hasta el momento no he sido capaz de construirlo.

Traducción F.W.

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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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El poder del eslogan

por Miki Kiyoshi

Todos saben el poder que poseen los eslóganes hoy en día. Las zapaterías, las tiendas de ropa y las peluquerías se esfuerzan por atraer a los clientes con nuevas frases pegadizas. Es parte de nuestra psicología el hecho de que si se utiliza un buen eslogan, la persona será atraída por él debido al poder de las palabras. En especial la política se beneficia de muchas maneras de esta ingenua psicología humana.

El humano se define como un animal político y también como un animal que posee lenguaje. El eslogan es, por lo tanto, aquello que más agudamente expresa tales características de los seres humanos. Los animales políticos son animales de eslogan.

El eslogan es una palabra política. Es decir, es una palabra política que siempre contiene una determinada intención, y es importante reconocer esta intención de manera precisa. La palabra tiene cierta propiedad mágica y esa magia se muestra en el eslogan. Así, obedecer ciegamente el encanto del eslogan resulta a menudo peligroso.

De este modo, por ejemplo, la idea de que la civilización occidental es una ‘civilización material’ se suele repetir en forma de eslogan. Con razón, la ciencia se desarrolló en Occidente. Sin embargo, hablar de ‘civilización científica’ y ‘civilización material’ no refiere siempre la misma cosa. La civilización occidental no es una civilización científica, a pesar de que ‘civilización material’ posee el efecto mágico de este eslogan. Para el desarrollo de la ciencia no se requiere únicamente una gran fuerza espiritual, pues también existen otras excelentes culturas espirituales en Occidente. Si interpretamos la civilización occidental como una ‘civilización material’, significa que Japón tradicionalmente ha centrado sus esfuerzos solo en importar la ‘civilización científica’ de la cultura occidental. En todo caso, ésta es más bien una actitud material. Desde la era Meiji (1868-1912), el gobierno ha alentado las ciencias naturales, pero casi no ha realizado esfuerzos activos para desarrollar la cultura espiritual. […]

Ha pasado mucho tiempo desde que se popularizó el eslogan “tiempo de emergencia”, y se habla sobre un agotamiento de la empatía para con aquel. Pero lo que necesitamos no es solo un nuevo eslogan. Tiempos como los de hoy, cuando todo está politizado, son ya tiempos de sobreabundancia de eslóganes. Incluso los problemas académicos se encuentran en un estado en el que pueden ser reemplazados y juzgados por medio de simples eslóganes. No hace falta decir que el hecho de que los ciudadanos sean coptados por eslóganes implica el peligro de que pierdan el poder de análisis y la crítica; por otro lado, demasiados eslóganes, así como una retórica demasiado persistente y homogénea, nos dejan cansados y apáticos. Por supuesto, la política y la praxis requieren eslóganes. Es importante, por ello, evitar el exceso de eslóganes y crear consignas que tengan un encanto claro y popular.

(23 de abril, 1935)

Traducción: F. Wirtz