Wednesday, 19 August 2015

Out There, Thataway (curated show at CCA Derry)

From the press release:

CCA is pleased to present Out There, Thataway, a group exhibition curated through dialogue between Francis Halsall, Declan Long, and CCA that includes work by Stephen Brandes, Nathan Coley, Aleana Egan, Fergus Feehily, Kevin Gaffney, Rana Hamadeh, and Merlin James.

Out There, Thataway has two conceptual starting points: 

First, a concern with imagining or navigating territories that are ‘beyond knowledge’;
Second, an interest in ways that metaphors of geography shape thinking and behaviour.

The exhibition takes its title from the last words spoken at the end of ‘Star Trek: The Motion Picture’: they are Kirk’s vague but determined directions as the Enterprise begins to venture further out than ever before beyond known frontiers.

Out There, Thataway opens Saturday, August 8th at 7pm and runs until 26th September 2015. The exhibition will be accompanied by commissioned playlists and a public programme of events.

This exhibition is made possible through the generous support of the Arts Council of Northern Ireland.

See here for more detailed information on the show

And download a conversation between the curatorial team on some themes here at  

Image: Stephen Brandes, selected slideshow
still from The Last Travelogue of Albert Sitzfleisch.

Saturday, 1 August 2015

The Wasteland: Poetry and Collaborative Systems

“The strange, the surprising, is of course essential to art; but art has to create a new world, and a new world must have a new structure.”
T.S.Eliot, ‘London Letter’, (Published in The Dial Magazine, 1921)

Collaboration always comes with a threat. But this risk is also the source of its richest reward. The threat we face when we collaborate is the loss of identity.

By necessity any working relationship will involve the emergence of a new creative agent that no-one will have full control over. This is the collaboration itself; a system with its own volition, direction and tastes. This system requires its partners to negotiate with it; perhaps yield to it. It asks them to test their aesthetic decisions and justify their choices. By necessity, collaboration forces new ways of thinking and making. It pitches participants into a situation of creative antagonism in which everyone cajoles each other into producing what nobody is quite expecting.

Between 1921 and 1922 TS Eliot and Ezra Pound worked together on the poem which would become the signal work of modernist poetry. The Wasteland was produced by the creative antagonism of two writers working together. Eliot acknowledged his debt by dedicating the poem in 1925 to “Il miglior fabbro” (“the better craftsman”).

The annotated manuscripts make for astonishing reading.

They show how the poem developed from a negotiation between the multiple comments of Eliot and Pound (with additional editorial comments from Valerie, Eliot’s wife and editor.)  Under Pound’s guidance whole sections were cut, moved around and re-sculpted. The title changes from “He Do the Police in Different Voices.” The whole first page goes – cancelled by with a single pencil line. Throughout we can see how the verses took shape by being meticulously crafted into a self-contained world where everything works together with elegant precision. What is left over from this conversation is a poem in which it’s unclear as to who deleted or added what; and who should take full authorial credit. We can’t be sure where one writer’s voice begins or another ends. The manuscript can be seen variously through different perceptual modes. Its a visual tabula rasa embedded with the multiple scrawled indices of poetic creation and a collage overlaid with the scraps and fragments of reality that have been pasted onto its surface. But it’s also a refrain of multiple voices that sometimes negate each other and yet sometimes reverberate in a brittle chorus. Much like the final poem itself there is a deep-seated ambiguity of authorship and identity as multiple voices clamour to be heard. What have been rendered uncertain are the relationships between the idioms of: high and low-brow; classical and vernacular; modernity and tradition.

Something of the spirit of the authors’ relationship is revealed in a note by Pound on a handwritten section which reads: “Bad- but can’t attack until I get typescript.”

It reveals an interlocutor who is eager to engage but also pass judgment and “attack” the weakness of their friend. Pound slashes out Eliot’s use of the word “perhaps” and writes “perhaps be damned” and “if you know, know damned well or else you don’t.”

A lot of the text is dismissed as flabby or unnecessary with comments like: “verse not interesting enough as verse to warrant so much of it.”

Pound both consoles and chastises Eliot with the various “OKs” and “Echts” scrawled thorough the text. He takes him to task for the “demotic” use of words like “abominable” and challenges him to resist cliché and commonplace. “Too easy” Pound warns of a phrase too easily reached. Another is “too loose.” Laziness, it seems, is not to be tolerated. Pound takes Eliot to task for using the word “may” with the scathing comment: “make up yr. mind” and is contemptuous of the equivocation suggested by the use of the word perhaps: “perhaps be damned” he pithily notes. Elsewhere we can see that Eliot rewrites and rewrites until he gets the comment “OK”

The poem, clearly, would not be anything like its published version without these conversations. In a different context it would be easy to read such cajoling through the logic of power and authority. Such language could be read as hurtful and unproductive; undermining and antagonistic. However what we can see instead is them both using language to build a new world around themselves which only they inhabit.

Much of the vocabulary is incomprehensible to outsiders. For example one comment seems to be about the rhythm of a line: “3 lines Too tum-pum at a stretch” a further comment asks: “Why this Blot and Scutcheon between 1922 and lil.’”

Another remark warns that the line “Filled all the desert with inviolable voice” is “too penty” which is ambiguous and the contemporary reader can only hazard a guess as to what it really means. Is it a recommendation to disrupt the pentamic beats of repeated syllables perhaps? Or is this a warning that the “inviolable” voice mimics the stridency of the Pentecostal imagery of renewal that Eliot used elsewhere but is rejecting in The Wasteland. We can never be sure. This is the private language of intimate communication. It talks of shared values and practices. It is a new system of communication that is being brought into being through their collaboration. This is the system of The Wasteland; a system that is also a world unto itself.

[quotes from T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland, A Facsimile and Transcript of the Original Drafts, Ed. Valerie Eliot, (London: Faber and Faber, 1971)]

Saturday, 28 February 2015

Systems and Containers

The container ships that frequently dock in Dublin Port are representative of the biggest moving objects that humans have ever produced. Yet despite the almost sublime mass of these ships in general they are but tiny elements in much bigger systems. They provide the necessary physical connections in the virtual networks of global communication and control. Without these ships the world system would stutter and atrophy. Without the objects they transport modern environments and lifestyles would be untenable. As Rose George puts it “nearly everything” comes to us by sea: 

Sometimes on trains I play a numbers game. A woman listening to headphones: 8. A man reading a book: 15. The child in the stroller: a least 4 including the stroller. The game is to reckon how many of our clothes and possessions and food products have been transported by ship. The beads around the woman’s neck; the man’s i-phone and Japanese-made headphones. Her Sri Lanka-made skirt and blouse; his printed in China book. I can always go wider, deeper and in any direction. The fabric of the seats. The rolling stock. The fuel powering the train. The conductor’s uniform; the coffee in my cup; the fruit in my bag. Definitely the fruit, so frequently shipped in refrigerated containers that it has been given its own temperature. Two degrees Celsius is ‘chill’ but 13 degrees is ‘banana.’” [Ninety Percent of Everything, (Picador, 2013)]
 There are two often repeated commonplaces about the conditions of contemporary capitalism: its virtuality and its speed. This is understandable. In general the move to a post-Fordist economy is explicable as the shift from manufacturing to information; that is, from infrastructural to informational systems. Now a lot of communication takes place in spaces that are de-materialized; online. Interactions are often performed rapidly in which vast global spaces are collapsed with either a swipe/click or another plane journey. It’s easy, therefore, to assume that the two icons of the world system are the tokens of this virtuality and speed: the screen and the jet-plane. Yet just below the surfaces of the swiftly digitised world a lumbering mechanism of docks, cranes, containers and vessels grinds and shudders.

The modern container was invented in 1956 and adopted in the subsequent decade. It standardised shipping according to a module that could be easily transferred between ships, trains and trucks. Before then it didn’t make sense to manufacture things in other places to avail of cheaper resources and labour. Containers rendered everything transferable in a global system: raw-materials; products; people. The container ship made capital truly migratory on a global scale. But these massive ships are weighty, cumbersome and slow. The immediacy and speed of day-to-day living is only guaranteed by the irresistible inertia by which these ships move. The container ship is, in short, both the necessary mechanism and emblem of post war capitalism. That which lies manifest within their manifest is the very apparatus of our lives.

 In that famous line from The Communist Manifesto Marx predicted that in the stage of capitalism brought about by the Industrial Revolution all that is solid would melt into air. Relations that were concrete and human, he feared, were being effaced by the immateriality of economic ones. But, it transpired, all that is solid didn’t melt after all but was instead broken down to its component parts, boxed up and shipped out in container ships. These behemoths criss-cross the planet drawing their own occult patterns. The intricate traces they leave in the foam of the sea only hint at the mostly hidden migration of capital in the global system.
[This was the beginning of a longer response to Cliona Harmey's Dublin Ships project]

Thursday, 4 September 2014

Mel Brimfield and cosmic jokes

I recently responded to the artist Mel Brimfield’s work for the forthcoming Quantum Foam project in Ireland. My text can be found here along with details of the project and examples of her work.  
My main point is “Perhaps there are metaphysical chickens out there waiting to peck at us. And they don’t know we think they don’t exist.”

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

This isn't some kind of metaphor. Goddamn, this is real

Here are some thoughts on the recent work of Kelley O’Brien; they were published elsewhere but I'm happy to post them now as they raise some points I’ve been thinking about regarding metaphors, axis and what Hugh Campbell refers to as "locative systems" that I hope to unpack further.
You can find examples of her work here:

“This isn't some kind of metaphor. Goddamn, this is real”
Shellac, ‘The Squirrel Song,’ 1000 Hurts, (Touch & Go, 2000)

What we are concerned with here is not texts but texture. We already know that a texture is made up of a usually rather large space covered by networks or webs; monuments constitute the strong points, nexuses or anchors of such webs. The actions of social practice are expressible but not explicable through discourse: they are, precisely, acted – and not read.
Henri Lefebvre, ‘The Production of Space’

1: Steam

On certain winter days, when it’s cold and wet enough, the walkway outside the library and museum at Cranbrook Academy of Art steams. Quite literally. The Knoll Walkway, named after designer and Cranbrook alumni Florence Knoll, is so well heated you could walk on it barefoot even when it’s 20 below (I know; I tried).

A short walk away is Woodward Avenue, the near 22 mile highway that runs from Detroit in the south to Pontiac in the north-west. It was the first road in the USA to be concreted when a mile was completed in 1909. It begins in Wayne County and ends in Oakland County where Cranbrook is situated. On the way it passes numerous sites of historical importance including the Detroit Institute of Arts and Henry Ford’s factory built in 1910 where the Model T was first produced and the assembly line system was invented. Both cities at either end of the highway - Detroit and Pontiac – are bankrupt and currently under emergency administration.

Two thoroughfares, two situations, two axes. It’s tempting to read both as metaphors. This means to ascribe to them the status of the symbolic or the poetic; to bring them within the systems of art. On the one hand the steam at Cranbrook speaks to both the energy that fizzes from the members and guests of its very special community and the (perhaps obscene) power that cultural and financial capital can mobilize. On the other Woodward Avenue can serve as a convenient image for the history of 20th Century America. Whilst once at the heart of the Fordist model of industrial, automotive might, Woodward Avenue now joins two ailing, derelict, post-urban sites that have lost their previous functions and identities.

But these are not mere metaphors. They are hard, concrete realities. And this, I think, is what Kelley O’Brien’s work is about. It seems motivated by a fierce, stubborn refusal to allow the work that she does to become subordinated to hegemonic hierarchies of metaphor.

2: Refusing Armchairs

Yet, with O’Brien’s refusal comes a double risk. A sweet gamble perhaps, but a tricky one nonetheless.

The first risk is that tiresome, un-answerable question will rear its head once more: “but is it art?”  As if that bureaucratic clarification had any heft right now.

One, seductive, way of thinking about art is through the inherited legacy of Modernist rhetoric of defining art as a means of escape from the messy exigencies of reality. In its most decadent form this means thinking like Matisse who said:

“What I dream of is an art of balance, of purity and serenity, devoid of troubling or depressing subject matter, an art which could be for every mental worker, for the businessman as well as the man of letters, for example, a soothing, calming influence on the mind, something like a good armchair which provides relaxation from physical fatigue.”[1]

This, seductive, way of thinking about art is also a way of thinking about art schools too. This approach conceives of art schools as zones of relative autonomy detached from their environments. Such autonomy requires preserving places like Cranbrook as those where aesthetic practices can be abstracted and protected from the outside world. A place of privilege and luxury perhaps. A place of good armchairs. Yet, thankfully, this autonomy can take a dialectical form. The armchairs can be refused (or at the very least made uncomfortable).

For, the luxury and privilege of autonomy can also create a space where experiments may take place without any guarantee of success; a place where values can be questioned and tested even if it’s not known where this questioning will lead. Adorno opens Aesthetic Theory in the spirit of such doubt: “It is self-evident that nothing concerning art is self-evident anymore, not its inner life, not its relation to the world, not even its right to exist”[2] he writes. This lack of self-evidence has consequences not only for art but for art schools too. It calls their activity into doubt. Yet it’s precisely this uncertainty that is important. Art and its schools provide spaces where questions can be asked that either might not be asked otherwise or that probably don’t have answers.

The lack of answers is the second risk that O’Brien has committed to. The risk comes from embracing this lack of self-evidence so wholeheartedly that it becomes necessary to leave both sites of art and the academy. O’Brien’s refusal to design armchairs - even though she’s in one of best-known places for furniture design there is - is not a symbolic gesture. Instead it’s a discomforting, embodied choice. Her move from the safe studio spaces of Cranbrook to Pontiac exemplifies the hazard she’s taken on which – let’s be clear – risks failure that is actual, not metaphorical.

3: Axes & Bodies

A path may or may not be a metaphor, but it can form an axis too. And things can turn around an axis and become aligned. In their collaborative meditation on architecture, Chambers for a Memory Palace Charles Moore and Donlyn Lyndon discuss how Saarinen created an axis at Cranbrook in the “broad artful passage” that leads from the gates past the reflecting pool to the steps up to the museum and library. This axis, by the way, bisects the steamy Knoll Walkway. The effect created is that: “an observer moving through these spaces is almost always aligned with something: an arch, a gate, an entry, a playing field.”[3] The effect is the creation of a space of deliberation and of action where the participant is positioned between the library to their left and the museum to their right and can choose. Obviously, this is not a simple spatial choice. This axis is, Lyndon observes, not neutral, it is: “a relationship across space, not simply a path.”[4] Both the Knoll Walkway and Woodward Avenue are also not simply paths. They are also situated within a system of alignments that are geographical, historical, economic and political. But they are not, I’m arguing here, reducible to mere metaphors either. This is because axes are inherently relational. Axes create relationships in space and time, between things and people. Lyndon continues that:

“[Axes are] an extension of being face to face; when you want to be certain to give your full attention to someone, or to signal that you are doing so, you position yourself opposite them, your bodies roughly aligned, your eyes attending to theirs.”[5]

With sign-posts, lights, paint and whatever material she might have to hand O’Brien makes new axes, besides streets, along rivers, between people. With each new axis new relationships are brought into being. What she shows is that our relationships have an architecture. This is a concrete architecture. It will always exceed whatever clumsy metaphors we design around it.

[1] Henri Matisse, ‘Notes of a Painter,’ (1908), trans. Flam, in Harrison & Wood (eds.), Art in Theory 1900-1990,  (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), pg. 76
[2] Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, trans. Hullot-Kentor, (London: Continuum, 1997) pg. 1
[3] Donlyn Lyndon, Charles W. Moore, Chambers for a Memory Palace, (Mass.: The MIT Press, 1996), pg. 7
[4] Ibid. pg. 7 emphasis added
[5] Ibid. pg 7

Monday, 28 July 2014

On Garrett Phelan’s Feral Phenomenology

Outside our Hoops of Red-Hot Iron: On Garrett Phelan’s Feral Phenomenology

“As so often on spring evenings, no birds sing near me, while all the distant trees and bushes ring with song. Like all human beings, I seem to walk within a hoop of red-hot iron, a hundred yards across, that sears away all life. When I stand still, it cools, and slowly disappears.”
J.A. Baker, The Peregrine, (1968)

J.A. Baker’s little book, The Peregrine, still has the power to arrest, astonish and unsettle. From autumn to spring in coastal East Anglia the author followed, meticulously, fanatically a pair of peregrine falcons and constructed a bare narrative around the experience. What arrests is the breathless, addictive pursuit of the mark, continuing almost every day, without rest, from October to April. During this time he records 619 kills by the hawks, an ugly figure perhaps, but one that his own quest is in a sort of weird simpatico with. What astonishes are the descriptions which become almost too intense to bear, certainly in a single reading. Landscapes emerge from careful, patient acts of immersive observation. So, during an October evening: “the wet fields exhaled that indefinable autumnal smell, a sour-sweet rich aroma of cheese and beer, nostalgic, pervasive in the heavy air. I heard a dead leaf loosen and drift down to the shining surface of the lane with a light, hard sound;”  and on a partridge corpse: “Blood looked black in the dusk, bare bones white as a grin of teeth. A hawk’s kill is like the warm embers of a dying fire.”  And what unsettles is the total identification that Baker reaches with both the landscape and the animals. At points he seems unable to distinguish himself from either; and just as the bird is integrated into its environment through hunting so too Baker becomes integrated into them both. At one point we find him crouching over killed prey and “imitating the movements of a hawk, as in some primitive ritual; the hunter becoming the thing he hunts… We live, in these days in the open, the same ecstatic fearful life. We shun men.”  Another time he acknowledges the desire to dissolve into his surroundings:
“I share the fear, and the exaltation, and the boredom, of the hunting life. I will follow him till my predatory human shape no longer darkens in terror the shaken kaleidoscope of colour that stains the deep fovea of his brilliant eye. My pagan head will sink into the winter land, and there be purified.”
In all of this mad pursuit the driving will is to overcome the human limits to his perception and thought. For, he says, “the hardest thing of all is to see what is really there.”

I re-read The Peregrine after a recent talk with GarrettPhelan about his work as it occurred to me that he and Baker share an obsessive sensibility and are hunting after the same goal. Both are searching for moments of pure experience and how to represent them. Both open up an occult space between those worlds that are human and those that are, for desperate want of better word, natural. During the conversation Phelan posed a question which appears, paradoxically, as both unanswerable yet necessary: “can an adult arrive at a point of totally detached consciousness; that is, full awareness, but independent of historical baggage or pre-conditioning be it religious or cultural?” Can we, in other words, have experiences free from symbol, language and meaning

Yet, crucially, this does not mean to fully escape thought in order to safari landscapes that lie outside and independent of the correlation of mind and world. This would, after all, be an inhuman thing to do. Phelan is not attempting to leave consciousness behind, but rather pursues it in its purest state as unpolluted phenomena, however impossible this task may be.

It occurs to me that Baker does something similar by struggling with something he’ll never be able to do: to live in the peregrine’s world. Yet this is an aesthetic act above all else. In the hunters’ world colour, movement and time are synthesised in strange new ways. A falcon doesn’t have the human co-ordinates of religion, or art or language, yet it does have its own ones. It inhabits a rich world teeming with presence. Things look different when you try to imagine them through the eyes of a hawk and live in the moment: “Pouring away behind the moving bird, the land flows out from the eye in deltas of piercing colour. The angled eye strikes through the surface dross as the obliqued [sic] axe cuts the heart of a tree… Direction has meaning and colour. 

Unlike Baker, Phelan uses the mediums of art. He’s taken on the challenge of thinking about how to represent what he calls the “absolute present” of phenomenon as they are experienced directly, before they are fettered and penned by symbol, habit and language. This “absolute present” is an experience, perhaps, of total abstraction, before all associations, symbols and meanings come crowding into our fields of experience. But it’s a profoundly human experience nonetheless. Voodoo, then, for Phelan seems to be a useful place-holder for naming all those forms of our messy human obsessive compulsions – habit, language, ritual, religion, thought – through which we try to sink our talons into the flesh of the world. Humans all too often stay within their hoops of red-hot iron. “Voodoo” hoops of modes, meanings and metaphors. Yet can they, Phelan asks, be transcended? Can there ever be Voodoo Free Phenomena?

This is perhaps why Phelan has been drawn to Menhirs. The Standing Stones present a paradox. On the one hand they are obviously made by fellow humans. They have been positioned to suggest a purpose and to declare their distinction from the surroundings. They are figures on the ground of the landscape of which they are part yet from which they are separate both materially and perceptually. Hence a domain of culture is brought forth which the stones occupy. We too, might enter this arena and participate in its world. On the other hand we’ll probably never be able to work out what these mute, inscrutable objects were made for, or what histories they’ve witnessed. They are, to all extents and purposes, useless, pointless, meaningless. They are man-made yet can now only baffle and elude meanings to present themselves in a state of almost total abstraction.

What’s at stake here is that when looked at in a certain way the Menhirs are like birds, twigs, sunsets and fog; they are inhuman. Yet despite this they offer up useful starting points for speculation. The point is that to treat everything as a phenomenal object flattens the differences between the natural and human worlds. Phenomenal objects whether they be woodpigeons, peregrines, monoliths, contemporary sculptures or even a walk on a sea wall as the early evening sun burnishes Dublin Bay – all bring into view the absolute present. Each is an instance when time slows, colours sharpen, contours tighten and unmediated phenomena flutter and glide in from the edges of perception.
Phelan is, of course, not alone in asking such questions; it is game that philosophers have also hunted under the name of Phenomenology. Merleau-Ponty’s description of his own phenomenological project was one of wonder in the face of pure phenomenon. “Reflection” he said:
“does not withdraw from the world towards the unity of consciousness as the world’s basis; it steps back to watch the forms of transcendence fly up like sparks from a fire; it slackens the intentional threads which attach us to the world and thus brings them to our notice; it alone is consciousness of the world because it reveals that world as strange and paradoxical.”
The phenomenological project that Merleau-Ponty inherited from Husserl was to begin philosophy again, from the bottom up, as what is called a First Philosophy, a philosophy of origins. It meant going – in Husserl’s famous phrase – “to the things themselves!”, that is pure phenomenon as it is immediately present in consciousness. This required trying to put all other concerns, interests, preconceptions, prejudices and beliefs on hold and “bracketing” them out in order to focus on describing the pure operation of thought itself. He famously accepted that such a focus on pure thought was probably impossible and that: “the most important lesson which the [phenomenological] reduction [to pure consciousness] teaches us is the impossibility of a complete reduction.  But, he also argued that this was no reason to give up on the project. This is why, for Merleau-Ponty, artists are often engaged in the same endeavours as philosophers; they are searching for new ways to encounter, judge, describe and represent experience.

For Merleau-Ponty philosophy can be like art. Philosophy is super-natural in that it’s about nature rather than being merely part of it. It seeks to understand. But this understanding is always stalked by the shadow of a savage, untameable paradox, that we are part of the world yet can nevertheless think about it as if we’re detached from it. Or, to put it another way as a question: how can it be that little parts of the universe – odd, sticky bundles of hair, nerves and flesh – think? It seems like a simple question, a stupid one even, but any answer we come up with will need to rely on some form of “voodoo” be it ideas of souls, spirits, humanity, minds, zoe, emergence or whatever system is used to explain it.

Philosophy then, like art, is always pursuing a quarry it can never catch. Humans will always stumble in the face of the synesthetic and ontological riot of experience because being in the “absolute present” of the world is like hunting a swift, slippery quarry. It seems difficult if not impossible to catch as we can be weighed down with the baggage of culture, history, memory. Phelan’s response is to propose a type of feral phenomenology; of going back to pure, wild phenomenon. His call for Voodoo Free Phenomena offers up a chance, a hook to hang this baggage on and go hunting.
In 2005 David Foster Wallace opened a speech with the following parable:
“There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, ‘Morning, boys, how's the water?’ And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, ‘What the hell is water?’”
Just like the fish we often can’t see the water we swim in. Phenomena occur at a human scale because they occur in the human world. The challenge is to think beyond these limits; to think of voodoo free phenomenon. To be like an artist perhaps, or even a falcon.