Wednesday, July 12, 2017
"Justine’s regression to moaning inarticulateness, to apolitical idiolect, is like a detoxification from the suspect health she is surrounded by, which is predicated on the exclusion of the entire world from the single setting of the film. A rich citadel, until a world arrives to destroy it. Justine’s woundedness that cannot understand itself nor make its meaning known is arguably the very site of and condition of possibility for beginning to make meaning at all. Health, on the contrary, seems to entail, Stecopoulos argues, the paradoxical absence of a body altogether: the erasure of the body not only as mortal impingement and somatic vicissitude, but also as a poetic or hermeneutic agent. Justine is limited to being the unwilling, symptomatic recipient of unwelcome messages. She is not a hermeneut with no object; she is an object subjected to hermeneutics."
--Miranda Mellis on Eleni Stecopoulos' Visceral Poetics at The Believer Logger
--Miranda Mellis on Eleni Stecopoulos' Visceral Poetics at The Believer Logger
Friday, June 30, 2017
A talk for Patrick F. Durgin’s “Poetics of Agony” course at The Art Institute of Chicago, 10-29-2015
I. Questionnaire (in the spirit of Ben Kinmont)
[Write about each of the following prompts for 5-7 minutes]
1. What are the limits of what we can call “art”? Can art be anything, or do you draw the line somewhere?
2. Have you ever attempted to make art and realized you were making something that was not art? If so, explain. Conversely, have you ever done something that seemed independent from your art practice and then realized it was art?
3. Have you ever made art with a particular community or with collaborators? What did this involve? Did working with others present moral, ethical, or sociopolitical challenges that you do not normally encounter when making art? If so, please describe.
4. To what extent should the artist be considered a worker?
5. What is the relationship between art and value? What values should art have that do not obtain within our current economic and social conditions?
This talk attempts to contextualize a book that I have been working on officially for the past year and a half, and unofficially for much longer than this, at least since 2008, when I was starting to think critically about what Ben Kinmont’s calls “alternative economies” for art and poetry. The “Art Strike Anyone?” piece published at the Poetry Foundation’s Harriet weblog, that some of you may have read for today, came out of this period as an attempt to catalyze poets to think beyond existing institutional frameworks and formats for poetry. At the limits of this thinking was the poet’s “withdrawal”: not just the withdrawal of their work and labor power, a gesture explored by artists’ strikes such as that undertaken by the Art Workers Coalition in 1969, but also their withdrawal from poetry as a habitus limiting what poets can do to effect social change through their work. More than anything else, I wanted to stop making poetry for the page and for public recitation and do something else as a means of experimentation with my own sociality and the possible sociopolitical functions of my vocation. If I stopped writing poetry (and all the other stuff that comes with being a poet: editing, curating, scholarship, teaching, etc.) perhaps I could do something else of value, which might also transform how poetry was valued. The trouble is, when one does something like this, unless they have already produced a recognizeable body of work, the decision to withdraw is not valued. What did it matter whether or not I, a veritable ‘nobody,’ withheld? Nevertheless, this was what I was interested in doing, if only hypothetically. And it is still something that interests me very much, as a limit or horizon of my art.
I have a number of different points of entry into this problem of withdrawal. I’ll describe a few of them briefly, in order to move more quickly to the substance of my talk, which revolves around the artists Lee Lozano and Ben Kinmont. At the SUNY-Buffalo Poetics Program, which I attended with Patrick [F. Durgin] from 2000-2005, I encountered the work of numerous poets who seemed to withdraw at different stages of their careers. Laura Riding Jackson, a contemporary of Gertrude Stein and many others, published hundreds of poems only to declare her “renunciation” of poetry, after which time she wrote philosophical and linguistic tracts that sought to articulate linguistic essence, the essential meanings of words. I often wonder if these subsequent books do not extend the poetry in vital ways, getting to the central pursuit of the poems themselves (truth, or the ineffable) by other means? Might these books in fact be a kind of poetry, though they would purport to be philosophical and linguistic tracts? The status of Riding’s body of work in relation to questions of genre and supplementarity (how the poem itself is added to by other modes of written and spoken discourse) is one that persists. We might call her work an early instance of “poetry in the expanded field,” whereby poetic works encompasses other disciplines and discourses resituating poetry discourse in the process.
Another poet who was important to me at this moment for countless reasons was George Oppen, who famously stopped writing poetry for 25 years while he fought in WWII, worked as a labor organizer for the Communist Party, and eventually fled with his family to Mexico during the McCarthy era. Most of Oppen’s poetry in fact comes after his 25-year hiatus, producing a strange temporal effect within his body of work, much of which looks back at that unaccounted for time when he was not writing. Another poet who we may talk about in terms of poets’ withdrawals is Arthur Rimbaud, who at the ripe age of 26 emigrated to Africa to become an arms traded, dying only a few years later. Rimbaud’s contemporary, Stéphane Mallarmé, compared his renunciation of poetry to an “amputation.” The literary theorist Maurice Blanchot was fascinated by Rimbaud’s withdrawal from poetry, as it indicated to him a disavowal of the poet’s vocation: to encounter the “impossible”:
The other side is that the artist who willingly exposes himself to the risks of the experience which is his does not feel free of the world, but, rather deprived of it; he does not feel that he is master of himself, but rather that he is absent from himself and exposed to demands which, casting him out of life and of living, open him to that moment at which he cannot do anything and is no longer himself. It is then that Rimbaud flees into the desert from the responsibilities of the poetic decision. He buries his imagination and his glory. He says “adieu” to “the impossible” in the same way that Leonardo da Vinci does and almost in the same terms. He does not come back to the world; he takes refuge in it; and bit by bit his days, devoted henceforth to the aridity of gold, make a shelter for him of protective forgetfulness.
Blanchot’s Rimbaud presents a case of the poet whose work has taken them to a limit where they can only attempt in vain to recover some sense of “identity” and protect themselves from the demands of continuing to work, which for Blanchot entails an ongoing encounter with death as the ultimate “other.” Kristin Ross, a scholar of Rimbaud’s work and his milieu, offers a quite different take on Rimbaud, whose withdrawal to Africa is for her a physical-geographical extension of the lines of flight that appear throughout his poetry. For Ross, Rimbaud’s poems were always “out of work” as they sought from the beginning to disrupt the poet’s labor as an activity autonomous from the production of a social body that would resist the dual processes of expropriation and colonization. As Ross writes of her book, The Emergence of Social Space: Arthur Rimbaud and the Paris Commune: “My study began with Rimbaud and what I took to be Rimbaud’s flight from l’être poète: a flight that took shape, as I came to realize not with his famous silence, his departure for Africa, but in 1870 when he wrote his first poem. Rimbaud left literature before he even got there.” [my italics] Furthermore, in the chapter of her book entitled “The Right to Laziness,” Ross writes:
“Workers” in this identificatory structure are not those whose time/space is rigidly defined and allotted by a dominant class; they are people who have become aware of their position in a structure of oppression. Rimbaud’s identification is with a group-subject whose joint activity is not work but in this case combat. “I will be a worker”: it is only at some future moment when the project of new social relations, a radical transformation in the structure of work, has been achieved that Rimbaud will be a worker; now, however, he refuses work. But the refusal of work is not an absence of activity, nor, obviously, is it leisure since leisure reinforces the work model by existing only with reference to work; it is a qualitatively different activity, often very frenetic, and above all combative. (59)
To write a poem for Ross’ Rimbaud was to combat an existing system of labor based on surplus value and commodity fetishism. It was also to do battle with the idea of aesthetic autonomy that would reify artistic labor as discrete or independent from a collective social body. To write poetry was to deregulate (or derange) a value system based on the commodity and the subservience of one’s social being to surplus value. Rimbaud’s attack on aesthetic autonomy and the system of commodity exchange which it serves is paralleled in contemporaries such as the painter Gustav Courbet, who stopped painting to undertake administrative work crucial to the functioning of the Commune. Courbet’s withdrawal from painting—the fact that he stops painting to administrate for the Commune—like Rimbaud’s taking leave of literature, effects a negation of art’s presumed autonomy as the artist is figured simultaneously as specialized laborer (artist) and communard (member of the social body). The fact that Courbet leaves art, creating a hiatus within the production of his ouevre, forces one to reevaluate the artist’s social function bringing to the foreground possible relationships between the artist’s painting practice and his sociopolitical commitments and actions, where these two realms can no longer be maintained as independent. In the work of the poet Brandon Brown and others with whom I was corresponding when I wrote many of the poems in Withdrawn (the book of poems which precedes the book I have been referring to in this talk), Courbet appears an untimely contemporary in relation to the events of 2011 on—namely, the Arab Spring, Greek Summer, and American Autumn/Occupy Movement—as he prefigures a poetics of sociopolitical forms, demanding that the artist reconfigure and withdraw their practices in response to the emergence of social movements.
Many of the artists whom I write letters to in Withdrawn a Discourse have been identified with “socially engaged art,” “social practice,” “participatory art” and other labels for recent aesthetic practices that have prioritized their social character and have attempted to intervene in various sociopolitical contexts, using art as both a medium and a platform for social change. One of the letters is to Beka Economopoulos, of the New York-based art collective Not an Alternative, who appeared in a panel in the spring of 2011 on “useful art,” for the opening of Tania Bruguera’s Immigration Movement International storefront in Corono, Queens. Economopoulos’s presentation made an impression on me for its discussion of “useful art” (Brugeura’s term for art that performs a specific social function) in relation to questions of authorship and the reproduction of capital within art discourse. One of the strategies she identified as being necessary for Not an Alternative’s practice is the withdrawal of the group’s name from certain works, a prophylactic against any credit or capital that could be generated from the authorial attribution of their activities. Economopoulos said that it was necessary to withdraw their names to guarantee the success of certain social actions, where claiming the action as their own, and thus inscribing the work within art discourse, would compromise its efficacy. The withdrawal that Economopoulos identified through Not an Alternative is one that is crucial for understanding what Ben Kinmont problematizes as “an ethics of project art,” of which I will speak more about shortly.
Not long before this, Primary Information published the notebooks of Lee Lozano, from the period in the late 60/early 70s when she was transitioning from her “Wave Paintings” to the writing, performance, and exhibition of her various “Language Pieces.” And not long after, in the fall of 2011, I encountered a retrospective of Ben Kinmont’s at NYU’s Fayles library. I will speak about their work together now as a means of organizing some thoughts about artists’ withdrawals in relation to the problem of aesthetic autonomy and radical practices in contemporary art discourse.
III. From Dropout Piece to On Becoming Something Else (Lee Lozano & Ben Kinmont; Ben Kinmont’s Lee Lozano)
My reasons were to offer another reading of Lippard’s idea of conceptual art as a dematerializarion of the art object and, instead, suggest that perhaps, for some, it was actually not so much about the art object but about life, about a materialization of life.
—Ben Kinmont, from “The Materialization of life into alternative economies”
Lee Lozano’s oeuvre continues to exert much influence and fascination in both the poetry and art ‘worlds’. I will not rehearse the history of how she came back into the fold of art history, which is often pinpointed by the publication of Helen Molesworth’s article “Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out: the Rejection of Lee Lozano,” in the Winter 2002 issue of Art Journal. The fascination that Lozano holds for artists and poets alike is symptomatic of a time in which many artists wonder whether any ‘outside’ exists to neoliberalization and the subsuming of ‘progressive’ and ‘revolutionary’ art practices and discussions by a marketplace. I think it also has to do with a widespread anxiety since the 60s about the “dematerialization” of the art work, especially where political and economic claims continue to be made for this dematerialization following Lucy Lippard’s coining of the term [site work by Lippard]. Additionally, we might say that there is a kind of fetish for the ‘dropout’ in art discourse. Which is to say, a fetish for failure, negation, exit, and “exodus” (Paolo Virno’s term). In many ways this fetish, what we might call the failure fetish, marks the avant-garde since its inception inasmuch as avant-garde discourses and communities are reproduced through transgression and negation of their own protocols and the compulsive testing of what art can be and who can be counted as an artist. In this way, the avant-garde coincides with political economy, in which value is created and reproduced through the rejection and overturning of previous values, forms, and products. Ultimately, Lozano’s Dropout Piece continues to hold fascination for scholars, critics, artists, and poets alike because it marks a limit of the avant-garde’s quintessential movement, its dialectic if you will: whereby what art is becomes visible through the fact that is ceases to be; that it is declared “not art,” or where its value as art becomes contestable among those who would count themselves or be counted as artists. When in doubt, artists have relied on this dialectic to renew artistic value (with or without an object). It is also through this dialectical movement that historically art’s autonomy has been challenged, as art discourse competes with, and is infrequently eclipsed by, other disciplines, activities, and modes of life.
Sarah Lehrer-Graiwer’s quotation of Marcel Duchamp at the beginning of Lee Lozano Dropout Piece gets at this idea: Can one make works which are not works of ‘art’? The central antagonisms of the avant-garde, the kernel of its dialectical movement, revolve around this question. And I believe that this question has been complicated by the role of the marketplace since the 70s, when, not coincidentally, Lozano and others from the New York art scene, to lesser and greater extents, dropout. Forty years after Conceptual Art and its various progeny—institutional critique, project art, relational aesthetics, social practice, etc.—anxiety about when one is “in” and when one is “out” of art discourse is amplified as the result of the collapse of modes of life and political economy. One could narrate this history through Michel Foucault’s notion of “biopolitics,” where politics has become a matter of managing “life,” a project which overlaps with a 20th century avant-garde’s attempts to collapse life and aesthetic practices and the penchant of post-Conceptual artists towards forms of administration and management. One could also narrate post-Conceptualism’s history through the history of the Italian Workerists and Autonomists, who in the wake of 60s and 70s political struggles, and in the wake of post-Fordism, anticipate revolutions in labor and social relations that continue to shape our world. That many of the most radical strategies of the Workerists and Autonomists have been adopted by capital from the 80s on—namely, its trans-disciplinarity; its tendencies towards non-specialization, de-skilling, and ‘just-in-time’ production models; and its dependence upon “immaterial” and “affective” labor practices—echo the cooptation of critical art strategies since the initial moment of “dematerialization” identified by Lippard.
Lozano’s Dropout Piece, as Lehrer-Graiwer discusses in her book, also anticipates the art world’s convergences with various theatrical practices in the 70s. There is Performance Art of course, but there are also many artists working between art and downtown theatre, such as those highlighted by the Whitney’s 2013 show, “The Rituals of Rented Island,” curated by Jay Sanders. Additionally there is punk, which while being a pop cultural and subcultural discourse is also very much in dialogue with an historical avant-garde and contemporary art discourse. Inasmuch as Lozano ‘stages’ her dropout through the use of notebooks and through her undocumented appearance in the downtown culture of shows and parties following her departure from the art scene, Dropout Piece resembles a work of theater. Without the ‘drama’ provoked by these artifacts and the scale of her gesture (dropping out at the height of her notoriety), arguably the Dropout Piece would not exist, which is to say, it would not be visible through its consequences—the felt absence of an artist’s presence and influence among her peer group.
Lozano’s Dropout Piece marks an apotheosis of (avant-garde) art discourse because the work itself is fulfilled through the indexing of the non-presence of the artist. Withdrawal here becomes a positive quality, a substance or material to be nurtured and maintained. Without this maintenance, the sustained commitment Lozano demonstrated towards her renunciation, the work would not only not be a success, it could not exist. Which is to say, it could not become signifying or indexical in relation to its rehearsal (the previous “Language Pieces,” and especially those which also refer to forms of withdrawal and negation: Withdrawal Piece, General Strike Piece, and Boycott Piece, in particular, all of which precede Dropout Piece). That Dropout Piece may also have been conditioned by mental illness, which is widely speculated about but by no means sufficiently documented, in fact draws into question the agency of Lozano in the making of the work, calling into question an ethics of the work’s reception. Can we, scholars, critics, interested artists, in good faith say that Dropout Piece is a work of art where it is conditioned by mental suffering and economic hardship, such as that Lozano experienced in Texas following her departure from New York? Likewise, can one in good faith call Boycott Piece a work of art, where it is complexly bound up with her ambivalence towards social workers, who, as Ben Kinmont and others have underscored, tended to be women?
In the mid-90s, during a time when it was unfashionable to do so, Kinmont took an interest in Lozano’s notebooks. As he writes in the forward to Project Series: Lee Lozano, a pamphlet published by his Antinomian Press, which includes transcriptions of Lozano’s journals:
Then, in 1996, while working on a project with James Rondeau and Andrea Miller Keller at the Wadsworth Atheneum, Lozano’s name came up again. But this time, I was able to look at a photocopy of her lab books and read over what can only be described as a treasure-trove of work virtually unknown. Months later, James introduced me to Jaap van Liere and Barry Rosen, Lozano’s gallery representatives, and a series of conversations began around which a new appreciation and understanding of art practices in the 1960s and 70s started to emerge. Other artists usually not included in the histories, frequently edited out by even those who remembered them, began to call for comparison. People such as Stanley Brouwn, Lygia Clark, Chris D’Arcangelo, Mierle Laderman Ukeles, and Ian Wilson were those that came to my mind, resulting in the possibility for an interactive model in light of current activities in the 1990s. On a more personal level, I was also immensely relieved and pleased to have found earlier examples of an artist’s practice which considered issues of generosity, commitment, and dialogue, and, as if it wasn’t enough, all supported by her own careful documentation.
Kinmont, who participated in the Parasite group with Andrea Fraser, Renee Green, and others from 1997-1998, a group largely concerned with curating and documenting post-Conceptual Art practices, finds in Lozano a kindred spirit, someone with whom he feels affinity as a fellow “art dreamer.” Like Lonzano, since the late 80s Kinmont has been intensely involved with what we might call a “meta-discourse” of post-Conceptual Art and of a 20th century avant-garde more broadly.
Through various projects, Kinmont revisits the quintessential question raised by Duchamp: Can one make works which are not works of ‘art’? Only we might say that Kinmont’s central question concerns what it matters whether something is called art or not, and at what point it is crucial to identify something as “not art,” inasmuch as art creation inflects a certain system of value and can alter the lives of those who participate in its discourse. Whereas Duchamp’s question is one of ontology (what art is?, what art can be?, who can be called an artist?) Kinmont’s is ontological and ethical (onto-ethical?): What does is matter what is called art? Who is affected by this nomination? For whom and what does this description create value?
One of the most poignant examples of Kinmont’s onto-ethical art is a project called “On Becoming Something Else,” in which he created a series of dinners, both private and public, in which chefs were commissioned to make dishes based on works of art by artists who in their careers “[became] something else.” These original dishes were made after the tradition of pièce montée (culinary dishes as sculpture). Preceding the creation of the pièce montée and subsequent organization of various dinners, Kinmont produced a broadside documenting his research regarding artists who transgressed the boundaries of their discipline to a point where what they were doing could no longer be considered “art,” i.e., “[became] something else”. Some of the artists Kinmont identifies in the broadside simply move into different professions through their art practice. For example, before Lygia Clark gives up art making to pursue a psycho-therapeutic practice, she is making art works and performances that draw extensively upon psycho-therapeutic techniques and discourses. In a similar manner, before the artist Hans de Vries becomes a farmer, he is making works with plants and investigating ecology. So there are also artists who become something else by embracing other disciplines and practices for particular projects (Carol Gooden and Gordon Matta-Clark become restaurant owners and managers for a brief time through their restaurant project, Food, for instance). More poignantly, Jon Hendricks and Jean Touche of Guerilla Art Action Group, while petitioning on behalf of political prisoners make a point to declare that their legal advocacy does not constitute an art work, thus marking a limit to the reception of their action within art discourse.
To become something else, one must withdraw. There must be something at the level of meta-discourse that marks a threshold between what is and is not art discourse, locating an “outside.” Curiously, when I asked Kinmont a couple nights ago if he considered Lozano an artist who became something else, he said that she “was not going towards something else” but “leaving [art discourse] to define what the discourse could or would be [without her?].” (my brackets)
There are many other instances in which Kinmont tests the thresholds of art discourse. He does so early on in his work when he washes dishes for people in their homes, as an exploration of the place of domestic labor in his society and its relation to art and performance practice. In multiple works he asks bystanders on the street and others from whom he has enlisted participation to consider whether a “conversation” can be art. He also asks the students in his social practice courses, as I have done here, what if anything they would not consider to be art, publishing surveys of their responses. In Ssshhhh, a work that he “reactivated” for the 2014 Whitney Biennial originally produced in 2004, he asks families to have a conversation and to mark the time and the day when the conversation took place. He then produces a certificate documenting the time and day of the conversation, the content of the conversation remaining private, withdrawn from any one other than the family. In founding Antinomian Press, Kinmont likewise raises the question whether the press is an art project or a publishing vehicle, and whether it matters how it is defined. In creating a functioning business, Ben Kinmont Bookseller, and categorizing the business in his archive under the ongoing work, Sometimes a nicer sculpture is to be able to provide for your family, he makes visible his own becoming something else as well as the ways that a business may be coextensive with one’s art practice. Like Lozano before him, who before Dropout Piece explored a series of “dialogues” with fellow artists as a means of “saying goodbye” to her milieu, many of Kinmont’s works effervesce as dialogues and conversation, much of which would not have a life as art works without their documentation within an archive. It is arguably through the archive that Kinmont constructs his own ‘stage’ for his works, a misc en scene for an art of threshold, meta-discourse, and leaving art, which is to say, withdrawing.
Before I conclude, I want to discuss one more project of Kinmont’s, which seems particularly relevant to the question of onto-ethical in art discourse, or what I have called elsewhere, in an essay I wrote for the Kadist Foundation about Kinmont’s work a few years back, “practiceable utopias.” Responding to the emergence of social practice in the 2000s, Kinmont drew-up a list of items for practicing what he calls “ethical considerations in project art.” It is still interesting to consider these items with regards to the evolving category of “social practice” as it becomes institutionalized and coopted by urban developers and the academic MFA mill. At their core, they may help us to think through the implications of withdrawal and becoming something else. One of the main criteria is one that has become widely recognized as a criteria for successful social practice projects, namely, the time involved in the work. Quantity of time becomes qualitative when working with communities in need, especially where abandoning a project prematurely can leave community “participants” and “collaborators” in the lurch, further compounding despair.
(Compare, for instance, the successful community projects initiated by Theaster Gates, Tania Bruguera, Mark Bradford, Rick Lowe and others, with other projects labeled “social practice”). Echoing Beka Economopoulos’s remarks regarding the withholding of Not an Alternative’s name from their work, Kinmont writes in a statement for his project “The Digger Dug”:
Looking back at myself, I wondered if it was possible to help others through an art practice and how a move outside of the institution might benefit or complicate the effort. So I spoke with a friend who was a social worker to ask for her thoughts on this question, and to hear what she saw as the difference between a professional social worker and an artist who wants to help someone through their work. She answered that it was actually difficult for an artist to help another because the concept of authorship was an obstacle: nobody participating in a project would want to be “authored” by another, no matter what the purpose.
At the limits of art discourse, and of social practice as a meta-discourse of Post-Conceptual art practices, is the function of naming and of how the nomination of something as “art” creates value and therefore inequalities between those who have ostensibly withdrawn to become something else and those whom they would ostensibly wish to serve. What then continues to be the value of nominating what one does as “art”? If the artist’s purported goal is to “help people,” as Kinmont’s often is, at what point must the artist relinquish the category of art in order to benefit others? To what extent does their ability to help people depend on the maintenance of their artist identity in relation to a system of value? To what extent is the logic I have followed to its end fucked-up, to the extent that there are artists and art worlds that remain unrecognized and un(der)valued? Where are the “alterative economies” and invisible commons that render art history and its metadiscourses null and void, truly collapsing “life” and “art” through the practice of a social body “within but not of” our current socio-economic system?
Friday, June 16, 2017
[...] Buffy, and all of Whedon’s productions arguably, concern what Foucault called “new modes of relation.” More than anything else, I think this is what attracted me to Buffy. Beyond the nostalgic pleasure of the late 90s television series format and the whip-smart dialogue of the show, Buffy, from the get go, offers images of affiliation: the team, the band, the gang, the ‘non-traditional’ (which is to say, non-straight, non-nuclear) family. As much as Buffy is about gender politics, and specifically a populist (white) feminist discourse in the 90s a la Naomi Wolf, The Spice Girls, and “girl power,” it is also about how the collective is conceived through a common struggle. This common struggle is ostensibly against the apocalypse-happy demons that populate Buffy and Angel. It is also against the negative feeling states and social forces that those demons would often project: whereof Willow’s fascination with magic, and her use of magic for the team, contribute to her addiction in the 6th season; and Xander’s anxiety about his contributions to the team make him literally split into two separate people (“The Replacement”). This constant play of the metaphorical with the literal is what sustains Buffy as a document of a shared imaginary, where the monsters embody anxieties in the larger culture (and this would seem true of all monster movies and films, since the very beginning of the genre).
I believe that the primary anxiety of Buffy concerns the family, and how specifically the family intersects with a larger sociopolitical condition. Thinking back to 90s cultural politics, Buffy also seems to ask whether certain affiliations can be considered a family. Can a gang, for instance? Or a gay couple? Or an unruly assemblage of subcultural identities, such as are a vampire slayer, a vampire with a soul, a watcher, a gypsy, a werewolf, lesbian witches, and a poorly educated working class white male. In José Munoz’s Cruising Utopia, he makes an interesting, if passing and somewhat dorky, remark: that Marvel Comics can be differentiated from DC Comics by its preoccupation with “the freak.” Which is to say, the mutant, misfit, abject, and socially non-normative. Something similar can be said of the characters of Buffy, who for the most part are marginalized by some aspect of their identity or social position. The Scooby Gang constitutes a band of outsiders. Though Joyce (Buffy’s mom) and Giles (Buffy’s watcher) are parental figures, Joyce eventually becomes more like one of the gang, and of course is ultimately offed in an episode that showcases the muteness of her maternal presence (“The Body”). Giles is not Buffy’s father, and only assumes a paternal function with reluctance. Buffy’s biological father only appears in nightmares, and in the particular episode where she experiences the divorce of her parents as a trauma at the core of her adolescent development (“Nightmares”). In the 90s, when so many of my friends parents were getting divorced; when so many of my parents’ contemporaries were dying from AIDS; and when gay culture, as a result of the prominence of AIDS activism, was coming into its own as a national political constituency, of course the family would be the privileged site of cultural contestation. Not to mention on the right, where the phrase on every politician’s lips was “family values.”
At times in Buffy, the monsters would seem to represent right-wing America quite literally. The most insidious representation perhaps being that of the secret government laboratory underneath the UC Sunnydale campus, in the fourth season. Curiously, throughout this season of Buffy, it is the demons who have become an embattled minority, and the humans who undertake experiments reminiscent of Nazi and America genetic experimentation. In this regard, Buffy coincides with another popular program from the same era, The X Files, which also imagines an elaborate governmental conspiracy based on genetic hybridization with an alien race. What one realizes through the fourth season of Buffy is that Whedon’s vision of the demon world and the human one is not Manichean, but relational; we might even say ecological. One needs the other to coexist. And with the genetic experiments comes a dangerous imbalance in that ecology of humans/demons, as Giles points out.
Though Whedon purports publically little interest in left political histories or statist communisms, the most radical images he offers us are of a fluctuating set of relations between his characters, who at their most antagonistic still practice forms of mutual aide. I think of Spike as a limit case of mutual aide, where he is gradually converted from a cynic to a messiah (he is after all the key to preventing the apocalypse in Buffy’s concluding episode). At Spike’s most evil/other, there is still a desire to nurture the tenuous ecology formed among the characters, and this is part of his appeal as a reluctant, though eventually converted, ‘good guy’ (by the fifth season he is practically a member of the Scooby Gang). All of Whedon’s work, from Buffy to his most recent films, Through Your Eyes and Much Ado About Nothing, concerns relations of affinity after the erosion of the traditional family by ‘globalization’ (i.e., post-Fordist neoliberalization). In Buffy, Angel, The Avengers, Dollhouse, and Firefly specifically, the team offers an alternative affiliation based on mutual aide, cooperation, and a minoritarian identity politics. I find it amusing that the dramatic tension of The Avengers revolves around such a simple conflict: How will The Avengers cooperate as a team to defeat their collective enemy? After a prolonged period of dissensus and antagonism, this resolution comes about two-thirds of the way through the film, when it is nearly too late.
Similarly, it may be interesting to watch films that Whedon acted as screenwriter for, many of which are not very good, to try to discern his ‘stamp.’ It is always there, however faintly. In Alien: Resurrection (1997), one immediately has the sense that there is a problem of team similar to that in all of Whedon’s productions. It is curious, for instance, that the duration of the film features a group trying to escape the aliens together, whereas in previous installments of the Alien series the escape tended not to be nearly so team oriented. Though a few of the characters are picked-off, most remain until the end and more than in any other of the Alien films actually survive. In Toy Story, which was co-written by Whedon, I wonder if his contribution to the screenplay was not of the cyborg (or is it mutant? I’m not sure what to call them) toys, who help Sheriff Woody and Buzz Lightyear escape from their sadistic, adolescent captor. The cyborg toys present a kind of shadow team, in contrast to the toys of the house next door, who have not had their body parts recombined into novel arrangements a la Frankenstein. That the mutant toys signify non-normative genders through their body parts, such as the fishing rod with Barbie doll legs, also seems to me a possible contribution from Whedon.
After seeing Much Ado About Nothing, I wondered, how does this fit into Whedon’s larger body of work? Much Ado About Nothing is obviously a comedy, and very much about a battle of wits, which may relate to Whedon’s concerns as a screenwriter. One might say that Much Ado About Nothing is about reapproprating the Shakespearian comic genre. But as you watch the film, you start to think about the set, and recognize actors from Whedon’s other films and television series. You start to think: these are Whedon’s friends, his ‘inner circle.’ [Wikipedia: Most of the cast had worked with Whedon before; Acker and Denisof on Angel; Denisof, Lenk and Lindhome on Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Fillion and Maher on Firefly; Acker, Denisof, Diamond, Kranz and Johnson on Dollhouse; Gregg, Denisof, Rosemont and Johnson in The Avengers.] You also start to think about what it means for a director to make a film in their home (the film was shot over a period of twelve days in Whedon’s family’s house in Santa Monica, California). What gives so many scenes from Much Ado About Nothing their life is no doubt the fact that they are shot in contemporary, upper-middle class domestic settings, the scenes of Benedick and Don Pedro, shot in the bedroom of Whedon’s daughters, being among my favorites. The team of Much Ado About Nothing consists of Whedon’s closest friends and colleagues; and the drama that they enact, as in all comedies, is about how to bring certain people into a happier or more productive relation.
A certain affect derives from Whedon’s use of domestic spaces and interiors, a common feature among television programs obviously for establishing consistency through the set, but unique, I believe, in Whedon. We might call it a we feeling or a feeling of team. In Buffy, for example, the characters always have a central gathering place, which becomes a kind of commons. In the early season, it is the library at Sunnydale High, while in later seasons this meeting place is Giles’ dining room, the magic shop, and finally Buffy’s family home. While there are other more intimate domestic spaces (bedroom interiors especially) it is these spaces that form the primary locus of affiliative relation. A similar we feeling is established in Dollhouse, through the house itself, which acts as one large common space; and in Firefly, through the interiority of the ship. It is in these locations where plans are hatched, but also meals are shared, research takes place, and gossip is exchanged. Following Sara Ahmed, these locations comprise “kinship objects,” which “make a sense of relation possible.” (Queer Phenomenology, 81) When these places are attacked one feels that the team itself is under siege, that affiliative relation is threatened. The loss of these places, in Ahmed’s words, would seem to “make social gathering impossible.” (ibid)
One of the most stunning examples of this threat, completely unique in Whedon’s body of work, is in the final episode of Firefly, “Objects in Space,” in which a bounty hunter boards the Firefly, in search if its two fugitives. The racial component of this encounter can’t be overlooked, since the bounty hunter is black, and is marked as black by the way he speaks and his manner of dress (a ‘funky’ red spacesuit and moon boots, reminiscent of 70s era Blaxploitation costume). The threat that he poses, particularly to the white women of the spacecraft, seems especially problematic, where rape is insinuated more than once. One feels in this episode, more than perhaps any other, the power of Whedon’s domestic enclosures, where the occupation of the enclosure by an invading other creates a sense of violation among the characters. That Firefly concludes before Serenity (2005) with an image of such racially marked violence is incredibly disappointing for any fan of the series, where the bounty hunter is finally jettisoned in outer space, abandoned to an absolute outside. This image is terrifying inasmuch as it coincides too accurately with reality. Surprisingly, given Whedon’s sensitivity to a politics of racial representation, he didn’t find some way to incorporate the bounty hunter into the band, as a fellow traveler. A conclusion that would have been more fitting with Whedon’s minoritarian themes.
So many new modes of relation pervade Whedon’s work, and so many of these new modes include those of the non- or barely considered human. Demons, vampires, gods, demi-gods, angels; queer people, ethnic minorities, outlaw bodies and subjects. At the limit of the human, we are also offered to reflect upon the problem of “exception.” Following Giorgio Agamben’s Homo Sacer and other books about biopolitics and sovereignty, we might say that Buffy and many of the creatures of Buffy the Vampire Slayer are defined by the fact that they are neither human nor non-human, that, in Agamben’s words they constitute a “zone of indistinction” between the mortal and the non-mortal (animal, demon). The vampire, as conceived within the series, is the spawn of human and demon gene pools, and the slayer is also demonic, being the result of a related hybridization. To be non-human is to be immortal, in the case of the vampire, until they are staked or beheaded. In the case of the slayer, the slayer has super human strength and sensory-motor skills, but remains mortal. Lesser and greater states of exception exist among the characters of Buffy, depending on which species of supernatural being they happen to be. At the limits of team and affiliation, lies a basic problem: to what extent should the Scooby Gang help Buffy and thus be put in danger; also, to what extent should the slayer lead the team and to what extent should she remain independent in her exceptionality? It is an aporia that appears in the first season of Buffy and is not resolved until the final episode, when the powers of the slayer are disseminated among a multitude of girls, whereas power is normally passed from one slayer to another upon the first slayer’s death.
Buffy’s sovereignty—the fact that she is exceptional and therefore outside the realm of social custom and law—is a major problem for the team. How can power be shared when one team member would seem so much more essential than any other? But Buffy’s exceptionality, like that of all superheroes, is more a curse than a gift (we might say that it constitutes the gift as curse). As a result of her exceptionality, Buffy is deemed a juvenile delinquent in the first three seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, as she is surveilled and policed by the principles of Sunnydale High. Slaying by night, and sometimes during the day, she is also denied normative relationships among her adolescent peers. Many times she would seem an exploited laborer, inasmuch as she is expected to attend high school and work a full-time job, moonlighting as the slayer. (The situation of her exploitation is foregrounded when she drops out of college to care for her younger sister upon the death of their mother, whereupon she takes a minimum wage position at a demon-infested fast food chain [“Doublemeat Palace”]. It is not until Giles makes out a check for her that she is finally able to have any financial security.) Finally, she is routinely forced to keep secrets from her loved ones and has to die and be resurrected no less than twice in order to fulfill her “birthright.”
The slayer’s job is demanding, infinitely demanding one might say, because it asks that Buffy put herself in mortal danger and offer herself voluntarily in death. As she discovers in a dream, in the fifth season, “death is [her] gift” (“The Gift”). The slayer is herself the munis that binds and unbinds the community (where community derives from the Latin for “those who share the gift”). She is the one who endures the “work’s demand” (Blanchot) inasmuch as she is cursed to die and come back, Orphically returning to reassemble her fragile and embattled community. A cult against the apocalypse; against the triumph of the demonic; for the preservation of the human; for the ecology of the human and the demonic.
In the absence of the law Buffy becomes the law. (So rarely in Buffy do we see the presence of police; it is only in the third season, with the introduction of Faith, that the law seems concerned with the work of slayers and their watchers at all in fact.) From her abandonment by the law issues her power. It is the problem of power—how power is distributed among a demos comprised of her friends, family, and comrades—that she must resolve. Democracy won’t result from consensual politics, but from a counter-public comprised of misfits and young girls (the break-down of consensual political structures is dramatized in the seventh season by the conflicts between Buffy, the Scooby Gang, and the slayers elect). Girlism. Buffyism. Willoism. At the fringes of human society (ban), Buffy represents the anarchic potential of our relationship with death. Through our lack of power over it, our incapacity to administer or administrate it totally, death becomes paradoxically a source of potency. The fact that the sovereign is also the one who has been abandoned by society, and given up in sacrifice to higher powers, is an irony of all exceptional beings.
Buffy embodies the dream of a certain kind of politics. A necropolitics. A politics of the one who has no choice but to tarry with death as the potentiating shadow of life’s total administration. Beyond Whedon’s metaphors of cultural politics, there is the literal fact that in the 90s biopolitics had come to a critical juncture, particularly in the throes of the AIDS pandemic, and with the rise of the Human Genome Project and other bioethical projects of a corporatized scientific industrial complex. Curiously, Buffy concludes at a moment in which state emergencies like 9/11 have come to dictate a larger geopolitics centered upon the United States. Might we say that the world of Buffy in the seventh season, in which Buffy annuls her exceptionality through a spell performed by Willow, forms an antithesis to the Bush regime? Where Buffy represents a sovereign who seeks to annul sovereignty itself rather than prolong its force. While we now know that the era of Clinton in the 90s, while ‘progressive’ in comparison to the Bush and Reagan presidencies which preceded it, was an extension of neoliberal policies and trade agreements that ensured the debt and wage entrenchment of a majority of the world’s population (a diffuse apocalypse if there ever was one), Bush’s two terms in office appear in contrast as a grand apocalypse marking a complete hiatus from any hopes of progress or social justice. [...]
--composed August, 2014