Behind the Red Fence

Objectum-Sexuality Internationale

Objectum Sexuality continues to fascinate me. In no small part, this is because I find human subjects ever-more boring and tiresome. One increasingly realises that happiness is to be found in the love that transcends humanity; the love of things that sparkle with their own thingly glamour. This might include objects that belong to the natural world, such as flowers and heavenly bodies, but it also includes the manufactured objects of everyday life, such as tables, chairs, and the red brick floor upon which they stand.

For love (should we choose to continue using the term) is fundamentally a question of forming ever-changing relationships; not just with people or other living beings such as next door's cat, but with objects of all kinds, be they inorganic, artificial, or virtual. And the duty of art, philosophy, or science is ultimately one and the same; to reveal the relation between us and the world of which we are an intrinsic part - but not a determining factor. For the relationship between us and the universe is not based upon some form of correlation between consciousness and being; the world exists as a mind-independent reality with or without Man or God as witness. 

Whether this relationship needs to be erotic in character, as objectophiles seem to believe, is debatable. But I can't see why it shouldn't be conceived of as such within the framework of a perverse materialism. Certainly it's a form of touch first and foremost and not an abstract or ideal relation. Love allows us to feel the world and not just think it - to know it in a carnal sense via what Lawrence would term 'direct vibrational contact'. 

And so, as I said in an earlier post, whilst I have problems with some of the statements made by  those within the OS community, still I feel they have something important to teach  any one hoping to develop an object-oriented ontology and a find a new form of happiness. For just as the American author Dana learnt how to attune himself to a non-human reality during his two years before the mast, so too has Erika Eiffel achieved something similar. Thus we might paraphrase what Lawrence writes of the former in order to say this of the latter (in tribute):

Erika's soul is not human in the ordinary sense. She is not looking for human things, nor listening to human sounds. Her adventure is not an adventure of a being among beings: it is an adventure into the material universe. In this twilightly place where integral being ceases, she stares lovingly at the Tower and encounters it in all its reality, abandoning her personal self in order to experience the joy of loving a non-living yet amazingly potent object.

Sexual Solipsism

Clive Barker, The Happy Masturbator, (1997)

Recently, I attended a very interesting research seminar at Senate House. The paper, presented by Professor Marco Wan of Hong Kong University, examined the obscenity trial that resulted from publication of Paul Bonnetain's novel Charlot s'amuse in 1883 - the story of a serial masturbator told in a naturalist style much influenced by Zola. 

Despite causing a huge scandal at the time, the work is little read today outside of French literary circles and the author, who died in 1899 aged just forty-one, is mostly a forgotten figure. Interestingly, however, 130 years after Charlot s'amuse, the subject of masturbation is one that still attracts moral condemnation from philosophers who place themselves in a feminist Kantian tradition in order to critique pornography; philosophers such as Rae Langton, for example.

Langton has two main concerns, which she relates to the question of pornography: the first is the sexual objectification of women (pre-given as a bad thing per se in her work); the second is the sexual solipsism that men, as the primary consumers of pornography, fall into via the solitary vice of masturbation. In brief, Langton argues that in a pornified world of objectified women, men too pay a heavy price; i.e. by mistaking women for things and substituting things for real women, they ultimately isolate and dehumanise themselves.

Now it could be that there is something in this argument. But Langton overlooks the fact that men are not quite alone in a world of objectified women. For not only do they still have one another to form relations with of a social, fraternal, and, indeed, sexual nature if they so desire, but they also have their animal companions and, as everybody knows, a man's best friend is his dog. 

Further, as Simone de Beauvoir was obliged to concede, not all men would regard an isolated and solipsistic existence as problematic. Indeed, for many it would be a more attractive option than a supposedly authentic relationship with another human being. The world of the masturbator may not be deeply fulfilling, but it's by no means unhappy and perhaps a little superficial physical pleasure means more today than vague promises of spiritual satisfaction and the soul's consummation via union with another.  

Langton, however, insists - and this is never a good sign in someone who claims to be a philosopher - that there has to be an escape from solipsism, as if it were the worst kind of trap to fall into. And she insists that in order to make this escape "some of the beings with whom one interacts must be people (not things); and one must treat them as people (not as things)" [Sexual Solipsism, Oxford University Press, 2009, p. 312]. 

Ultimately, for Langton, this is a matter of moral duty: one must not fuck dolls, or jerk off over on-line images. Rather, one must seek out a real lover to hold in one's arms. For when sex is something you do with a thing, you reduce your own ontological status and become self-objectified. Kant has no sympathy for those 'worms' who violate themselves in this manner. And neither does Langton much care for those who remain shut up inside their own heads, alone with their own fantasies, when they could (and should) be sharing with others in a paradise of love and total transparency.

And here, we arrive at the crux of the matter: for Langton, there is a fundamental human need to unburden the heart and communicate the self. To articulate the body, she says, rather than masturbate it, "enables us better to learn what we think and feel and desire" [361].

This, in my view, is not only optimistic and naive, it is also highly sinister. For we know now how confession serves ultimately to better enable correction; that we have been encouraged to speak the self  historically in order that our thoughts and feelings may be judged and corrected by others. Humanists like Kant and Langton always promise to lead us out of our solipsistic and fallen condition into communal bliss, but they just as invariably end up marching us into drab social conformity and ugly moral convention.

And so there is, I think, something to be said for those who want to keep themselves to themselves and indulge private fantasies behind closed doors; better the solipsist and the solitary masturbator than the fascist who compels speech, or the moral exhibitionist exposing themselves in the name of Love.  

Raise the Scarlet Standard High

Sartre declared that anyone who isn't a communist is a filthy swine. 

I don't think that's true. However, it's undeniably the case that there is shit in the hearts of all Tories, extending from members of parliament to those who vote for them or offer financial support.

And it also includes those useful idiots in the Liberal Democrats who collaborate with and, indeed, maintain the present government and its shameful policies.   

David Bowie

One of the people I've always quite liked but have never quite allowed myself to quite like, is David Bowie. I was perhaps just a little too young to fully appreciate the artful androgyny of Ziggy Stardust and had no concept of a concept album as a nine-year-old.

But there was also something else. No matter how alien and avant-garde he attempted to make himself, he never quite convinced and his stage show was too theatrical for my tastes. The make-up, the costumes, the choreography, were simply too much; by which I don't mean too outrageous or excessive, but full of drama school pretension. 

Even as a child, I never liked what I perceived to be pretension - particularly in pop stars - and so I  was attracted more to the glam-rock silliness of Marc Bolan rather than Bowie and cared more for Sweet than the Spiders from Mars. 

However, it's all a long time ago and I have since revised my views somewhat. Thus I'm now happy to admit that, for a while, in the early-mid seventies, Bowie was the most beautiful man on the planet who managed to achieve a  rare moment of perfection - but I still prefer Gary Glitter.

The Escaped Cock

The Escaped Cock is Lawrence's revaluation of the death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. He provides a convenient summary of the first part of the tale in a letter to Earl Brewster:

"I wrote a story of the resurrection; where Jesus gets up and feels very sick about everything, and can't stand the old crowd any more - so cuts out - and as he heals up, he begins to find out what an astonishing place the phenomenal world is, far more marvellous than any salvation or heaven - and thanks his lucky stars that he needn't have a 'mission' any more."  

- The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, VI. 4009, CUP, 1991.

So far, so blasphemous. But it's in the second part of the tale, however, that Lawrence attempts something far more daring and philosophically profound; namely, the transformation of the man who died via desire and sexual contact with a pagan priestess into a potent and affirmative man of flesh and an entirely different type of man-god assemblage to the Christ-figure given us by St Paul.

The man who died, we might say, gets back his body and rises into anonymity and forgetfulness by coming down from the Cross, losing the face of the pale Galilean, and surrendering his Crown of Thorns. Lawrence effectively subsumes Jesus into a much wider tradition of sacrificed gods; one which would include Dionysus and which, as Keith Sagar points out, has none of Christianity's bitterness towards the earth and fear of the flesh.

By so doing, Lawrence teaches us all a lesson: we must each be willing to let go of our own egos and histories; must each be willing to accept that resurrection into new life can only follow once we have been dipped into oblivion. This is a hard lesson, but such a thanatological teaching can be found in many great thinkers, including Heidegger, for example, who insists on the vital importance of Dasein facing up to its own mortality, if it is to have full access to the meaning of being and discover its own authenticity.

Thus, we might conclude, in The Escaped Cock, Lawrence carries the death and resurrection of Jesus to its highest point; for he offers us an interpretation in the profound sense that Nietzsche means by the term; i.e. not merely a development of uninterrupted symbol with which, according to Deleuze, the dialectic invariably confuses interpretation.

Further, Lawrence provides us with a philosophical fiction that is both truer to the spirit of the gospels and to the great pagan traditions out of which Christianity in part grew. Indeed, so successful is Lawrence in what he does, that I would suggest that were his tale of the man who died to be accepted and taught within our churches and schools, it would serve not only as an important foundation for a wider revaluation of values, but also, ironically, as a means by which Christianity could achieve its own self-overcoming and resurrection.

Of course, this is unlikely to happen: the Church of the Crucified prefers to go on funking and wilfully perverting the story of Jesus, preventing us from knowing him as a bringer of glad tidings and nailing us all to the Cross for all eternity. Still, you never know: the world is full of surprises and if I can't hope for resurrection and the life of the Greater Day at Easter then when might I do so?

Apocalypse Now

Lawrence's relationship to Christianity, like Nietzsche's, grows ever less ambiguous and ever more hostile over the years; he moves from simply thinking Jesus mistaken with his monomaniacal insistence on Love, to explicitly siding with the anti-Christ.

Thus it comes as no surprise that in his final work, Apocalypse, Lawrence takes up Nietzsche's opposition to the Crucified as his own. Lawrence, however, chooses to pin the blame for the negation of the gospels on John of Patmos rather than St Paul and argues that it is only in the Book of Revelation that we hear at last the cry of slave revolt and discover the hidden power-spirit within Christianity which lusts for final judgement and world destruction.

In Revelation, there is no longer thought of forgiveness or of developing a Christianity of tenderness; this has been supplanted once and for all by hatred and a Christianity of self-glorification on behalf of anarcho-nihilists masquerading as the meek and humble. The noble and almost Stoical teachings of Jesus, meant for the ears of the discerning individual, are substituted by a form of moral idealism aimed at the masses - or 'Platonism for the people', as Nietzsche amusingly describes it.

Central to this hideously mutated popular Christianity, is the lie of personal immortality. This, along with the conceit of equality of all souls, serves only to flatter those who imagine themselves to be the great measure and meaning of the entire universe. Lawrence argues it is a mixture of fear and egoism that sits behind this exaggerated inflation of the person and positing of an immortal I. The Church, shamelessly, manipulates this fear and does what it can to intensify it whilst promising salvation to those who accept its authority.

The enemy, therefore, is not Jesus nailed to the Cross, but those who would keep him there as bait and who find in this grotesque symbol a sign of their own triumph and moral superiority. The last book of the Bible is their book; a book of lies which is full of the "vast anti-will of the masses" [69]. Deleuze describes it as an example of zombie theology and he's right; it's an obscene work by and for the unclean, the unforgiving, and the undead.

And yet, due to John the Divine's decision to reactivate and redirect certain pagan symbols and forces, Lawrence can't help having a degree of sympathy - even admiration - for the author and the book. This, however, in no way lessens his horror for a work that displays an almost insane desire for cosmic annihilation and the "reign of saints in ultimate bodiless glory" [146].

Unfortunately, there are still religious lunatics in the world today who long for the end of days. And that is why Lawrence's Apocalypse remains an important text. But it is not merely a crucial insight into the politics and psycho-pathology of ressentiment, it is also one last glad tiding in its own right, as Deleuze notes. For Lawrence's posthumously published final work is a passionate call for a new way of living that stays true to the earth and the body.

God is dead, taught Nietzsche. But we are not, says Lawrence. And so we might, if we wish, find a way to develop an entire range of new ideas and feelings, beyond good and evil. Obviously, this cannot be achieved overnight; the revaluation of all values is a project of generations. But the key word remains the great word of the unborn day: Resurrection.

Easter with the Anti-Christ

In an early note, Nietzsche writes that the only appropriate attitude towards Christianity is kindly forbearance, since mockery, cynicism and animosity have all been exhausted as options. And yet, by the end of his philosophical life Nietzsche is styling himself as the Anti-Christ and aggressively condemning Christianity as an extreme form of spiritual and physiological corruption.

Rather than see this as a sign of incipient madness, I think Nietzsche's later more negative and more clinical appraisal of Christianity is a valid and legitimate reading due to a more profound philosophical analysis of morality in relation to questions of sickness, health, and modern European nihilism. 

Unfortunately, in a post such as this, I can't trace out the development of Nietzsche's fateful (but non-dialectical) opposition between Dionysus and the Crucified at any length or in any detail. But, since it's Easter, I'd like to make a few remarks on this topic - if only to make my own implacable opposition to the Church quite clear.

In the retrospective and revisionary 1886 preface to The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche is keen to persuade us that his uncompromising opposition to Christianity is already evident in this first published work. But it's actually not until Human, All Too Human that his attitude begins to decisively harden. For by 1878, he has realized that one cannot simply turn one's back on a pathological phenomenon such as Christianity. Rather, one must make an attempt at treatment and seek out a cure: that is to say, if one wants to live and be strong, then one must learn how to actively negate the negative. This is not only a matter of hygiene, but of good conscience; for to be a Christian today, says Nietzsche, is not only to be sick, but also dishonest.

The idea of Christianity as a crisis of health is one that Nietzsche fully explores in the Genealogy of Morals. Here, he offers us a diagnosis of both society and the modern soul via the construction of a symptomatology based upon his theory of ressentiment and an aetiology that looks for causes in terms of reactive forces. In this work, arguably, Nietzsche becomes the physician of culture that he believed a philosopher should aspire towards being.

Finally, we arrive at Nietzsche's most sustained polemic against Christianity, The Anti-Christ. It is vital to note that in this text Nietzsche's real opponent is not Jesus (whom he continues to think of as noble), but that "genius of hatred" St. Paul. For it is the latter who would keep Christ nailed to the Cross for all eternity and turn his teachings into what Deleuze terms a mortuary enterprise; and it is Paul who invents a new type of priest who foists ideas of guilt, judgement, and punishment upon mankind in the name of Love. 

It is precisely this vicious desire to condemn and seek retribution, that reveals just how shamefully ignorant those who call themselves Christians can be of the glad tidings given us by Jesus; indeed, as Nietzsche points out, even the very term Christian reveals a profound misunderstanding.

Thus, although Nietzsche describes Jesus as an idiot and a holy anarchist, he acknowledges that the gospels contain no trace of ressentiment or any will to revenge. Jesus might be immature and a decadent - he may suffer from a pathological horror of being touched - but he is also, in a sense, an anti-Christian.

The Post of Proper Names

Recently, at a party, I overheard what seemed an undeniably bitchy but nonetheless interesting remark: when told by a young Australian woman, who happens to be married to quite a famous Catalan designer, that they intended to name their unborn baby girl Bacardi, the hostess gave a superior little snort and declared that they were condemning the child to a future that would involve stripping and low-paid bar work.

It reminded me that many people still strongly believe that names are of crucial significance; that they not only determine an individual destiny, but also reveal the essential character of the person to whom they belong. 

I'm pretty sure that both women I mention above - the expectant mother and the hostess - subscribed to this same line of thought, which, of course, can be traced back to the ancient Athenian philosopher Cratylus; he being the most famous exponent of this popular form of linguistic naturalness.

The mother-to-be, for example, is doubtless convinced that by giving the child such an unusual name she is securing for her an exceptional future, in which the horizon of possibility will remain wide open. Like Plectrude's mother, Lucette, this woman thinks that to assign a child a common first name is the same as wanting to give them a mediocre world of grey skies and low-ceilings in which to grow up.

The acid-tongued party hostess would surely agree, in part at least. For the only real difference between the women is over what the name Bacardi implies and here there are clearly social and cultural factors involved and it is not simply a question of onomastics.  

In Praise of the Swan Princess

Like Zarathustra, I have always been a fan of girls who choose to devote themselves to the harsh discipline of classical dance: how could I be an enemy of the blessed feet and fair ankles of ballerinas?

And, like Zarathustra, I have always loathed the Spirit of Gravity; that which weighs life down and stops us learning how to fly like birds and love ourselves with a degree of supersensual coldness that the all-contented know nothing of as they hurriedly gobble-up and digest anything that is placed before them like swine.

Honour should be given only to those who are fastidious in their tastes and have learned how to say No to a soft existence of lard-arsed laziness, spreading everywhere, but leading nowhere. As Plectrude comes to realise: "Putting one's health on the line meant nothing at all as long as one could know the incredible sensation of taking flight." Ultimately, nothing tastes as good as playing Odette feels.

Nothing Tastes as Good as Skinny Feels

Ivonne Thien: Thirty-Two Kilos (2008)

Ours is an anorexic culture, writes Baudrillard; that is to say, a size-zero culture of self-loathing, bulimia, and the ecstasy of emptiness and organic annihilation. 

Ivonne Thien's digitally altered photographs of models wrapped in medical bandages were intended to both illustrate this and, at the same time, offer a point of resistance to the use of  underweight (and often underage) girls in the fashion industry.

She was inspired to create the series of fourteen pictures, entitled Zweiunddreißig Kilo, after her attention was drawn to the proliferation of pro-ana websites that argue for anorexia as a lifestyle choice and dispute the belief that it is actually a life-threatening medical condition. 

Ironically, however, her photos themselves have now become sources of 'thinspiration' to many within the pro-ana community. One suspects that Baudrillard won't be spinning in his grave at this all-too-predictable development, but perhaps gently smiling ...