Miley Cyrus Meets Roland Barthes

Miley Cyrus by Cheyne Thomas / V Magazine 

I'm not a great fan of the 22 year-old American performer Miley Cyrus, but I am very much taken with this snapshot of her in a bathtub currently doing the rounds on social media. 

Why? Because, in Barthesian terms, it strikes me as a genuinely erotic photograph which produces the key element for disturbing the more general field of interest or studium. That is to say, the picture affords that which projects out of the image like an arrow and pierces me as viewer with a certain poignant fascination or delight. This is what Barthes terms the punctum. He writes:

"Many photographs are, alas, inert under my gaze. But even among those which have some existence in my eyes, most provoke only a general and, so to speak, polite interest: they have no punctum in them: they please or displease me without pricking me: they are invested with no more than studium." [27]

I know exactly what he means: when one glances casually at the many images of Miss Cyrus available online, one feels at most a rather flaccid degree of vague desire; she's alright, but, in or out of her clothes, it makes very little difference. There's no real surprise or delight; I might like the pictures or find them interesting, but I do not love them.  

This, in fact, is very often the problem with pornographic images; they are too homogeneous or unary. That is to say, they transform reality without making it vacillate. The erotic photograph, on the other hand, is a pornographic image that has been fissured and which gives us troubling details and untimely objects to distract our attention from the otherwise banal and exclusive presentation of sex. 

These supplements are what seduce us and they are often contained in the picture purely by accident (they attest neither to the photographer's intent nor technical ability). Often, we cannot even say what it is that arrests our gaze and constitutes a punctum: "What I can name cannot really prick me", says Barthes [51].

And so - returning to the above photo of Miss Cyrus - I'm not entirely sure what it is I find so captivating and loveable about the picture; is it her eyes, the position of her arms, the towel on her head, the bracelet, the smallness of her breasts, the stick-out ears, or is it the soap bubbles?

"The effect is certain but unlocatable, it does not find its sign, its name; it is sharp and yet lands in a vague zone of myself; it is acute yet muffled, it cries out in silence. ... Nothing surprising, then, if sometimes, despite its clarity, the punctum should be revealed only after the fact, when the photograph is no longer in front of me and I think back on it. I may know better a photograph I remember than a photograph I am looking at, as if direct vision oriented its language wrongly, engaging it in an effort of description which will always miss its point of effect, the punctum." [51-3]

Miley looks so lovely and fresh-faced, so innocent and defiant in her nakedness, that it's distressing to realise at last that there exists another type of punctum - one not of form, but of intensity and which is related to time. For no matter how young and vital the subject, every photograph tells the same story: she is going to die. 

That's the final challenge of every photograph: however brilliantly they seem to capture the moment and the excited world of the living, each picture contains the imperious sign and certainty of future death. They excite our fascination and our desire, but, ultimately, they make us want to cry ...      

 

See: Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida, trans. Richard Howard, (Vintage, 2000).

All Is Forgiven, But Nothing Learnt in The Case of Charlie Hebdo

The so-called survivors' edition of Charlie Hebdo has been published in a print run that numbers in the millions and in several languages, including English and Arabic. What was once a small, struggling, French satirical magazine is now a global phenomenon.

The cover of this eight page issue features a new drawing of Mohammad which, sure enough, has managed to offend and provoke many Muslims - with the more extreme elements, in Pakistan for example, calling for further revenge killings in order to defend the honour of the prophet and punish those who, in their eyes, are guilty of blasphemy and wilfully insulting 1.5 billion people. 

Interesting as this reaction might be, that's not really my concern. Rather, what worries me is not the image, but the text that accompanies the image: above the crying cartoon figure is written tout est pardonné - all is forgiven.

I must confess to finding this outrageously sanctimonious; an attempt by the staff of the magazine to position themselves on the moral high ground by offering their own rather cheap and unconvincing imitation of Christ. They'll be telling us next that the twelve members of staff who died did so that we all might live in a more tolerant, more peaceful, and more loving world. It's a bit rich to say the least.

Equally galling - and further evidence of Charlie Hebdo's arrogance and inability to learn anything of import from what has just happened - is the fact that the figure also holds up a sign saying Je suis Charlie. The fanaticism of the political idealists who produce the magazine blinds them to the fact that, clearly, not everyone subscribes to or identifies with a universal model of secular humanism wrapped in the colours of the tricolore or star-spangled banner.

Charlie Hebdo can only conceive of a future in its own image; it cannot conceive of terrorism as the emergence of a radical antagonism at the very heart of globalization and as a malevolent force that is irreducible to the New World Order. One would suggest that the editors, writers, and cartoonists at the magazine - as well as their supporters - read Jean Baudrillard who, writing in 2002 after the attack on the Twin Towers, argues that the problem is we in the West have grown so powerful, so smug and self-satisfied, that we no longer care even to admit that there remain others in the world who do not share our dreams and our values:

"It all comes from the fact that the Other, like Evil, is unimaginable. It all comes from the impossibility of conceiving of the Other - friend or foe - in its radical otherness, in its irreconcilable foreignness. A refusal rooted in the total identification with oneself around moral values and technical power. ... How can the Other, unless he is an idiot, a psychopath or a crank, want to be different, irremediably different, without even a desire to sign up to our universal gospel?" [62-3]
                                                     
This brilliant - but largely ignored - insight means that Muslims are right to be offended by the cover of the latest edition of Charlie Hebdo - but are offended for the wrong reasons. What's offensive is not a silly little drawing, but the arrogant assumptions and ideological certainties behind it; the inability to contemplate for even one moment that the Islamists "might commit themselves entirely freely, without in any way being blind, mad or manipulated" [67] to their own moral laws, customs, and beliefs.

This kind of offends me too. And although I obviously don't call for the magazine to be burned, or the publishers murdered, I do wish the team at Charlie Hebdo would think about what they do with a little more subtlety and concern.   

 

See: Jean Baudrillard, 'Hypotheses on Terrorism', in The Spirit of Terrorism and Other Essays, trans. Chris Turner (Verso, 2003).

Alzheimer's and the Becoming-Object of Loved Ones

Recently, Dr Richard Smith, former editor of the British Medical Journal and an honorary professor at the University of Warwick, claimed that, in his view, cancer is the best way to die, as it affords one the opportunity to come to terms with death, say goodbye to family and friends, and spend time doing favourite things or visiting favourite places. Thanks to a combination of 'love, morphine, and whisky' even the pain that cancer results in can be managed and made bearable.   

This perfectly reasonable argument predictably attracted much criticism; a spokesperson for Cancer Research, for example, claimed that his comments were insensitive, irresponsible, and nihilistic! The fact that he also suggested we should spend the billions of pounds invested worldwide each year in a search for a cure to cancer in other areas, obviously didn't help convince the above of the merits of his case.  

What most interested me about Dr Smith's remarks, however, was his view that it is the protracted death from dementia that it is the most awful to contemplate or experience, as the person is slowly robbed of their humanity and, eventually, their life. 

This proves, contrary to what some of his critics claim, he's no nihilist; rather, he's a romantic humanist who finds the prospect of becoming-inhuman or becoming-object the most terrible thing imaginable. As an object-oriented philosopher - and as a son whose mother has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's - I would beg to differ here and challenge Dr Smith's thinking.

Contrary to what he says - and despite our anthropocentric conceit that posits human subjectivity as a unique and superior form of existence - there's nothing to fear about becoming-object, or making a return to material actuality. It might in fact be rather joyous and liberating to be stripped of agency and autonomy; to abandon the illusion of essential inner life and discover instead the seductive and ironic qualities of complete inertia and indifference.

Why dream of being your old self once again when you can become-object? Indeed, might it not be the case that in becoming-object one finally becomes what one is ...?

Why I Don't Love Russell Brand

As an alienated child of Essex who loves playing with language as well as calling for radical social change, I might be said to have something in common with comedian and activist Russell Brand. 

And, at a push, I would readily admit that anyone who unites Peter Hitchens and Johnny Rotten into enmity can't be all bad or entirely mistaken. But, unfortunately, that's as far as it goes. 

Because I don't like all that hair or the wild staring eyes; I don't like the addictive or the paranoid personality traits; I don't like the crass and naive political idealism, or the slightly sinister calls for a new spirituality coupled to a romantic rejection of reason and science; and neither do I care for the preening narcissism, wilful infantilism, and casual sexism.

So, sorry Russell, but whilst I might happily join you for a (non-alcoholic) drink one day, I won't be joining your revolution anytime soon ...   

 

Je ne suis pas Charlie

Stephane Charbonnier 

1967 - 2015

The vile and sentimental murder of the journalists and illustrators who worked for the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo has shocked many people - though not those of us who vividly remember the events surrounding the Jyllands-Posten Muhammad cartoons controversy in 2005; or recall the shooting and attempted beheading of Dutch filmmaker, Theo van Gogh, the year before.   

Predictably, all the usual apologists for transpolitical terror and sympathizers with the Islamist cause have attempted to justify what happened in Paris. But equally galling is the manner in which many have echoed Je suis Charlie - more of a hollow slogan, rather than a meaningful gesture of solidarity.

The fact is other individuals, other publications, other news organizations etc., whilst defending in principle the notion of free speech, have not done so in practice. Rather, in practice, they have acted with a mixture of cowardice and hypocrisy - refusing, for example, to republish or broadcast the works that have (it's claimed) incited such hatred and religious madness.  

They say they are acting responsibly as good liberals should and choosing not to fan the flames or further offend Muslim sensibilities, but, really, they are just scared and prepared to compromise and self-censor in a manner that the radical activists of Charlie Hebdo - including its bravely defiant Editor, Stephane Charbonnier - absolutely refused to do. That's what made the latter heroic; they were prepared to put their lives on the line in a manner that most of us - to our shame - are not. 

I'm not Charlie - but neither are the majority who mouth the slogan even as they seek to appease the enemies of secular society and the values of the West in the name of multiculturalism and a desire to avoid trouble at all costs.      

Haters Back Off! I Love Miranda Sings

What's not to love about the brilliant comic character and internet sensation created, performed, and marketed with genius, by Colleen Ballinger? Miranda Sings is the perfect postmodern clown; the ugly-beautiful face of all that's bad - but, paradoxically, all that's good - about contemporary popular culture. 

In fact, the Miranda Sings YouTube channel is social media satire at its finest and funniest and fully deserving of its 300 million views and 3 million subscribers (or, as Miranda would call them, her Mirfandas). 

Her guest starring role on a recent episode of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee in full Miranda mode alongside a bemused and amused Jerry Seinfeld - followed by an appearance on The Tonight Show playing Pictionary - confirms that Ballinger has the respect and admiration of those in her profession who know great comic acting when they see it. 

Miranda's unique (and uniquely irritating) voice and her madly inventive use (and misuse) of language have to be heard to be believed. Likewise, her insane facial expressions, awkward body postures, and idiosyncratic twerking style just have to be seen (though the latter might still not be believed even after being seen).

Singer, model, actress, dancer - and magician! - again, I can only ask: what's not to love and recommend all readers check out her videos, or, if you get the chance, go see Ballinger performing as Miranda live in concert. 

Links: 

You can find Miranda by going to her website: mirandasings.com ... Or you can watch any of the hundreds of videos posted on her YouTube channel: youtube.com/user/mirandasings08 

To watch Miranda with Jerry Seinfeld on Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee click: here  ... Or to see Miranda on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, click here.

It is your age - A Poem by Isabel del Rio

It is your age that pulls away the veil

From eyes expecting so much more than seen.

And what you did or who you were prevailed

just briefly, what you are is just has-been.

Dreams are no more and even love is dreamt,

No longer hope of saving skin or soul

From surest damnation, all feelings spent

On make-believe things until they run cold.

Don't say it's sad, unfair or undeserved,

this is the only journey you will take,

at least you're here for now, a sentence served

with no purpose but solely for its sake,

to prove or disprove nothing, even less

an answer to the question: what's this mess?

Isabel del Rio is a writer and linguist, born in Madrid and living in London. She writes in both English and Spanish, and has published fiction and poetry. Her bilingual book, Zero Negative / Cero Negativo appeared in 2013 (Araña Editorial). She works for an international organization as head of terminology, and is currently writing a memoir. 

Ms. del Rio appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm and I am very grateful for her kind submission of a sonnet written last year and, indeed, for the photograph.  

A Nietzschean Message for the New Year: Amor Fati

For me, the greatest and most touching of new year blessings and resolutions remains the one with which Nietzsche opens Book IV of The Gay Science (written January, 1882):

"Today, everybody permits themselves the expression of their dearest wish. Hence, I too shall say what it is that I most desire - what was the first thought to enter my heart this year and what shall be for me the reason, guarantee, and sweetness of my life henceforth: I want increasingly to learn to see as beautiful what is necessary in things, so that I may become one of those who makes things beautiful.  

Amor fati - let that be my love from now on! 

I do not want to wage war against that which is ugly; I do not want to accuse; I do not even want to judge those who judge. Looking away shall be my sole negation. For some day I wish to be one who says Yes to life as a total economy of the whole."

This is what the phrase torpedo the ark means to me: love fate; find pleasure in things as they are; don't judge; look away from that which offends one's taste, but nonetheless affirm everything (even the cockroach that obscenely scuttles across the floor, or lies on its back kicking its legs in the air).

Happy New Year to torpedophiles everywhere ...      

Note: The above text by Nietzsche is a modified version of Walter Kaufmann's translation in The Gay Science, (Vintage Books, 1974), IV. 276.

The Prince and the Pauper

Look at this photo taken recently of Prince George; one of a series of shots released as a Christmas gift to the world's media by the Duke and Duchess of Kent:

Now look at this photo taken over the festive season of my nephew's little boy; one of a series of snaps circulated to friends and family by his proud parents:

Spot the difference? Obviously, George is several months older than baby Joshua, but that's not really what I'm getting at. Rather, what we see here is not age difference, but startling evidence for the violent and institutionalized inequality of expectation and opportunity that still exists in the UK. This may be a green and pleasant land, but so too is it one of outrageously uneven playing fields.

And so, in the first picture, we find a prince looking smug and self-satisfied as well he might. He wears cleverly coordinated and well-made clothes like a little royal dandy; no comedy costumes or infantalized outfits for him. He will get to know whilst still very young what it is to wear shirts that button and need ironing, as well as shoes that lace and need polishing.

On his jumper is a picture of one of his great-grandmother's soldiers, sworn to serve and protect him. Like his father and uncle Harry, he'll doubtless spend time in the military, learning what it is to be an officer and to give command. I don't know what steps he's sitting on - doubtless they are those of some palace or other - but they symbolize power and hierarchy; he might be at the bottom now, but one day he'll quite literally be king of the castle.

In the second picture, we find a subject of the Crown looking the happy idiot in his elf suit and already being trained to smile when he hears the words heigh-ho; to aspire to a position in Santa's toy factory, or some other dead-end job.

His clothes are manufactured for comfort, for convenience and for comic effect; t-shirts with slogans and sports shoes with rubber souls; no need for him to dress to impress or dress to kill. Rather, he can dress to chill and never have to worry about tying a Windsor knot or fastening a pair of cufflinks.    

People say it's wrong to envy the wealthy and privileged - and I don't envy them; it's loathing and contempt that speaks here. One can, I think, be legitimately angry and protest power differentials without falling into slave morality or ressentiment.

And so my new year message remains pretty much the same as it has always been; a call for regicide, revolution, and what might be termed cannibalistic class war - Eat the Rich!

On the Malign/ed Art of Faking It (Part III) - A Guest Post by Thomas Tritchler

Cover of the 2010 Penguin edition of 
Wilde's 1891 essay 'The Decay of Lying'

The Romantics understood that all poetic mendacity begins in childhood, which is why children should be extravagantly rewarded for their relentless pleasure in confabulations of all kinds; from invisible friends to self-incriminating fibs. 

But adult pretension matters too, for, as Dan Fox has succinctly argued in a valuable piece for 'Frieze Magazine', pretension is a form of pretending - and pretending can be extremely productive.

Thus, in contrast to the cynic's inability to see beyond affectation, charlatanism, and self-aggrandizement in such matters, the idealist perceives an innocent, adventurous and sometimes tragicomic excess of ambition over attainment - something Fox suggestively correlates to Susan Sontag's depiction of camp as a 'sensibility of failed seriousness'. 

The melted wings of Icarus depict the tragic potentiality of the soul's imaginative flights, not a mythological excuse never to test one's creative limits. If we remember that the Greek word for actor was hypokrites, then it becomes apparent how the thirst for such performative slippages between who we are and would like to be, is woven into the West's cultural DNA.

What is needed - I am suggesting - is the pursuit of a strategic (if not satanic) reversal of the hypothetical value of our key terms. Like Brian Eno, we should turn the word 'pretentious' into a compliment and move beyond the mistaken assumption that there are authentic individuals and others who simply pretend to be something they're not. As a matter of fact, to fake it, is probably the most creative - and important - thing we might do. For it's the way in which we learn about art and experiment with becoming-other     

Further, if the accusation of pretentiousness essentially rests on the idea of people getting above themselves, it is also not hard to follow Fox into regarding the politics of pretence as implying a kind of informal class surveillance. He is right, I think, to highlight the corrosive snobbery embedded in both historical and contemporary England, with its craven obsessions with rank, accent, and the cynical coalition between sex and social exploitation. 

At the same time, even in toxically class-conscious Britain, we should not make the mistake of confining the codices of class to a socio-economic integer rather than an ontological domain. From whatever walks of life, there is a self-selecting unnatural order of romantics, outlaws, aliens and poseurs - let us call them the constituency of the counterfeit - who refuse the rat-race of reality, whose experimental aesthetics configure the vectors of artistic escape and who understand, in a much over-used phrase, that all style is risk. 

In conclusion, we might do well to remember Wilde's words in 'The Decay of Lying', spoken by the decadent aesthete, Vivian, sworn enemy of the old, the conventional, and the well-informed: 

"Many a young man starts life with a natural gift for exaggeration which, if nurtured in congenial and sympathetic surroundings, or by the imitation of the best models, might grow into something really great and wonderful." 

Thomas Tritchler is a poet and critical theorist based in Calw, Germany. He has written and researched extensively on a wide range of authors, including Hölderlin, Nietzsche, Ted Hughes and Jean Baudrillard, and on topics including Romanticism, the Holocaust, and the politics of evil. He has recently worked with the Berlin-based art cooperative Testklang.   

Thomas Tritchler appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm and I am very grateful for his kind submission of a lengthy text written especially for this blog, edited into three separate posts for the sake of convenience.