Immaculate Perception: On Aesthetic Detachment and Emasculated Leering

Henri Matisse: The Artist and His Model (1919) 
henrimatisse.org

I.

Zarathustra famously takes a pop at those moon-like individuals who claim to be able to view everything - including the nakedness of a beautiful young woman - objectively and with aesthetic detachment.

Such hypocrites, who claim to gaze upon life without desire whilst secretly possessed by the will to ravish, lack innocence and their emasculated leering (which they term contemplation) is a sign not of spiritual superiority, but bad conscience and cowardice. Or, in a word, Kantianism.       

For Zarathustra, creators should be full of Sonnenliebe; i.e., they should not merely reflect but directly illuminate and enrich the world with value via an outpouring of energy. Even, it is better they destroy in innocence, than simply stand back and look on coldly.     


II.

I thought of these words by Nietzsche when I recently came across an astonishing remark made by Henri Matisse, whose writings contain numerous references to his relationship with models: 'The naked body of a woman must awaken in you an emotion which you seek in turn to express [...] The presence of the model helps to keep me in a sort of flirtatious state which ends in rape.'

Now, before members of the #MeToo movement call for an immediate ban of his work, it should be noted that Matisse is not, of course, speaking literally and, indeed, he is not referring to the rape of the model. On the contrary, he seems to regard the creative process as involving a form of self-rape and speaks of how he is enslaved and ravished by the model upon whom he is absolutely dependent.

Interestingly, Delacroix also confessed that his beautiful young models robbed him of his vital energies (so much so, that he eventually resorted to working from nude photographs).  

Of course, feminist critics concerned with the imperialism of the male gaze and the power imbalance as it is conventionally understood to exist between (male) artist and (female) model, will probably find this disingenuous and be quick to dismiss it as such; isn't it merely another example of powerful men pretending that they - and not the women stripped bare - are really the victims as they hide behind their easels (or cameras), cock in hand à la Terry Richardson.    

See: Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, II. 37. 

It's important to note that Nietzsche is not simply advocating an active, practical existence over a life of contemplation. On the contrary, he insists that the true creator differs both from the actor and spectator in his possessesion of uniquely creative energy. See The Gay Science, IV. 301.        

Class Sketch

Mssrs. Cleese, Barker, and Corbett in the Class Sketch 

Written by Marty Feldman and John Law

The Frost Report (7 April 1966)

I.

If I remember my political theory correctly, then class consciousness refers to an individual's knowledge of their socio-economic status which allows them to judge where their own best interests lie. For Marxists, the hope is that by raising awareness of inequality and injustice, etc., one increases the chances of collective action and, ultimately, revolution.      

However, whilst I've always been aware of myself as working class and fully conscious of what that entails - and whilst I've always had a certain level of mistrust for the middle classes - I've never been motivated to join the Labour Party or align myself with those on the far left who long for power and to establish a dictatorship of the proletariat.  

In the end, I just don't care enough about even my own interests; certainly not when these are conceived in material terms of ownership. According to my Armenian friend, Vahe, that's because I'm too other-worldly, suffer from a form of false consciousness, don't fully understand the historical process, blah, blah, blah ...


II.    

In a short essay written in 1927, D. H. Lawrence argues that the gulf between social classes is very real and very deep, though there are now, he says, only two great classes: middle and working; the aristocratic upper class having entirely been absorbed into the bourgeoisie.

Indeed, notes Lawrence, even the working class share in the aspirations of the middle class; to be successful and to have a lot of money in the bank. However, there remains a very real difference and division which is rooted in feeling and in the politics of touch:

"What is the peculiar repugnance one feels, towards entering the middle class world? [...]
      What is the obstacle? I have looked for it in myself, as a clue to this dangerous cleavage between the classes. And I find it is a very deep obstacle. It is in the manner of contact. The contact, among the lower classes [...] is much more immediate, more physical, between man and man, than it ever is among the middle classes. The middle class can be far more intimate, yet never so near to one another. It is the difference between the animal, physical affinity that can govern the lives of men, and the other, the affinity of culture and purpose, which actually does govern the mass today.
      But the affinity of culture and purpose that holds the vast middle class world together seems to me to be an intensification today, of the acquisitive and possessive instinct." [39]

       
III.

Like Lawrence, I was  born among the working class. My father too went down the mines when he left school - though unlike Lawrence's father, he hated it and didn't last long as a collier. After the War, he and my mother - at her instigation - moved south, to London, leaving their old life in the north east of England behind. Eventually, they ended up in Essex in a newly built two-up, two-down council house, where I was born.

My father was employed in a non-managerial position at the Bank of England printing works in Debden. My mother was a traditional housewife, who occasionally did part-time jobs outside the home if money was particularly tight. She had hopes for me and my sister, but nothing too grand or ambitious: some kind of clean office job that paid well. Like the Lawrence household, ours was absolutely working class: tabloid-reading, football-loving, and ITV-watching. 

Of course, one is never entirely shaped by or a prisoner to the past, to one's background, to one's class. But one can never quite escape it either. Or - in my case as in Lawrence's - one never really wants to escape and move up in the world, or get on in life. Why? Well, according to Lawrence, it's because this involves too great a cost; one has to sacrifice something vital and vibrate at a different pitch of being, as it were.

For between the classes exists "a peculiar, indefinable difference" that determines the way the heart beats. This might sound like nonsense, but I know exactly what Lawrence means. And I understand entirely why it is he never quite managed (or wanted) to climb up the social ladder, even when offered a helping hand to do so:

"No one was unfriendly. [...] But it was no good. Unless one were by nature a climber, one could not respond in kind. The middle class seemed quite open, quite willing for one to climb into it. And one turned away, ungratefully. [...]
      And that I have not got a thousand friends, and a place [...] among the esteemed, is entirely my own fault. The door to 'success' had been held open to me. The social ladder had been put ready for me to climb. I have known all kinds of people, and been treated quite kindly by everyone [...] whom I have known personally.
      Yet here I am, nowhere, as it were, and infinitely an outsider. And of my own choice." [37-38]

Precisely: here I am nowhere, with nowhere left to go.

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'Which Class I Belong To', Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 33-40. 

See also 'Myself Revealed' in the above text, pp. 175-81, which is essentially a variant of 'Which Class I Belong To', that concludes: "I cannot make the transfer from my own class into the middle class. I cannot, not for anything in the world, forfeit my passional consciousness and my old blood-affinity with my fellow-men and the animals and the land, for that other thin, spurious mental conceit which is all that is left of the mental consciousness once it has made itself exclusive." [181] 

Note: 'Myself Revealed' was included in Assorted Articles (1930) under the title 'Autobiographical Sketch'.  

The Butterfly Revelation: Notes on D. H. Lawrence and V. V. Rozanov

Vasily Rozanov by Ivan Parkhomenko (1909)

I.

Vasily Rozanov was a controversial Russian writer and philosopher of the pre-Revolutionary period who tried to reconcile a revised form of Christianity with his own phallic eroticism. It's perhaps not surprising, therefore, that he should attract the interest of D. H. Lawrence, even if the latter is ambiguous about the sometimes astonishing writings of the former.

Thus, in his review of Solitaria, for example, whilst he concedes there are some "occasionally profound and striking" ideas, Lawrence can't help dismissing Rozanov as yet another morbidly introspective Russian who, like Dostoevsky, wallows in adoration of Jesus on the one hand, whilst remaining absorbedly concerned with his own dirty linen on the other:

"The contradictions in them are not so very mysterious, or edifying after all. They have a spurting, gamin hatred of civilisation, of Europe, of Christianity, of governments, and of everthing else, in their moments of energy; and in their inevitable relapses into weakness, they make the inevitable recantation, they whine, they humiliate themselves [...] and call it Christlike, and then with the left hand commit some dirty little crime or meannness, and call it the mysterious complexity of the human soul." [315]

Such half-baked nihilism is masturbatory and quickly becomes tiresome. As does Rozanov's fragmentary writing style, of which I remain a passionate exponent, regardless of Lawrence's criticism. That his work appears formless and seems to lack system, isn't a problem for me; nor is the often paradoxical character of the text. And the fact that Lawrence describes Rozanov as a "Mary Mary quite contrary" only makes me smile.


II.

Whilst Lawrence finds Solitaria boring (despite the fact that Rozanov occasionally "hits the nail on the head and makes it jump") and Fallen Leaves sad and self-conscious (despite its sincerity), there is a work - having read a short extract - about which he's far more positive: Apocalypse of Our Times ...

"The Apocalypse must be a far more imporant book than Solitaria, and we wish to heaven we had been given it instead. Now at last we see Rozanov as a real thinker [...]"

Lawrence continues:

"The book is an attack on Christianity, and as far as we are given to see, there is no canting or recanting in it. It is passionate, and suddenly valid. It is not jibing or criticism or pulling to pieces. It is a real passion. Rozanov has more or less recovered the genuine pagan vision, the phallic vision, and with these eyes he looks, in amazement and consternation, on the mess of Christianity.
      For the first time, we get what we have got from no Russian, neither Tolstoy nor Dostoevsky nor any of them, a real, positive view on life. It is as if the pagan Russian had wakened up in Rozanov [...] and was just staggering at what he saw. His background is [...] the vast old pagan background, the phallic. And in front of this, the tortured complexity of Christian civilisation [...] is a kind of phantasmagoria to him.
      He is the first Russian, as far as I am concerned, who has ever said anything to me. And his vision is full of passion, vivid, valid. He is the first to see that immortality is in the vividness of life, not in the loss of life. The butterfly becomes a whole revelation to him: and to us." [317]

How much of this is true and how much it's Lawrence projecting his own vision of phallic wholeness onto Rozanov, I don't know. But I do like the idea of a butterfly providing a revelation to us. Ultimately, I would suggest that we have more to learn by studying insects than in listening to the words of dead prophets.   

Notes

D. H. Lawrence, 'Review of Solitaria, by V. V. Rozanov', and 'Review of Fallen Leaves, by V. V. Rozanov', Introductions and Reviews, ed. N. H. Reeve and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 313-319 and 345-351.

V. V. Rozanov, Solitaria, trans. by S. S. Koteliansky, (Wishart, 1927). First published in Russian in 1911. This edition includes, amongst other extras, a 20-page extract trans. by Koteliansky from Apocalypse of Our Times (first published in Russian in 1918).

V. V. Rozanov, Fallen Leaves, trans. S. S. Koteliansky, (Mandrake Press, 1929). First published in Russian, in two volumes, in 1913 and 1915.

For those who are interested in reading more on Lawrence and Rozanov, see the following essays:

Heinrich A. Stammler, 'Apocalypse: V. V. Rozanov and D. H. Lawrence', Canadian Slavonic Papers / Revue Canadienne des Slavistes, Vol. 16, No. 2 (Taylor and Francis, Ltd., Summer, 1974), pp. 221-244. 

George J. Zytaruk, 'The Phallic Vision: D. H. Lawrence and V. V. Rozanov', Comparative Literature Studies, Vol. 4, No. 3 (Penn State University, 1967), pp. 283-297.

In Praise of Bedsits

Dancing laughing / Drinking loving 
And now I'm all alone / In bedsit land

Writer and music journalist Jon Savage is absolutely right to identify Soft Cell's 1981 single Bedsitter as one of the great tracks of the decade, not just for its "melody, mood, and irresistible forward motion", but also for daring to address in a pop song themes of loneliness, isolation and the limits of hedonism as a lifestyle. 

Having said that, there wasn't necessarily anything desperate or depressing about living in a bedsit during this perod. Speaking from personal experience, I can vouch that there was nothing more liberating than having a room of one's own in the heart of the city.

The room may have been unheated, the decor seedy, and the landlord Rigsby-like, but I would echo Virginia Woolf and say that having a modest but fixed and regular income (i.e. dole money) and a place to live (with key and lock) is crucial if one is to achieve creative freedom and independence and I loved every minute spent living all alone at 7, Arlington Gardens, surrounded by books, clothes, and records on the floor (delighting in memories of the night before). 

What's more, when I consider members of today's so-called boomerang generation - like my nephew - it fills me with a mixture of horror and sorrow. For despite all the home comforts and advantages that he speaks of, to remain living with one's parents at the age of 28 seems inconceivable (and a little obscene) to me.

But there you go, times and people have changed ...

See: 'Jon Savage on song: Soft Cell - Bedsitter', The Guardian (25 Jan 2010): click here to read online.

Play: Soft Cell, 'Bedsitter', single release from the album Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret (October 1981): click here. Songwriters: Dave Ball and Marc Almond. Lyrics: © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

Note: the photo is of the poet Lori Gatford taken in her Leeds bedsit sometime in the late 20th century. 

On the Origins of a Solar-Phallic Landscape

S. A. von Hell: A New Day (c. 1985-87)

Someone very kindly emailed to say how intriguing and strangely affecting they found my solar-phallic landscape painted sometime in the mid-1980s and featured on a recent post [click here]. They also requested that I provide some background to the work which, as they rightly assume, wasn't merely imaginative ...

Primarily, the picture has its origins in the work of the writer and artist D. H. Lawrence, who once confessed in a letter to a friend:

"I put a phallus [...] in each one of my pictures somewhere. And I paint no picture that won't shock people's castrated social spirituality. I do this out of positive belief that the phallus is a great sacred image: it represents a deep, deep life which has been denied in us, and is still denied."

This brief remark encapsulated my philosophical aesthetic at the time and provided a kind of mini-manifesto.

Secondly, the picture was very much influenced by my love of Killing Joke, particularly during the period beginning with Fire Dances and ending with Brighter Than a Thousand Suns. I bought the three albums released before this period - and the first two albums that followed - but my beautiful obsession with the band was at its most intense and uncompromising between 1983-87, i.e., the pagan years, when I subscribed to an eco-apocalyptic model of Romantic primitivism tinged with Nazi occultism.

The oak tree foliage at the side of the picture was an idea I took from the cover to the Killing Joke single from which I also lifted the title, A New Day (1984) - see image below. 

Finally, the painting was born also of my reading of Jung's writings on the solar phallus and the collective unconscious; in other words, it was meant to be an image with archetypal significance. For those who don't know what I'm talking about, let me try to briefly explain ...    

One of Jung's favourite stories concerned a paranoid-schizophrenic patient with suicidal tendencies named Emile Schwyzer, who had spent most of his life in and out of mental institutions; a man who believed that stars were composed of dead souls and that the Earth was flat and surrounded by infinite seas.

One day, Schwyzer reported a particularly striking hallucination, in which the sun seemed to possess an erect penis that moved back and forth and caused the wind to blow. This vision stayed with Jung, although he was unable to fathom its meaning until he became aware of a similar solar-phallic image within the ancient Roman mystery religion centred on the god Mithras. Then, it all made perfect sense and everything clicked into place; here was a compelling piece of evidence for the existence of a collective unconscious.   

At the time - i.e., in the mid-1980s, when I thought Jung was a genius rather than a crank - I was happy to buy into all this, despite numerous problems with the actual details of the story and with Jung's celebrated theory (a theory that has more holes in it than a piece of Swiss cheese, as James Hillman acknowledges).

What Jung is essentially doing, is extending Kant's categories of reason to the production of fantasy; archetypes are conceived as categories of the imagination and analytic psychology is thereby revealed as a form of transcendental idealism with mytho-hermeneutic knobs on. Not my cup of tea at all; certainly not now, when the last thing I would paint - if I were to ever pick up a brush again - would be a solar-phallic landscape.       

Notes 

The letter by D. H. Lawrence to Earl Brewster (27 Feb 1927) can be found in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, vol. V, ed. James T. Boulton and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 648-49.  

(E. G. Records, 1984) 

Becoming-Imperceptible: Notes on 'The Woman Who Wanted to Disappear'

I.

The last piece of fictional writing by D. H. Lawrence was an untitled fragment of text scribbled in a notebook during the final year of his life and unpublished until 2005, when it was transcribed and added as an appendix to the Cambridge edition of The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories.  

In the story - called by the Cambridge editors 'The Woman Who Wanted to Disappear' - an unnamed woman announces to her husband that she would like to vanish for a year and intends to leave him and her two young children the following day, taking only a small suitcase with her. She makes it clear that she wants no one to come sniffing after her when she's gone, whatever the circumstances.  

Seeing as she has already made arrangements with her lawyer and the bank - and knowing that it would be pointless objecting to her planned disappearance - the husband, Henry, says nothing and simply marks the date of her anticipated reappearance the following year in red pencil on the calendar. 

It wasn't so much that she wanted to get away from him and the children; rather, she wanted to get completely away from herself and find a place in which she might feel at peace - and also of some use to somebody else, for her own superfluity was troubling to her: 

"If only she could get away from herself, and be different, somehow! Oh, be different! come to rest somewhere! She could never come to rest, never for a second." 

And so, this wealthy, restless woman departs and, after a brief stay in an expensive mountain top hotel, she buys a car and drives into the surrounding dark forest:  

"It reminded her of her childhood - but it was not a disappearance. Hundreds of cars were on the road, and all the hotels were rather full. A mistake, really, to start romantically disappearing at the end of July, when everywhere is overcrowded. Somehow she didn't want to disappear into a crowd, though that is supposed to be the easiest thing to disappear into. She wanted to disappear into some rare and magical place where she could become her own rare and magical self - her true self, that nobody knew, least of all she herself."

I suppose many people have felt this way; have desperately sought out some kind of rare and magical place in which they might both disappear and become who they are. But, of course, to discover some kind of immanent utopia involves leaving the main road and abandoning the safety of one's vehicle and that requires a certain reckless courage that is increasingly rare today.  

II. 

Although - as far as I recall - they don't talk of disappearing as such, Deleuze and Guattari do suggest that the ultimate aim of all becoming is becoming-imperceptible, i.e. to reach the point at which individuals can no longer be identified in human terms, but only acknowledged as a chaos of non-subjectified effects (or what Lawrence terms vibrations). 

In other words, this is to recognise that our haecceity is entirely composed at a molecular level of impersonal elements and can only be mapped in schizoanalytic terms of "longitude and latitude, a set of speeds and slownesses between unformed particles".  

Becoming-imperceptible marks an evanescence of the self. It means arriving at that fourth dimensional space that is now/here, rather than no/where, described by Lawrence in an essay on love as "the realm of calm delight [...] the other-kingdom of bliss". It is here we accomplish our perfection, even as we stage our disappearance.  

See:

D. H. Lawrence, 'The Woman Who Wanted to Disappear', The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories, ed. Michael Herbert, Bethan Jones and Lindeth Vasey (Cambridge University Press, 2005), Appendix V, pp. 251-55.  

D. H. Lawrence, 'Love', Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert, (Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 9. 

Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, trans. Brian Massumi, (The Athlone Press, 1996), p. 262.

On My Brief Life as a Painter

S. A. Von Hell: A New Day (c. 1985-87)

One of the few things I have in common with Adolf Hitler, is that I too failed to get into art school; though in my case, this was St. Martin's, London, not the Academy of Fine Arts, Vienna, and I don't remember being particularly shocked or devestated by the decision, unlike Herr Hitler, whose rejection would prove fateful.

For one thing, I had no training or background in the arts, and no discernible talent, skill, or competency as a painter. In fact, when I went for the interview at St. Martin's, I didn't even have a proper portfolio; I just had ideas and a kind of occult-pagan aesthetic that was heavily influenced at the time by D. H. Lawrence, Killing Joke, and Franz von Stuck.

My interviewers, unsurprisingly, were not impressed and weren't shy in telling me that they found my views to be disturbing and the handful of sketches for hand-painted t-shirts that I did bring along to be puerile. The punk insistence that all that mattered was attitude - who cares about composition and colour - failed to convince. 

Anyway, long story short - and as I've said - I didn't get a place on the course and the very small number of canvases I produced in the mid-1980s - including the fairly large phallic landscape above - have all been destroyed by damp or thrown away by my sister who was supposed to be looking after them for me in her loft.  

For better or for worse, I decided post-St. Martin's to reinvent myself as a poet rather than a painter - and then, later, as a philosopher-provocateur. But I miss playing around with paints and have promised myself to one day produce some new pictures, if only for the sheer pleasure of covering a surface with something other than words. 

Note: for a supplementary post to this one, please click here.

Bret Easton Ellis: Towards a Non-Magical, Non-Elvish Gay Life

Bret Easton Ellis 

Photo: Iris Schneider for The Washington Post 

According to the American novelist Bret Easton Ellis, the liberal insistence on sanctifying homosexuality is a kind of inverted homophobia, which results, ironically, in a new form of victimisation that transforms complex human beings into little more than fairy tale characters (Gay Magical Elves). The heteronormative majority cheer every time another man or woman in the public eye dares to come out and appear before them as some kind of saintly figure whose primary purpose is to remind them of their own virtues as a people: Look at us! So tolerant, so loving, so inclusive! 

This desire to embrace and celebrate every queer individual on the LGBT spectrum, is not only patronising in and of itself, but it denies the individuality of the person concerned; they become merely a stereotype and symbol. And, in the process, they become neutered and neutralised. Because the deal is, if they want to be loved and accepted within wider society, then they must make themselves lovable and acceptable by becoming like the sweet and sexually nonthreatening persons seen on TV (bitchy clowns and queeny best friends). "God help the gay man", writes Ellis, "who comes out and doesn't want to represent, who doesn't want to teach, who doesn’t feel like part of the homogenized gay culture and rejects it."

Ultimately, to be liberated, is not to feel pride in your identity (be it sexual, racial, or religious); it means, rather, having the freedom to be flawed (and often full of self-loathing) just like everybody else. In other words, it means having the right not to smile and have to be so (HIV) positive all the time. Not all queer individuals wish to promote healthy mainstream values; they don't all want to be married and raise a family; don't all support left wing causes or aspire to be politically correct. According to Ellis, however, a lot of gay men today "feel they can’t be provocatively raunchy or politically incorrect in the mainstream media because it doesn’t represent The Cause".

He continues:

"This is where we're at now, I guess. Within the clenched world of the gay PC police there has been a tightening of the reins. It's as if in this historic moment for gay men we somehow still need to be babied and coddled and used as shining examples of humanity and objects of fascination - the gay baby panda - and this is a new kind of gay victimization. The fact that it is often being extolled by other gays in the Name of the Good Cause is doubly stifling."

Saying this predictably resulted in a lot of criticism for Ellis - not least from others in the gay community. But, to his credit, the author of American Psycho ultimately chooses to affirm himself as a writer who believes in free speech, rather than as part of a community whose members must conform with the prevailing orthodoxy in order to display their solidarity. The fact that some wish to promote a fantasy of queer life that doesn’t really exist, is not something Ellis is prepared to comply with. He may write fiction for a living, but he prefers gay reality no matter how painful and fucked-up that reality is:

"We are not all well-adjusted Good Gays. We’re not all happily queer - meaning the queer part doesn't make us happy or unhappy - just that some of us are cranky, depressed wrecks. We're complicated. We're angry. We can be as rude about our sexuality as our straight counterparts. Some of us feel the need to express our 'gay' selves any way we want to, even if that doesn't conform to 'gay positive' stereotypes. (A lot of us think these so-called 'gay positive' stereotypes are, in fact, 'gay nightmares.') Some of us reject the notion of how Gay Life is defined and don’t want to be a part of it, and so we create our own."

Ellis continues in a passage with which I'm very sympathetic:

"Where's the not-famous, slobby, somewhat lazy gay dude who is fine with being gay but just doesn't care about being PC or being an example of 'moral uplift,' who just wants to get on with his life, the guy who wants to be himself without becoming a label? A gay man who doesn't equate gay with dignity? The gay man who feels he doesn’t have to march in the parade while smiling? The inclusion and promotion of this common gay man by the Gatekeepers of Politically Correct Gayness would be something shattering. It would be a massive move toward eliminating The Gay Man as Magical Elf."

Notes

Bret Easton Ellis, 'In the Reign of the Gay Magical Elves', Out, (13 May 2013): click here to read online. 

I assume that Ellis still stands by this essay, as he repeats the views expressed here in his new book White (Picador, 2019). 

Send in the Clowns

I.

In an early school report, one of my teachers noted: "Stephen's work suffers due to his insistence on playing the clown. He has to understand that he is in school to learn and not merely to amuse his classmates."

Despite this po-faced attempt to nip my talent for comedy in the bud, this insistence on playing the clown - influenced in part by Cesar Romero's performance as the Joker in Batman - continued all the way into adolescence, when that fabulous grotesque, Johnny Rotten, the clown prince of punk, became a great inspiration.     

II.

As a matter of fact, I never regarded myself as a clown: certainly not the type who relied on slapstick or other forms of physical comedy; and certainly not the type who was solely interested in entertaining others.

Even at six-years-old, I was more interested in challenging authority and provoking laughter through the use of language - including the language of fashion - than by throwing buckets of water (not that there's anything wrong with throwing buckets of water, as Tiswas demonstrated).

Admiring as I did fun lovin' criminals like the Joker and, later, anarchic pranksters like the Sex Pistols, meant there was always a bit more of a subversive edge to my fooling around, refusal to care, and mockery (of self and others). I may have worn Grimaldi's whiteface makeup, but that's just about where any point of comparison ends.    

III.

If not a clown, then what was I really? Some might say a fool and I've nothing against those who rush in where angels fear to tread.

But I'd probably be happier with the term trickster, as there's something more ambiguous about such a shape-shifting figure and the manner in which they often push things beyond a joke; are they being mischievous, malicious, or both? Either way, they seem to act with the full intelligence of evil.

Primarily, tricksters violate principles of social and natural order. That is to say, tricksters playfully deconstruct reality and dissolve binary distinctions. And that's why Jordan Peterson is absolutely right to describe Derrida as a philosophical trickster - though his ignorant dismissal of Derrida's work (without even attempting to engage with it) is as shameful as that of those four Cambridge dons who, in 1992, opposed the awarding of an honorary degree to M. Derrida on the grounds that his thinking failed to meet accepted standards of philosophical clarity and rigour.

Ironically, Peterson has himself just had an offer of a visiting fellowship rescinded by Cambridge University following a humourless and politically correct backlash from members of both faculty and the student body, who seem to regard him in much the same way he regards Derrida - that is to say, as a dangerous charlatan.

Ultimately, culture requires its clowns and tricksters - almost as comic saviours. Indeed, that's something I would have thought Peterson, as a great reader of Jung, would readily agree with. Thus his loathing of Derrida is, in some ways, surprising as well as disappointing.

Ooh La La La: Katherine Waugh's Fugitive Philosophy

Paul Klee: Angelus Novus (1920) 

I. Kate Loves Marlon

Katherine Waugh describes the impersonal form of writing that she loves best as fugitive in character and I don't have any problem with that, though how it differs from what Deleuze and Guattari term minor literature and/or nomadic philosophy is not quite clear; they too speak of outlaws and those who have the courage to flee.

Indeed, Waugh even privileges the same authors as Deleuze and Guattari - Nietzsche, Kafka, Artaud ... all the usual suspects. She may have been a subjectless teenage reader, but there's nothing unique about her taste in writers. Or movie stars ...

If saying you like Marlon Brando isn't exactly going out on a limb, describing Sidney Lumet's film Fugitive Kind (1960) as extraordinary - in a positive sense - is admittedly a bold move. Waugh is clearly smitten with the character played by Brando - Valentine Xavier - dressed in his snakeskin jacket. She speaks of his "singular beauty and sexual allure", before quickly adding that what really appeals is the fact that Valentine is "seeking to escape the oppressive subjectification he feels trapped within".

How do we know that this guitar-playing drifter is "seeking to escape the oppressive subjectification he feels trapped within"? Because he tells the older woman he's taken a shine to (played by Anna Magnani) the tragic tale of an apodal bluebird that is destined to forever stay on the wing. Should the poor creature ever attempt to land, it will immediately perish.

That's how Valentine wishes to be understood; as a man who doesn't belong anywhere and must always keep moving. And I guess that's how Waugh also wants to be understood; footloose and footless. Part bluebird - and part angel of history, as Waugh flits from Brando to Benjamin and the latter's obsessive love of a painting by Paul Klee ...     


II. Kate Loves Walter

German philosopher and cultural critic, Walter Benjamin, was, as Waugh reminds us, literally a fugitive. Or, perhaps more accurately speaking, as a Jew in German-occupied Europe, Benjamin was a political refugee. Either way, he died on the run from the Nazis.

Waugh wonders what Benjamin might think of contemporary culture, were he to view it through the eyes of his Angel. Would what he saw make him panic, or fall into picnoleptic hysteria? I don't know. And, to be honest, I had to google the last term too.

Waugh writes of  eyes that cannot see the past, but remain "hypnotized and bedazzled by the virtual luminosities of a history-less present, and possibly, in such a state, not seeing the present (however one defines it) either". And it's a nice idea, nicely expressed, even though it's not her idea; it belongs rather to that philosopher of speed, Paul Virilio.

Not that this really matters ... It's only that later in the essay, Waugh expresses such a love of original writing that ... But I digress (as Waugh herself digresses, though she terms it a divagation). Let's get back to Benjamin ...

What is it that Waugh loves about him? Did he too wear a snakeskin jacket and possess the singular beauty and sexual allure of Marlon Brando as Valentine Xavier? I think it would be pushing it a bit to describe him in such terms. However, he did seek to escape the oppressive subjectification he felt trapped within. Waugh tells us that Benjamin was (amongst other things):

Self-effacing ☑
A lover of pseudonyms ☑

Able to stage his own disappearance in the text ☑
Buried in an anonymous grave ☑

In other words, he ticks all the right boxes for Waugh, who loves a writer who gives nothing away about himself and is able to become-imperceptible, which is the ultimate goal of all becomings. And o' how she longs for such writers to come from out of the future as it were, now that Kafka, Joyce, and all the B-boys, are long dead and buried beneath the weight of (non-fugitive) scholarship and critique.

III. Closing Remarks

Essentially, what Waugh is calling for is a new theoretically-informed criticism which is extreme, absurd, bewildering and, above all, thrilling. She approvingly quotes the music critic Simon Reynolds: "Far from being born of a cold-blooded drive to dissect and demystify, the attraction of critical theory (especially the French kind) was that it set your brain on fire."

I don't agree with that. Au contraire, I think that French critical theory builds upon the Nietzschean teaching that only those who know how to put ideas on ice have earned the right to enter into the heat of debate. Thus, I don't think Waugh would much care for the posts here on Torpedo the Ark where enthusiasm (and what she terms passion) is very much curbed.

Indeed, I suspect she'd think me a narcissistic stylist who trades in bland inanities dressed up as "profundities in 'clever' sentences". And she is quick to remind her readers - with all the snobbery of those who (often secretly) defend genre distinctions and high culture - of Sylvère Lotringer's remark: theory is not synonymous with blogging.

That might be true, but blogging is not synonymous with "the horrors of much online, spontaneous, 'opinionizing' and 'self-expression'" either. Indeed, I would suggest that one can (sometimes) find conceptual intelligence in all kinds of writing, including blogging - and she can put that in her snow globe and shake it!   

See: Katherine Waugh, 'The Fugitive Kind', essay in Fugitive Papers, Issue 2, (Summer 2012), pp. 12-15. 

Note: Katherine Waugh is a curator, writer, and filmmaker based in Ireland.