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Ideology, ways of seeing and the American dream

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The capacity to give a Marxist reading of the mass media, literature and the arts is a necessary part of art criticism; after first outlining some basic aspects of Marxism I shall touch on one aspect of such a critical reading, namely ‘ideology’.

Two authoritative discussions on the philosophy of Marxism underlined certain core aspects of the theory including the recognition that it is essentially a theory of liberation. In the first discussion between Bryan Magee and Charles Taylor, Magee (1978) provides a thumbnail sketch of the basic tenets of Marxism; he stresses the centrality of the arrangements which keep a society in existence – which are, in fact, the means of production. It is these economic conditions and the associated political dimension that form the very basis of a society – upon which all else is constructed. Taylor adds to Magee’s sketch by noting that the appeal and excitement of Marxism lies in the fact that it promises a liberation from the trials and tribulations of an oppressed existence. Marcuse, in a subsequent discussion with Magee, endorses the ongoing critique of capitalist society by highlighting its failures and the positive alternative held out by revised Marxist theory.

A Marxist perspective pinpoints, in addition to the material and historical factors that structure a society, the role of ideology. Ideologies – understood as belief systems – are the product of cultural conditioning. They come in many guises and whilst some are liberating others are oppressive. The most serious Marxist critics attribute many of the failings of western capitalist societies to the role of ideology. They do this by showing that an ideology can be both hidden and can serve to mask actual realities. One such ideology is that of the ‘American dream’ (and something not dissimilar prevails in the UK). The American writer Tyson – a cultural critic – outlines this ideology by articulating three of the more obvious features of the mind-set and belief that is ‘the American dream.’ They are: a) Getting ahead – through initiative, will-power and effort b) Bettering oneself – and being better than others (hence, competitiveness) and c) Rugged individualism.

Tyson (2017) then moves on to provide a devastating description of the way the ideology of the ‘American dream’ functions as an oppressive ideology:

‘… like all ideologies that support the socio-economic inequities of capitalist countries like ours – that is countries in which the means of production (natural, financial and human resources) are privately owned and in which those who own them inevitably become the dominant class – the American dream blinds us to the enormities of its failure – both past and present: the genocide of Native Americans, the enslavement of Africans, the virtual enslavement of indentured servants, the abuse suffered by immigrant populations, the widening gulf between America’s rich and poor, the growing ranks of the homeless and hungry, the enduring socio-economic barriers against women and people of colour – and the like.

In other words, the success of the American dream – the acquisition of a wealthy life-style for a few – rests on the misery of the many. And it is the power of ideology, of our belief in the naturalness and fairness of this dream, that has blinded us to the harsh realities it masks.’ (Tyson, 2017: 55,56)

The key point is that the American dream has come to occupy such a deeply entrenched position in a shared American psyche that it is not fully recognised as a product of cultural conditioning but, instead, as something natural. It seems so normal and taken-for-granted that it is difficult to ‘haul it out’ of the unconscious and see it as a constructed rather than a natural and inevitable mode of seeing.

Marcuse also understands the role of ideology in similar terms. He even thinks that it must have created a deep psychological cast of mind because the realities of advanced capitalist life in America are not at all commendable. In his conversation with Magee (1978) he observes of America (and other advanced capitalist countries) that, as a society it ‘daily revealed its inequality, injustice, cruelty and general destructiveness’ and that whilst he noted that although ‘Fascism had been defeated militarily, a potential for its revival continued to exist.’ He then continues by saying that he could also mention’ racism, sexism, general insecurity, pollution of the environment, the degradation of education, the degradation of work and so on – and on …

Marxist critics analyse how ideology is brought into being and amongst its sources is both the mass media and its cultural manifestations in the arts. In the light of their analysis a key question for any work of art is the extent to which it supports, promotes or sustains an oppressive ideology. And it may do this in any number of subtle and indirect ways.

When Margaret Atwood speaks …

Screenshot 2020-04-23 at 08.03.33Actually I read this extraordinary book a long time ago. It was back in those days when I realised that my knowledge was so impoverished I had to do something about it; so, I read the classics; the trouble is I have forgotten everything I once knew about ‘The Brothers Karamazov’. However, I happened to see a short programme in which esteemed authors were mentioning books that they might read during these restricted times. Margaret Atwood had never read Dostoyevsky’s ‘The Brothers Karamazov.’ She rather relished the fact that, by all accounts, it featured ‘bad behaviour’!

I decided, therefore, that I had better re-read this great novel. Today, I retrieved it from one of my bookshelves. I dusted it off and looked at the cover. I opened the book. I began reading.

(The painting featured on the cover of the book shows a detail from, ‘The rejected confession’ by Ilya Repin.)

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Site-specific art: a brief engagement with the campus of an art college

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I had been given the opportunity to make and install a ‘series’ of site-specific works of art. Fortunately, ‘works of art’ nowadays is a very inclusive category and whatever I chose to do would more-or-less count as art!

The brief included an excellent reading list amongst which was Clifford Geertz’s (1988) ‘Works and lives: the anthropologist as author’, the wonderfully titled ‘Non-places: introduction to an anthropology of super-modernity’ by Marc Auge (1992) and Merlin Coverley’s (2010) ‘Psycho-geography’.

These texts provided a backdrop of ideas for my project. I identified the campus of UCA as an anthropological site which included an admixture of buildings and structures that reflected both a psycho-geography and something culturally specific. I had also been reading Iris Murdoch’s views of the intentions of art in which, among other things, she had said that ‘art is fun and for fun’.

In consequence, I resolved to enjoy myself ‘playing’ with a few episodes of a personal psycho-geography located in an anthropological context. And I did have some fun.

Throughout the time allocated to the project I made a total of 7 interventions. I used books (one of which was Freud’s ‘The future of an illusion‘), record covers, a photograph of a work of art, a small brass sculpture of the Buddha and a fanciful model of a hunter/woodsman. (The complete set of interventions was later presented in a slide show to the MA students.)

The photograph above shows one of the interventions I made; underneath it all I intended it to be a really serious warning:  Freud’s account of ‘The future of an illusion’ can be read as a text concerned to draw our attention to any ‘ready-made’ belief system manifested in a culture. Correctly, he points out that, unless we are very careful, we can uncritically accept the limiting perspective that the belief system provides. We can extend his idea and ask a question about the meaning of buildings – along with their function: the UCA site enjoys a shiny new place in which, as far as I can tell, the new arts of performance are explored. (The building itself seems to be a kind of performance.) But these new arts may well simply serve as seductive distractions – and continue to beguile people with the hope and fantasy that they will ‘be someone’. The problem is that they are already ‘someone’ – and I think  that they might well feel happier if, rather than seeking the approval and attention of others, they were to place more trust in their own powers and obvious abilities.

In its own modest way I hoped that my site-specific intervention (by making explicit the connection between illusion and the function of the building) alluded to the possibility of this further alienation of the self.

Disruption and a ‘master idea’

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As part of our MA in Fine Art we had to complete a short project entitled ‘Disruption’. The brief was very clear: we were first to locate one piece of art that we had made and which, for whatever reason, we felt was unsatisfactory. We then had to ‘ruin’ the work in one way of another. Second, we had to retrieve some sort of ‘found’ object and ‘ruin’ it too – but in a different way to the first act of ruination. Third we had to put the two separate pieces together and make some sort of re-configured – and hopefully successful – work of art.

I liked the brief. I immediately thought of the words ‘slash and burn.’ I decided to take a watercolour study I had done (of a face) that was only minimally successful and, after heating a candle and allowing the wax to spill over its surface, I then set fire to the painting.

Next, I dismantled an already-broken child’s watch that I had found abandoned on the pavement outside my house. I added bits of the watch to the half-burnt semi-destroyed watercolour. Initially I thought the ensemble looked good, but then I thought it looked ugly and finally I decided that it looked horrible. I did not like seeing it. (It is, I discovered, actually difficult for me to make things that are really rather ugly.)

But the ‘Disruption’ project led me to retrieve different unused bits and pieces that I had collected over the years and then create mini-assemblages or mini-structures mainly themed in relation to terrific books that I had read.

Amongst these old unused items was something related to Susan Sontag’s brilliant text, ‘On photography’: some years ago I had taken a single photograph of a page of her book. The photograph had been developed before the advent of digital photography; it looked bright and shiny, graced as it was with a glossy sheen.

As I played around making the assemblage (connected with ongoing problems I feel about the seductions of photography) I could still read the text of the page that I had photographed; I realised just how prescient she was. In the 1970s she had written:

China offers the model of one kind of dictatorship whose master idea is “the good” in which the most unsparing limits are placed on all forms of expression including images. The future may offer another kind of dictatorship whose master idea is “the interesting” in which images of all sorts, stereotyped and eccentric, proliferate …

She continued: And there seems to be no way of limiting the proliferation of photographic images. The only question is whether the function of the image world as created by cameras could be other than it is. The present function is clear enough if one considers in what contexts photographic images are seen, what dependencies they create, what antagonisms they pacify – that is, what institutions they buttress, whose needs they really serve.

A capitalist society requires a culture based on images. It needs to furnish vast amounts of entertainment in order to stimulate buying and anaesthetise the injuries of class, race and sex. And it needs to gather unlimited amounts of information the better to exploit natural resources, increase productivity, make war, give jobs to businesses …

As I re-read these words from the photograph about the photograph I could not help but think that for a number of years we have been living in an ‘image-world’ given over to the master idea of ‘the interesting’. It coincides with and re-inforces that other master idea that we must ‘be someone’. But, quite frankly, I feel that I have overdosed on images. I also have the sense that many people now have a compulsion to repeat the act of taking and publishing their photographs. Sigmund Freud has a lot to say about this! But, what is more, I am in danger of being drawn into this obsessive ‘look at me’ culture. It is as if we are all, collectively, lured into secondary narcissism.

Hiroshima roses (continued)

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Here are two more photographs in my ‘Hiroshima Roses’ series. Both photographs were taken in places less than 300 yards from my house in Farnham. As Monet said: ‘There is everything a painter needs within a short distance of where he or she is living.’

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Some notes on the duty of the artist

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Over Christmas I really enjoyed a BBC television production of Charles Dickens’s ‘A Christmas Carol’. It was merciless, confrontational and ‘of our times’. Then, just the other day, I had the good fortune to see another BBC production of a work by Dickens. This time it was his ‘Great Expectations’ and it was brilliant: pure and devastating tragedy was exquisitely mixed with the fundamental idea that people  – all of us – are ‘made’ through chance and circumstance.

The next day or two came and went and then the work of Dickens resurfaced in a rather unexpected place. I was reading a masterful discussion on ‘philosophy and literature’ featuring the philosopher and author Iris Murdoch and she happened to underline her deep respect for the writing of Charles Dickens. In the course of the overall discussion Murdoch had examined the important contrasts between the endeavours of philosophy as compared with the nature of expression in the arts; she then explored the attitude of philosophy to art and, during this, she began to identify the responsibilities of the artist. (Since I am supposed to be ‘en route’ to becoming an artist I took her assertions particularly seriously.) This is what she said:

‘I certainly do not believe that it is the artist’s task to serve society.’ And she adds: ‘As soon as a writer says to him or herself, ‘I must try to change society in such and such ways by my writing’ he or she is likely to damage their work.’

In the unfolding discussion she is then asked about Dickens – who had genuinely social aims and who also had considerable social influence – to which she replies:

‘… Dickens manages to do everything, to be a great imaginative writer and a persistent and explicit social critic. I think the scandals of his society were closely connected with the kind of ferment and social change which engaged his imagination most deeply. He is able to embrace all these things in his genius and you rarely feel he is ‘getting at you’ with some alien social point. His most effective social criticisms are made through live and touching characters such as the sweeper boy Joe in Bleak House. Dickens is a great writer because of his ability to create character, and also because of deep frightful imaginative visions which have little to do with social reform.’

The BBC’s productions of ‘A Christmas Carol’ and ‘Great Expectations’ surely endorse Murdoch’s view. But then she returns to outline her thinking about the ‘duty’ of the artist:

She notes: ‘I do not think that the artist qua-artist has a duty to society. A citizen has a duty to society’ and she adds that, ‘the artist’s duty is to art, to truth-telling in his or her chosen medium.’ She immediately goes on to say that the writer’s duty, like that demonstrated by Charles Dickens, is ‘to produce the best literary work of which he or she is capable, and he or she must find out how this can be done.’

By extension, in Fine Art (where I am primarily located) the artist’s duty is to truth-telling in his or her chosen domain or specialisation. Murdoch urges the artist not to lurch into propaganda and she recognises that ‘a good society contains many artists doing many different things’ whilst a bad society coerces artists because it knows they can reveal all kinds of truths.’

On this last point, I think that’s why I take so much pleasure seeing the great variety of artistic expression and the explorations of the height, breadth and depth of human being in the place where I am studying for my MA in Fine Art. And I wish that Iris Murdoch’s deeply knowledgeable discussion was part of the required reading list on our course. If it were then we would quickly recognise that there is an often unbridgeable gap between the rarefied specialist discussions of the theorist with the imaginative play of the artist.

In and out of the digital world (2020 – 1960)

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Recently I was obliged to prepare a short presentation limited to about 20 slides which was, as far as I could tell, supposed to tell a story about my development as an artist. Maybe that wasn’t the actual official goal but, notwithstanding, I went ahead with that idea.

I began the story of my development with a reference to my earliest memories concerning some of the aesthetic features of the world around me in Singapore. My father, for example, drew my attention to the ‘scarlet hibiscus’ and the ‘creamy-white frangipani’; I was shown the astonishing designs and decorations of the Chinese temples and I was fascinated by the intricate complexity of Chinese writing. I even heard ‘the twittering of the birds’ as my parents played Mah Jong.

I contrasted these aesthetic moments with the sheer grad-grind greyness of my subsequent late 1950s life in the UK. Then in my presentation, I focused on the excitement of the emerging cultural ethos of Britain in the 1960s. This was a time when an alternative culture was getting into full swing; film, music, theatre, literature, art, politics and the social sciences were combining to generate a liberated ‘mind-expanding’ perception. It was (for me) a great time to be alive and the world seemed to overflow with possibilities and potential. What’s more, the songs of the 60s’ culture were terrific …

As I prepared my slide presentation I realised how different the new digital world has become: here, I was creating something that operated in a new modality – and something embedded in a new post-industrial culture. The sheen and glow of the ‘screen’ constitutes and supports a new aesthetic. Nonetheless the memories of those alternative ideas in the wonderful years of the 1960s had a strangely liberating effect upon me.

Then, not long after my presentation had been completed, Lady Gaga appeared on the television. She had organised and curated a marathon broadcast to support the World Health Organisation that had been streamed ‘live’ over several hours the day before. But in the UK someone had decided to condense much of this into a two-hour show featuring a few of Lady Gaga’s original live-stream performers and some additional inclusions from the UK. Amongst them were the Rolling Stones and I was delighted to watch and listen to their stylish rendition of ‘You can’t always get what you want.’ Once again, Mick Jagger’s legendary star-appeal was apparent. The song, ‘You can’t always get what you want’ featured on their 1969 LP ‘Let it bleed’; it reminded me that the song is more than 50 years old!

Then, as the UK television programme unfolded something astonished me: a majority of the songs chosen by the artists were composed, recorded and broadcast in the 1960s. This was ‘my’ era. And the songs I heard were the ones I had listened to on tiny transistor radios or record players with 45 rpm records or 33 rpm albums. Once again, I realised that I had had the irreplaceable cultural privilege of being young and unconstrained and educated in the 1960s.

The performers of these old songs included the brilliantly gifted Billie Eilish, the wonderful John Legend, the huge Rag ’n Bone Man and, of course, the unstoppable brio and genius of Lady Gaga. The only thing which detracted from the UK television programme was the unnecessary and tendentious appearance of the Beckhams. In a time of crisis (such as the one we are living through) we do not need to hear from these confections of the media. Instead, we need to hear, once again, from the alternative and counter culture – a kind of update from the 60s.

Here are some of those perfect songs from the 1960s:

John Legend and Sam Smith – ‘Stand by me’ (1961)
Jennifer Lopez – ‘People’ (1964)
Rag n Bone Man – ‘The times they are a’changin’ (1964)
Billie Eilish and Finneas – ‘Sunny’ (1966)
Michael Buble – ‘God only knows’ (1966)
Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello ‘ Wonderful world’ (1967)
Paul McCartney – ‘Lady Madonna’ (1968)

The Rolling Stones – ‘You can’t always get what you want‘ (1969)

Post script: The presentation to which I refer and that I was originally making is something called a PechaKucha

Venus in exile

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This post relates to my earlier one about Hiroshima roses.

A short review article by Will Gompertz on the Royal Ballet’s joyful ‘The cellist’ raises a question about the current status of ‘beauty’. He began with the assertion that ‘beauty isn’t getting the respect it deserves’. In effect he was saying that ‘Venus’ has been exiled. He contrasted this with a time ‘not so long ago’ when there was great enthusiasm for beauty; for example, the enlightenment philosopher Immanuel Kant valued beauty and actually considered it a form of morality. Einstein, too, thought that beauty served to draw out our inner child; it is certainly true that we may respond with an almost childlike delight (and even unself-conscious expressions of awe) when we encounter beauty.

Gompertz moved on to recognise that it ‘used to be the job of artists, authors and composers’ to celebrate and portray beauty. But he acknowledged, regretfully, that even pop culture’s recent ‘New Romantics’ proved to be no match for the ‘relentless march of modernism’ with its pared-down ‘less-is-more dogma’. He argued that the blame for the demise of beauty in art originated with Marcel Duchamp. Duchamp chose his objects precisely because they were, in his words, ‘anti-retinal’: they provided an unattractive sight and were intended as a ‘weapon aimed at the heart of a bourgeois art establishment aligned to a political class responsible for a horrific, bloody war.’ As Duchamp argued, ‘it was no time for beauty.’

According to Gompertz, an emerging post-Duchampian doctrine of art held that if ‘art meant anything at all’ it should address the truth about what was happening all about us – and what was happening was ugly and base; romanticism and decoration were dead; beauty was superficial and frivolous; a deep cynicism came to characterise the ethos of the secular age. In consequence, as Gompertz puts it, ‘Music became dissonant, literature became fragmented, theatre became absurd, and art turned ugly.’ Recently, Matthew Collings has underlined this anti-aesthetic tendency that was, for example, an obvious feature of what used to called ‘Young British Art’.

I was pleased to read Gompertz’s short review because I too think that something is amiss if we are somehow disallowed from acknowledging and exploring manifestations beauty. My earlier post about finding ‘Hiroshima roses’ touches upon the strange seductions of beauty. And, I was reminded of issues surrounding our engagement with beauty whilst I was making my screen-prints. In fact, during the process, I was never fully conscious of what I was actually accessing from my memory store of images. However, I was dimly aware of some early work I had completed in the ‘graphic-design’ module of my Foundation Studies – especially in that style of design called ‘raw’ as well as the ‘cool conceptual’. But I also knew that, in addition to these influences, I had made work that was ‘good’ to look at. It yielded a certain immediate pleasure. I had even used a gold paint that the tutors had specially prepared for me …

Whilst I was in the screen-print workshop area I enjoyed some good if spasmodic conversations with a few of the other students who were working in the spaces adjacent to me. Then, one woman who had devoted herself to a very sophisticated project for her PhD, said, at the end of my third week of print-making: ‘You work is beautiful.’ She did not appear to say this pejoratively. Nonetheless I was surprised to hear her comment. I had imagined that ‘Venus’ was still in exile. Maybe she is about to return.

In the late 1800s the philosopher Santayana noted that cultures not only esteemed artists almost as much as they did their political and military heroes but that an inordinate amount of time went in to designing the look and appeal of even the most commonplace things. He found that the facts of human-being indicate that perceptions of beauty are central to our lives. I think he is right.

Whilst I know that the world is also full of the vile and the horrible, in truth, I enjoy finding and experiencing beauty in the world. I also like ‘having a go’ at making something with at least a touch of beauty …

The photograph above was taken in Dana, Jordan. It is part of my ‘Hiroshima roses‘ series and shows an explosion of life and death.

Hiroshima Roses

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On March 20th I was expecting to begin hanging my ‘magical realism’ screen prints in the MA Fine Art show. To accompany the prints I had spent ages preparing and completing an unusual, and sometimes strange, autobiography. I had really enjoyed this and I had included short chapters about the people who’d played a significant role in shaping my identity and extending my education. I had also included a few chapters that featured poems or ideological comments. Amongst it all was something that has, for a long time, fascinated me. It’s the idea of ‘Hiroshima roses.’

I was born in 1949 when the world was still living under the long shadow cast by the bombing of Hiroshima. It was a time when many people – including my parents – had a sense of the ominous – of the possibility of total annihilation. The 1950s saw the strengthening of anti-war sentiment and the beginnings of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. I would see the media coverage of the famous Aldermaston marches; we were also regularly reminded of the creation of the atom bomb. And we saw, again and again, images of the detonation of the megaton hydrogen bomb; the flash and the mushroom cloud; white-yellow then orange and grey – against a clear silver-blue sky…

As the years went by those images of the exploding nuclear bomb became almost commonplace and part of a spectacular iconography. It seems to me that a strange beauty had found itself attached to horror. So, when I saw those images I thought I was now watching something I called ‘Hiroshima roses.’

I started to look at the world about me in those terms – and every once in a while, when I found them, I took photographs of my ‘Hiroshima roses.’ The photograph above is just one example; it’s the kind of image that reminds me of the fragility of beauty and, ultimately,  of everything that we have created.

Post script: My colleague, P.V., responded to this post with the following observation:

‘We still live in the shadows of total annihilation, and with the strangely beautiful and haunting image of the nuclear explosion to daunt us. But we became used to it, didn’t we? And it no longer seems to threaten us, as it did – although the threat remains the same. Strange are the ways of human nature!’

Why should she speak? In defence of remaining silent.

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We are convened as several MA Fine Art students to view a ‘small group’ show and to participate in a group ‘criticism’ of the work in the show.

We look at the pieces and, in line with an apparently open agenda, we are invited to share our thoughts, reactions, feelings and so on; we are also directed by the lead tutor to ask questions of the artists about their work. In a rather dilatory and somewhat desultory way we proceed.

The particular characters amongst us say very different things. Some say quite a lot, some say relatively little. Some make statements, some share associations, some ask questions.

But when one of the artists who has exhibited in the show is asked about her work she hesitates; she seems almost puzzled; she pauses – and when she does speak, she scarcely elaborates an answer. In my judgment (impersonal and non-evaluative) she is simply disinclined to be forthcoming. I am not surprised. I am used to this. From my previous encounters with her I know that this is not an unusual mode of response from her – either as a person (in typical social encounters – such as meeting-and-greeting) or as an artist. Her utterances are minimal. Some of us in the MA group have also reached the same conclusion; we realise, too, that if she is disinclined to talk and to discuss things in the group then perhaps we should not ask her anything for fear of disquieting or unsettling her. We may even feel frustrated and think that she really ‘ought’ to say more in the critique.

But all this raises a question: Why should she speak? Are her words necessary to her art? Even if she were to speak who (in the whole wide world) can really ‘articulate’ and explain their work. The work of art is placed in a certain domain – it is an ‘exhibit’ – something conceivably ‘of itself’. If it ‘speaks’ at all it is in a species of specialist symbolic language – one that is tacit, silent, and veiled. The criticism is something else: it is talk about art. So, on the one hand we have the presence of her work of art (works which are consistent, show a sustained focus and have an inherent authority) and, on the other, we have a social event which follows a conventional, almost ritualistic, model of social interaction.

If a ‘criticism’, as it is practiced on a degree course, exists then it expresses both a rationale and a value or values. What, though, is the rationale? What values are embedded in the practice of criticism? (And why have I reached the point where I fundamentally question what I am ‘up to’ in the group criticisms. Why should I ‘sound off’ at all?)

Part two: Some short notes on a theory

If I were to refer to some aspects of the philosophy of Martin Heidegger as it is expressed in his ‘Being and Time’ and clarified by Dreyfus (1978 ) and Wheeler (2018) then I might easily take the phenomenon of the group criticism and the artist’s response as indicative of some absolutely basic problems about human being (and being human). The criticism and our conduct raise huge questions to do with our being-in-the-world amidst other beings-in-the-world. There is obviously the question of authenticity: To be authentic is not to rush away from anxiety and conform to group norms if one feels that the norms are awry; instead it is to distance oneself but to continue by choosing – in all honesty – to proceed in a way that reflects a new and resolved attitude. In the case of the artist who scarcely speaks, she may be staying close to the grain of her being and resisting any kind of fakery. She may be resolutely authentic. As Heidegger would point out, when we are authentic we probably still do what ‘one’ (others) do – but we experience ourselves as liberated; we stick with the social practice but we are not stuck.

Then there is the question of meaning and meaninglessness. If there is no fundamental or basic meaning to be found in the world, then art itself, most certainly, has no special claim to yield any meaning beyond itself as a ‘thing that one does’ (a process that one goes through, an output materialised) in the community framed as ‘art’. Art is a social practice with a history and is in the process of unfolding itself. We are, as artists and participants in a criticism, necessarily located in this stable instability. We know that we are merely in a moment of history. We are not really playing a game but we are somehow navigating our way through a temporary power structure which has the extraordinary quality of ensuring that we follow rules and yet neutralises them as soon as they seem to come into view! (This is unnerving!)

The strange thing is that although I should be able to feel more comfortable as a result of trying to come to terms with the experience of the group criticism I am not. I think that this is because I have deeply internalised norms of having, in social situations, to give a ‘good’ performance. I wish that i would be otherwise.

Note: The photograph above is part of an autobiography project. It is the third in a series of similar mixed-media works – and reflects an aspect of my life when I was 8 years old.