Gegenkultur – what's next?

Anti-Manifesto

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:48 +0000

The Manifesto is made up of a selection of the right-wing radicals’ comments to the Voina actions.

Contemporary Art
– Contemporary art is a spit into the face of normal people.
– Contemporary art insults our dignity and perverts juveniles.
– Contemporary art is an idiotic company of dishonest fanatics with a weird ideology.Contemporary art is a wild porno for wretched freaks.Contemporary art is a gathering of pederasts and lesbians!Contemporary art is a vomitive fuck.Contemporary art is a shit-eating!Contemporary art destroys morality, evolutional potential of humanity, destroys chastity and family, and mankind.
– Contemporary art is a dick without head. The dick of contemporary art means nothing in compare with the dick of Michelangelo’s David. It is no more than weak attempts.Contemporary art is a cheap stuff. Fake and bullshit. It’s incredible that people still react to this kind of miserable experiment.

Contemporary Artist
– Contemporary artists are a sensual mould, which eats up and smacks social reality.
– Contemporary artists are mutants, a batch of moral monsters and degenerates.
– Contemporary artists are stupid whores and brainless morons!Contemporary artists are cattle and brutes.Contemporary artists are pig-fuckers!Contemporary artists spoiled everything! Museums, temples, icons, belief, people’s dignity and moral. The only thing contemporary artist is able to do is to defecate in the museum. I’m sick of such art.
– Contemporary artists are idiots, schizophrenics, hysteric men and deviant persons. They are to be kept in mental hospital.
– Contemporary artists are a batch of idiots and block-heads, who spoil the reputation of the country.
– Contemporary artists are enemies. They took away bright dream from everybody. They doomed the whole nation to slavery. I’d like to send them to mines. Contemporary artists are the shit of the nation!Contemporary artists are fucking freaks. I’d like to burn them in the blast furnaces or crush them with a heavy caterpillar tractor. We have way too many fucking premature bustards! Morons are now to be called artists. Eat shit! You better kill yourselves in full view of everybody. It will be more useful.
– Shoot all contemporary artists. Only then the motherland will gain peace and order. If it won’t help, the procedure should be repeated.

Goals and objectives of the Art-Group Voina
1. Creation of innovative topical media-art-language, which is producing for pure art, but not for a money. It is mean language, which is adequate for today’s cultural and socio-political context, which is can show actual of the new epoch. Creating of real left front of art in Russia in traditions of futurism and DADA, which is radically shift all ideological poles by the facts of its being. Rebirth of political protest art all over the world.
2. Creation of political street-art in Russia in the best traditions of absurdity and sarcasm, of carnival middle-age art. Creation of image of artist as romantic hero, who prevail over the evil in today’s soulless commercial conceptual art. Rebirth of lively expressive art, which is sincere and honest and provoking observers’ deep emotional experience.
3. War with “werewolves in straps“ for the freedom of contemporary art. War with socio-political obscurantism and ultra-right reaction. Subversion and destruction of outdated repressive-patriarchal socio-political symbols and ideologies.

The author of the Voina Group manifesto – A. Plutser-Sarno, group ideologist and chief media artist

REMODERNISMUS

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:47 +0000

Einer neuen Spiritualität in der Kunst entgegen
Im Laufe des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts hat der Modernismus seine Orientierung Stück für Stück verloren bis er letztendlich im krassen postmodernen Kommerz versandet ist. Zur rechten Zeit verkünden die Stuckisten die Geburt des Remodernismus. Die Stuckisten sind die erste remodernistische Künstlergruppe.

1.
Der Remodernismus nimmt die ursprünglichen Prinzipien des Modernismus und bringt sie wieder zur Anwendung. Das Hauptaugenmerk liegt auf Vision anstelle von Formalismus.

2.
Der Remodernismus schließt eher ein als aus. Er heißt Künstler willkommen, die sich selbst erkennen und finden wollen mithilfe künstlerischer Prozesse, welche danach streben zu verbinden und einzuschließen, anstatt sich zu entfremden und auszuschließen. Der Remodernismus erhält die spirituelle Vision der Gründerväter des Modernismus aufrecht und respektiert den Mut und die Integrität, mit der sie sich den Leiden der menschlichen Seele gestellt haben und diese mit einer neuen Kunst zum Ausdruck gebracht haben, einer Kunst, die keinem religiösen oder politischen Dogma mehr unterlag und die danach strebte, dem ganzen Spektrum der menschlichen Psyche Ausdruck zu verleihen.

3.
Der Remodernismus verwirft und ersetzt den Post-Modernismus, da dieser weder in der Lage war, sich mit den elementaren Fragen nach der Bedeutung des Menschseins auseinanderzusetzten, noch Antworten auf diese zu geben.

4.
Der Remodernismus verkörpert spirituelle Tiefe und Bedeutung und beendet ein Zeitalter bestehend aus wissenschaftlichem Materialismus, Nihilismus und spirituellem Bankrott.

5.
Wir brauchen nicht noch mehr dämliche, langweilige, hirnlose Zerstörung der Konvention, wir brauchen nichts Neues sondern Beständiges. Wir brauchen eine Kunst, die Körper und Seele mit einbezieht, die die Prinzipien anerkennt, mithilfe derer Weisheit und Einsicht im Laufe der Geschichte der Menschheit am Leben erhalten wurden. Dies ist die wahre Aufgabe der Tradition.

6.
Der Modernismus hat sein Potential nie erfüllt. Es ist sinnlos ‚post-‘ irgendetwas zu sein, wenn man noch nicht einmal ‚etwas‘ gewesen ist.

7.
Spiritualität ist die Reise der Seele auf Erden. Ihr allererstes Prinzip ist eine Absichtserklärung der Wahrheit ins Gesicht zu sehen. Die Wahrheit ist wie sie ist, unabhängig davon, wie wir sie gerne hätten.
Ein spiritueller Künstler zu sein bedeutet, sich ohne wenn und aber unseren Projektionen zu stellen, den guten und den schlechten, den ansprechenden und den grotesken, unseren Stärken und unseren Schwächen, um uns selbst und dadurch unsere wahre Beziehung zu Anderen und unsere Verbindung zum Göttlichen zu erkennen.

8.
Bei spiritueller Kunst geht es nicht um ein Märchenland. Es geht darum, die raue Oberflächenstruktur des Lebens zu greifen. Es geht darum, sich den Schatten zu stellen und sich mit wilden Hunden anzufreunden. Spiritualität ist die Erkenntnis, dass alles im Leben einem höheren Zweck dient.

9.
Spirituelle Kunst ist keine Religion. Spiritualität ist das Streben der Menschheit, sich selbst zu verstehen und durch die Klarheit und Integrität ihrer Künstler zu Ihrer Symbolik zu gelangen.

10.
Das Erschaffen von wahrer Kunst ist das Verlangen des Menschen, mit sich selbst, seinen Mitmenschen und seinem Gott zu kommunizieren. Kunst, die diese Themen außer Acht lässt, ist keine Kunst.

11.
Es sollte angemerkt werden, dass die künstlerische Technik von der Vision des Künstlers diktiert wird. Sie ist nur in dem Maße notwendig, wie sie dieser entspricht.

12.
Die Aufgabe der Remodernisten ist es, Gott zurück in die Kunst zu bringen, aber nicht so, wie Gott vorher war. Der Remodernismus ist keine Religion, aber wir erachten es als unerlässlich, den Enthusiasmus wiederzuerlangen (vom griechischen en theos, von Gott besessen sein).

13.
Wahre Kunst ist sichtbare Manifestation, Beweis und Wegbegleiter der Reise der Seele. Spirituelle Kunst bedeutet nicht, Madonnas oder Buddhas zu malen. Spirituelle Kunst ist das Malen von Dingen, die die Seele des Künstlers berühren. Spirituelle Kunst schaut oft nicht sehr spirituell aus, sie sieht so aus wie alles andere, weil in der Spiritualität alles andere enthalten ist.

14.
Wieso brauchen wir eine neue Spiritualität in der Kunst? Weil mit anderen auf bedeutsame Art und Weise in Verbindung zu treten die Menschen glücklich macht. Verstanden zu werden und sich gegenseitig zu verstehen macht das Leben lebenswert.

Zusammenfassung:
Jedem, der sich in einer ungestörten mentalen Verfassung befindet, ist klar, dass das, was heute ziemlich ernsthaft von der regierenden Elite als Kunst herausgegeben wird, den Beweis erbringt, dass die scheinbar rationale Entwicklung eines Ideengerüsts gänzlich danebengegangen ist. Der Modernismus basiert auf gültigen Prinzipien, aber die jetzt aus ihm gezogenen Schlussfolgerungen sind absurd.
Wir machen auf dieses Fehlen von Bedeutung aufmerksam, damit eine kohärente Kunst erreicht und dieses Ungleichgewicht ausgeglichen werden kann.
Es gibt keinen Zweifel, dass es eine spirituelle Renaissance in der Kunst geben wird, da es für die Kunst keinen anderen Weg geben kann. Es ist die Aufgabe des Stuckismus diese spirituelle Renaissance jetzt einzuleiten.

Übersetzung: Frank Christopher Schröder

Billy Childish, Charles Thomson
1. March 2000

Wiederabdruck:
Das Manifest erschien unter http://www.stuckism.com/Manifestos/RemodernismGerman.html [29.4.2013].

NO!art

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:42 +0000

NO!art ist Anti-Weltmarkt-Investitionskunst. Kunstweltmarkt-Investition ist kulturelle Manipulation.
NO!art ist gegen „klinischen“ wissenschaftlichen Ästhetizismus. Solcher Ästhetizismus ist keine Kunst.
NO!art ist gegen die Anhäufung von Kunst-Weltmarkt-Investment-Mode-Dekorationen. Solche Dekorationsspiele sind Schlafmittel für die Kultur. Sie sind gegen die „Fantasie“ im Dienste des Kunstmarktes.
NO!art ist gegen alle Kunstweltmarkt „Salonkunst“.
NO!art ist Anti-Pop-art: Pop-art ist reaktionär. Sie verherrlicht die Konsumgesellschaft und mokiert sich nur über den Konsum der unteren Klassen: Die Suppendose, das billige Hemd. Pop-art ist chauvinistisch. Sie sabotiert die soziale Kunst für alle.
NO!art ist antichauvinistisch: Die Vorherrschaft jeder nationalen „Schule“ basiert hauptsächlich auf dem Ausmaß des verfügbaren Investmentkapitals. Die Vorherrschaft jeder nationalen „Schule“ ist gleichzusetzen mit kulturellem Imperialismus.
NO!art ist die Kunstkrise des kulturellen Erstickens.
NO!art ist sozial relevanter persönlicher Ausdruck. Es ist die Soziale Kunst, die Protest-Kunst, die Anti-Kunst (Anti-Kunstmarkt-Kunst).
NO!art schafft auf natürliche Weise neue ästhetische Formen, funktioniert aber auch auf natürliche Weise im Rahmen zeitgenössischer ästhetischer Formen. Ästhetische Innovationen sind nichts als ein Nebenprodukt ungehemmter Expression.
NO!art verabscheut die „klinische“, „wissenschaftliche“ und pseudo-ästhetische Suche nach „ästhetischer Innovation“.
NO!art öffnete und beeinflusste bestimmte Abweichungen vom Kunstweltmarkt, für die sie aber auf Dauer nicht verantwortlich gemacht werden kann, z. B. für die missratene Kunstweltmarkt Popart, für bestimmte gegenwärtige erotische Eskapisten und für Arbeiten, die nur um des Horrors willen entstanden sind.
NO!art beeinflusste die heutige politische Kunst positiv, beeinflusste ebenso die Underground Presse, die Underground Filme, die Comics, die „subversive“ Werbung, die Guerilla-Art Gruppen, die gesellschaftlichen Ereignisse.
NO!art kämpft seit 1959 in dem Löwenmaul, das da heißt: New York City.
NO!art Rücksichtslos unterdrückt und dezimiert, aber nicht eliminiert oder ausgelöscht durch die Kunstweltmarkt-Unterdrückung.
NO!art Von Pin-ups zu Exkrementen: eine soziale Kunst-Rebellion.
NO!art ist „programmatisch“ dadurch, dass thematische Shows und Manifestationen innerhalb der Gruppenanstrengungen gemeinsam entstehen. Jede Show und jede Manifestation deutet demgemäß auf die nächste Aktivität hin.
NO!art versucht, das Leben durch die Kunst zu beeinflussen, und fordert demnach die schnelle künstlerische strategische Antwort.
NO!art aus dem Bauch heraus entstanden, ist keine künstlerische Besitzergreifung.
NO!art Die Zeit für YES!art liegt noch in weiter Ferne.

Publiziert von Boris Lurie als Flyer für die Ausstellung „KUNST UND POLITIK“, Karlsruher Kunstverein 1970.

Wiederabdruck
Dieser Text erschien unter: http://www.no-art.info/_statements/de.html [12.7.2013].

Towards a Futurology of the Present: Notes on Writing, Movement, and Time1

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:38 +0000

‘Tomorrow never happens, man’ – Janis Joplin²

Has there ever been a revolution without its musicians, artists, and writers? Could we imagine the Zapatista movement, for example, without its poetry and lyricism? At this moment, I am writing from the specific location of the west coast of Australia, on land known to Aboriginal Australians as Beeliar Boodjar. Across the Indian Ocean, remarkable things are happening in North Africa. I listen on the internet to the songs of freedom being sung in Tahrir Square, as well as to the young hip-hop artists who provided the soundtrack to the revolution in Tunisia. But their YouTube videos are not the only things going viral. Significantly, their mutant desires, of which their music is an expression, are also beginning to ripple outwards. I feel it here at my kitchen table as I type, as viscerally as the caffeine flowing through my body. I also see it on the evening news in Spain and Greece. Perhaps the alterglobalisation movement never died, but was simply laying in wait. Perhaps we are only at the beginning. And perhaps there is little real difference in our movements between making music and making change; between the creation of art and the creation of new social relations through our activisms. Our common art is the crafting of new ways of being, of seeing, of valuing; in short, the cultivation of new forms of life, despite and beyond the deadening, ossified structures all around us.
What I would like to focus on most especially in this piece is the art of writing; more specifically, on the relationship between nonfiction writing and social movements. Movement produces writing which produces movement which produces writing, and so the loop turns; a constant feedback loop between action and reflection, experience and expression. To the relationship between writing and movement, I would like to introduce the added factor of time. Until very recently, radical writing practices have tended to operate in accordance with, and uncritically reproduce, some very particular ideas about time. One such idea is that it is compartmentalised into discrete units. Another is that it is linear and moves only in one direction. These understandings are part and parcel of Gottfried Hegel’s dialectical logic³, which, via Karl Marx, has become the unthinking, taken-for-granted folk theory of generations of activists. They are also part of Enlightenment, or modernist, rationality more broadly – that particular way of knowing that has predominated across the world for the past few centuries. Linear, compartmentalised time has meant that we have come to see past, present, and future as three separate things – a division that lies at the root of the means-ends distinction in traditional leftist politics. It is only when present and future are treated as mutually exclusive entities that means and ends can be regarded likewise. Furthermore, for Hegel and Marx, one must always negate in order to create; that is, the present must firstly be negated before the future is ever able to come into being.⁴ Revolutionary politics is therefore conceived of in purely negative terms, and the job of building a new world deferred until after the revolution. Social movements become equivalent to war rather than creation. When the ends justify the means, the present effectively becomes sacrificed at the altar of The Future – and this for the sake of utopian designs fabricated in the minds of a self-appointed few.
The kind of temporal sensibility outlined above lies at the heart of the manifesto genre.⁵ It seems today, however, that people have grown tired of manifestos. The same is true for any such exhortation from above of what people should or should not be doing. My argument is that the present context of postmodernity⁶ demands of radical writers a fundamental rethinking of their (our) modus operandi. I will, in this article, present a critique not just of the manifesto, but also of the jeremiad – another one of the literary forms most commonly produced by radical writers. Where the manifesto is concerned with the future, the jeremiad centres on the present. The intention of the latter, however, is usually only to serve as a diagnostic description upon which a prescription must be founded; an ‘is’ that must be followed by an ‘ought’. In this way, we are hence led back into the domain of the manifesto. But what happens to radical writing once we reject those dichotomies upon which the jeremiad-manifesto distinction is predicated – namely, those of is-ought, means-ends, and present-future? What happens when the writer treats the present and future not as two separate things, but as conjoined in an indivisible flow within which means and ends are consonant? What I would like to propose, then, is a new writerly practice; one which I have chosen to call the futurology of the present.
Such a practice would involve an unearthing of the many living futures constantly coming into being in the present. Unlike the jeremiad, it does not solely describe what is, but also what is becoming. In other words, it entails not simply ‘a negation of what exists, but also an affirmation of what springs forth’⁷. And it does not prescribe a single path forward, as with the manifesto, but tries instead to reveal the multifarious pathways fanning outwards from any given moment. It starts with the novel innovations and creative insurgencies happening everywhere in our midst, and from there works to build affinities between them. In this endeavour, I find inspiration in Rebecca Solnit’s assertion that ‘the revolution exists in little bits everywhere, but not much has been done to connect its dots. We need to say that there are alternatives being realized all around us and theorize the underlying ideals and possibilities’⁸. This is, of course, an endeavour that necessarily requires a heightened sensitivity toward those ‘moments when things do not yet have a name’; in short, toward newness. The new here is not meant to mean the same thing as ‘fashionable’, but rather refers to those becomings that are constitutive of alternative realities.¹⁰ This kind of sensibility has become especially important of late, given that ours is an era of accelerated social change, pregnant with germinal, as-yet-unnamed phenomena. One cannot continue imposing anachronistic grids upon our ever-complexifying present without exacting an extremely violent and myopic reductionism. Instead, as Félix Guattari writes, the upheavals that define our current conditions of existence call for a method attuned ‘towards the future and the emergence of new social and aesthetic practices’¹¹. My proposal for a futurology of the present is one attempt to concretely think through what such a method might look like. I have certainly not been alone in these efforts. Besides Solnit, other fellow travellers include the members of Colectivo Situaciones whose practice of ‘militant research’ they characterise as the search for ‘emerging traces of a new sociability’¹². Consider too the mode of ethnographic practice proposed by the anarchist anthropologist, David Graeber. One role ‘for a radical intellectual’, he writes, might be ‘to look at those who are creating viable alternatives, try to figure out what might be the larger implications of what they are (already) doing, and then offer those ideas back, not as prescriptions, but as contributions, possibilities – as gifts’¹³.
As has already been hinted at, the articulation of these ideas will necessarily require a confrontation with Hegelian dialectics and ‘the damage it has caused, and continues to cause in political movements’¹⁴. One of the principle reasons for this is that, to really understand the future appearing in the present, it is necessary to strip away the sedimented habits of thought under which becomings are subsumed or rendered invisible. As will be seen over the course of this essay, Hegel’s method could be considered as precisely one of these habits (certainly, capitalism an issue here too, but I take it for granted that my readers are already convinced of this). My contention is that even those who do not consider themselves as having anything to do with Marx or Hegel still unwittingly reproduce many of their assumptions. Indeed, as far as traditional forms of radical politics are concerned, the Hegelian-Marxist dialectical schema has become the Sun around which all the other heavenly bodies orbit. For 150 years, we believed this Sun would give us clarity and deliver us from darkness to light. It turns out, however, that it has only served to obscure more than it has revealed. All those other stars, old and new, that have been shielded from view by the blinding, sun-soaked sky are today beginning to demand our attention and sparkle anew. This essay seeks to assist in this efflorescence, since, as Hardt suggests, we cannot hope to achieve any kind of liberation unless we first liberate ourselves from Hegel.¹⁵ One thing must be made clear, though, and that is that I confront Hegel’s legacy not purely by way of negation, which would only mean a perverse reproduction of his dialectical straightjacket, but by proposing and affirming an escape route. My goal is a re-imagining of radical politics and a re-tooling of radical writerly practice.
Having thus far skimmed the surface of my argument, what I would like to do now is go deeper. I will start out by introducing the concept of the ‘perpetual present’ – the temporality within which the futurology of the present is situated. From this basis, I will proceed to elucidate the ways in which such a practice overcomes the limitations of previous modes of radical writing; namely, those premised on compartmentalised, linear time. In the second half of the article, I will link the futurology of the present to a politics of hope, before concluding with some thoughts on the nexus between activist and artistic practices – the very note on which I began.

The Perpetual Present
In today’s social movements, there is an increasing call for a harmonisation between means and ends, now widely understood by way of the notion of ‘prefigurative politics’¹⁶. Such a sensibility cannot but imply a radically different, even ‘amodern’¹⁷, temporal schema. Present and future cease to be treated as two distinct entities (the former but an instrument for the realisation of the latter), but instead become rendered as simply two linguistic signs referring to a common, indivisible flow. Such is also the case with the past. Drawing on Guattari, we could well say that both past and future inhere together in the ‘perpetual present’¹⁸, an enduring liquid moment containing both memory and potentiality; traces of what has been, but also intimations of what could be, each indissolubly connected to the other. With this perspective in mind, there can no longer be said to be a revolutionary before, during, and after. Instead of activist strategy being determined by a stark delineation between discrete stages, means and ends become consonant within a permanent revolutionary process; a continual freeing up of life, desire and the imagination wherever they happen to be imprisoned. As Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri write: ‘We must think of [pre-revolutionary] resistance, [revolutionary] insurrection and [post-revolutionary] constituent power as an indivisible process, in which these three are melded into a full counter-power and ultimately a new, alternative formation of society’.¹⁹
It has occurred to me that the Roman god, Janus, could be taken as figurative of the perpetual present. He had one face looking forward towards the future and one face looking backward towards the past, and yet both belonged to a single head. The term ‘Janus-faced’ has, in modern times, become a synonym for ‘two-faced’ or ‘duplicitous’, carrying with it negative connotations, and yet, for the ancient Romans, Janus had an altogether different meaning. He was the god of thresholds; ‘an important Roman god who protected doorways and gateways’, primarily symbolising change and transition.²⁰ The perpetual present is always a threshold between that which is ceasing to be and that which is coming into being; at once the repository of memories and the font of potentialities; a record of the past and a map to the future. Friedrich Nietzsche is of critical import here: ‘I am of today and of the has-been’, he writes, ‘but there is something in me that is of tomorrow and of the day-after-tomorrow and of the shall-be’.²¹ This may well have been uttered by Janus himself.
A word on Michel Foucault is apposite here as well, particularly regarding his notion of the ‘history of the present’, which was how he described his genealogical method.²² Despite first appearances, the history and futurology of the present are not at all in conflict. Both, in fact, are immanent within the perpetual present. The multifarious routes by which the present is constructed are simultaneously one and the same with those processes by which alternative futures continually come into being. Hence, the history and futurology of the present are not unlike the two faces of Janus. One casts its gaze upstream towards the tributaries and the other downstream towards the delta, but both belong to a common body bobbing upon a single river. While the history of the present challenges linear history and its obsession with the origin, the futurology of the present does likewise with respect to linear futurology and its drive toward the projected end-point of history, or telos. There is no Future with a capital ‘F’; only the delta, opening out onto the infinite expanse of the ocean.
At this point, it must also be made clear that the perpetual present has nothing at all to do with the kind of endless present postulated by neoliberal ideologues. Where the former is the font of infinite alternative futures, of a variable creativity that continually issues forth from the free play of difference, the latter is a present condemned to futurelessness, to an endless reproduction of the status quo. It was in this context that, in response to Margaret Thatcher’s infamous doctrine that ‘There is No Alternative’, the World Social Forum first proposed its counter-slogan of ‘Another World is Possible’. Alterglobalisation activists have since been vindicated in this idea, with the global financial crash of 2008 serving to irreparably discredit the neoliberal experiment. The state bail-out of banks to the tune of trillions revealed the neoliberal discourse (particularly its insistence on minimal state intervention in the economy) to have been fallacious all along. Capital needs the state and has always needed it, not least of all in its policing of unruly citizens. Neoliberalism was never really realised as a system, but functioned only as a legitimating discourse that, in practice, never aligned with what it professed in theory. Following these embarrassing revelations, global elites are increasingly eschewing the concept of neoliberalism, and find themselves conflicted about the way forward. As such, we have now entered into a brand new historical moment; one in which the futurology of the present arguably becomes more important than ever. With neoliberalism staggering along ‘zombie-like’ and ‘ideologically dead’²³, the space has now become wide open for the assertion and enactment of alternatives.
Tying together some of the points I have made thus far, the perpetual present is forever the site of ‘unconsciouses that protest’²⁴, of insubordinate creativity and disobedient desire, of emergent values and practices that lead outwards onto alternative horizons, beyond the mirages conjured up by capitalism, the state, the traditional Left, and all similar such boring and life-denying institutions. It is the work of the futurologist of the present to tease these out from the tangle of everyday life, help increase their visibility, and thereby participate in their propagation. Below, I will seek to expand on these ideas and to further articulate their implications for radical scholarship and writing practices. In so doing, I will focus, first of all, on the challenges that the futurology of the present poses to compartmentalised time (and those modes of writing premised on such a temporality), before proceeding to do likewise with respect to linear time.

Beyond Compartmentalised Time
As touched upon earlier, my contention is that the past-present-future schema of time has been at the root of a profound disarticulation between means and ends in traditional revolutionary politics. Means and ends have only come to be regarded as mutually exclusive entities because present and future have been treated likewise. There has, as such, been a failure to recognise the necessary correspondence between the two; that is, between how we act in the present and the kind of world we wish to see in the future. It is for this reason that we have ended up with such abominations as the Leninist vanguard party, whereby dictatorial practices are supposed to somehow lead to a democratic society.²⁵
Owing to the fact that the idea of compartmentalised time has been little reflected upon in the past, radical nonfiction has tended to take three principle forms; namely, historical treatises, jeremiads, and manifestos, each mapping with its own discrete domain within the past-present-future trinary. The notion of the historical treatise needs little introduction, and the other two have already been briefly discussed. What I would like to do here, however, is to zoom in a little more closely on the jeremiad form. Diagnostic jeremiads like Marx’s three-volume Das Kapital²⁶ are meant to function only as a set of ‘is’ claims upon which prescriptive ‘oughts’ can be based. Marx’s jeremiad- and manifesto-style writings therefore go hand-in-hand. Had David Hume been alive in Marx’s time, he no doubt would have critiqued Marx for assuming that it is even possible to make valid ‘ought’ statements on the basis of descriptive ‘is’ claims.²⁷ For Hume, all such prescriptions are dubious at best. And yet, the assumption that an ‘is’ must necessarily precede an ethical ‘ought’ is still rife amongst radical scholars. There is an unthinking assumption that a complete and ‘objective’ understanding of the present is a necessary prerequisite for effective political action.²⁸ Some jeremiad writers in fact become so consumed with this task, that they fail to even try to imagine alternative possible futures. What matters to them is to first negate the present; to limit themselves to mere resistance, in other words.
Hence, aside from those jeremiads which function within the is-ought framework, there are also those based on ‘is’ descriptions alone; pure lamentations of, or fulminations against, the present configuration of things.²⁹ For the most part, the intention of the lamentative jeremiad is to raise consciousness about this or that issue, such that the reader might somehow, magically, be spurred into action, as if a detailed knowledge of the evils of society was all that was required for this to happen. Precisely how to act on this knowledge is left up to the reader. Often, however, these works have the unintended and reverse effect of leaving the reader feeling overwhelmed and helpless, even despite their politicisation or conscientisation. The futurology of the present, in contrast, aims not to be merely descriptive or prescriptive, but rather, demonstrative. By this I mean that its concern is with fostering inspiration and hope through the demonstration of alternatives. So many contemporary writers and scholar-activists dedicate their lives, as Marx did, to writing about what is wrong with the world, but far fewer have cared to write about what people are already doing to change the world or to bring to light the many living, breathing examples all around us of how things can always be otherwise. Indeed, Harry Cleaver’s observation that Marx’s ‘historical analysis provided much more detail on capitalist domination than on working class subjectivity’³⁰ is an understatement to say the least. This is one reason that radicals so often end up with a perverse fascination for the ‘creativity’ and ‘dynamism’ of capitalism, thereby reifying that which they claim to oppose. One of the ironies here is that capitalists do not create; they simply orchestrate and marshal the creativity of the commons for their own ends.³¹
In contrast to the jeremiad, the futurology of the present starts not with capitalism (or any other kind of domination), but with the ideas and practices of those challenging it. That is not to say, however, that it fails to offer a critique of the various apparatuses of domination. On the contrary, it offers a critique of a radically different kind – one that operates via the presentation of alternatives, of ‘yeses’ that already carry within them a ‘no’. Every innovation, every ‘yes’, embodies a proposal for a different kind of world, but one that is defined, from the outset, against the world that it is leaving behind. The point is to commence with the affirmative, rather than defer it until after the negative. It is in this way that the futurology of the present becomes a project of fomenting hope. It destabilises the taken-for-grantedness of the present, albeit not in a way which disowns it, as Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels do when they celebrate the communist movement as that ‘which abolishes the present state of things’³². Disavowing oneself of the present in this manner could be seen to be part and parcel of the disastrous disconnect between means and ends, as discussed earlier. Unlike the jeremiad form, the futurology of the present centres not on the negation of the present-day so much as on its continual reinvention. It necessarily remains within the temporality of the perpetual present. It aligns itself, as such, with the radical challenge that Nietzsche poses to Hegelian thought. In Hegel, negation invariably precedes creation, but in the work of Nietzsche, we are presented with the alternative possibility of creation itself as a means of negation.³³ One creates in order to negate, and not vice versa. In prefigurative politics, we prefigure the world we wish to create through our actions in the present, while simultaneously rendering redundant that which we leave behind. And in our futurologies of the living present, we offer an exposition of these other worlds already in construction without having to first negate. Such texts, furthermore, are themselves self-conscious creations. They are not just about the world, but are also added to it, thereby becoming a part of its workings. The creative act – whether on the streets or on the page – is already subversive. To practice creative subversion is not to overthrow, as with mere resistance, but to undercut and displace. Most importantly of all, it is to cultivate alternative futures in the living present and therefore to affirm life despite capitalism.

Beyond Linear Time
Aside from the compartmentalisation of time, we have also inherited from Hegel the idea that time moves in a straight line from an identifiable origin toward an ultimate end-point. Where the historical treatise usually draws a rigid straight line between the origin and the present, the manifesto does likewise between the present and the projected telos. The origin and the telos alike are both employed in the construction of linear timelines in which the progressions from past to present and from present to future are cast as somehow natural and inevitable. The way in which Marx adapted these ideas is by now the stuff of undergraduate textbooks: Guided by the invisible hand of History with a capital ‘H’, we pass through certain inevitable stages, one of which is our capitalist present, in order to eventually arrive at communism. Hence, even as Marxists angrily denounce capitalism, they ironically naturalise the social injustices that it produces as necessary by-products of the inexorable forward impetus of time. This became ludicrously apparent to me in a recent Facebook debate in which one Marxist tried to reason with me that ‘slavery was a necessary stage in human history’. The history and futurology of the present, as mentioned earlier, each seek to disrupt this kind of linearity in their own ways. The former cares not for the single origin, but for the multiple tributaries which have converged upon the present. The latter, meanwhile, concerns itself not with the single telos, but with the deltaic openings spilling out on to oceanic infinity. In each case, past, present and future – and the pathways between them – are denaturalised and rendered contingent. Here, I will focus most especially on the movement between present and future. Hence, while in the previous section, I sought primarily to problematise the jeremiad, I will now endeavour to do likewise with respect to the manifesto.
The manifesto could be thought of as akin to a children’s colouring book. When we are issued a colouring book with all of the designs already pre-determined, all that remains for us to do is to colour them in. Exactly such an idea was expressed by Marx himself when he wrote: ‘It is not enough that thought strive to actualize itself; actuality must itself strive toward thought’³⁴. What he meant by this was that the telos of history was already known in thought and all that was required was for reality to catch up; that is, for the proletariat to fulfill its historic mission. This is a temporality in which the future, paradoxically enough, actually precedes the present, since the telos is always given a priori. As the French-Russian Hegelian philosopher, Alexandre Kojève, puts it, ‘the historical movement arises from the Future and passes through the Past in order to realize itself in the Present’.³⁵ The present is thus held in tow by someone or other’s personal utopia, usually cast as universal. As such, it might well be argued that the manifesto form is inherently authoritarian. Martin Luther King had a dream, but so did Mao Tse-Tung. The difference in the latter case was that the dream had rigidified into a nightmarish Plan. The telos upon which such plans are predicated becomes a transcendental ideal; a mirage on the horizon dictating a single path we are to follow if ever we are to reach it. The question is: Who decides upon such ideals and who is enslaved by them? Do those enslaved by other people’s ideals not have dreams of their own? How might we avoid these dreams being steamrolled in the rationalist march of History?
The tyranny of linear time, according to Rosi Braidotti, is that it ‘functions like a black hole into which possible futures implode and disappear’³⁶. To reject this conception of time is therefore to make ‘an ethical choice in favour of the richness of the possible’³⁷. It means to move from the World Social Forum slogan of ‘Another World is Possible’ to the more open idea that many worlds are possible. In addition to the image of the delta invoked earlier, let us also consider Jorge Luis Borges’ evocation of the ‘garden of forking paths’; a garden in which ‘time forks perpetually toward innumerable futures’³⁸. Change at any given point in time occurs through the aleatory and contingent actualisation of any one of these countless possible futures, not through any kind of rational progression. To proceed in this garden is not to progress, since the paths lead not so much forward, but outward. Contra Hegel and Marx, then, history does not consist of a series of logical stages, nor does it move in only one direction. There is only perpetual movement; a processual and protean creativity that wells unceasingly out of the perpetual present. The kind of writing appropriate to this movement is precisely that which I have been calling the futurology of the present. When revolution no longer has anything to do with linear timelines or the realisation of a pre-ordained telos, those self-proclaimed prophets of the hidden god of History cease to have any relevance. The futurology of the present, as such, could well represent a possible new form of non-vanguardist writerly practice. There are no experts or professional revolutionaries diagnosing the present or prescribing the future, as with the jeremiad and manifesto forms respectively. Rather, the writer takes her lead from the autonomous and creative participation of people in the making of their worlds, in social movements and countercultures of all kinds; ‘those crucibles of human sociability and creativity out of which the radically new emerges’³⁹.
Here, it will be worth lingering for a moment with the question of the new. In the introduction to this piece, I emphasised the point that the futurology of the present necessarily requires a special sensitivity toward newness. This stands in stark contrast to past modes of radical writing, which usually subordinated the new to the ostensibly eternal. In the linear temporal schema of the manifesto, there is no such thing as novelty, since the work of activists is not conceptualised as the creation of new forms of life so much as the gradual fulfilment of an essential humanness, or ‘species-being’⁴⁰. This set of essences is deemed to have always been there, hidden beneath the veil of false consciousness.⁴¹ It is the difference between drawing and simply colouring-in. My contention is that the production of novelty needs to be understood on its own terms. As Maurizio Lazzarato puts forth, ‘the conjunctions and disjunctions between things are each time contingent, specific and particular and do not refer back to an essence, substance or deep structure upon which they would be founded’⁴². Once radical writing is able to successfully dissociate itself from any kind of hidden god or pre-ordained telos, it can become instead a valuable means with which to bring to light the open-ended and indeterministic ways that everyday actors at the grassroots creatively negotiate and construct their worlds. The value of this sensibility towards newness lies in the fact that it charges the imagination with an enriched sense of possibilities and demonstrates how the world is forever open to reinvention. This is an antidote, not just to the sense of historical duty preached by the vanguardists and manifesto writers, but also to the pervasive sense of hopelessness peddled by those whose interests lie with the present configuration of things.

A Note on Hope
In the context of this discussion, hope is that intangible but very real feeling that our struggles remain worthwhile; that it is still worth resisting assimilation into the soul-crushing tedium of the system and persisting in our efforts to prefigure alternative futures. However, it is in the interests of the political and economic elite to maintain and reproduce the status quo from which they benefit – and a huge part of this is the effort to ‘destroy any sense of possible alternative futures’; to stamp out any initiatives which hint to how the world might be otherwise or at least ‘to ensure that no one knows about them’⁴³ As such, the capitalists, politicians, police, media, and so on could even be said to constitute ‘a vast bureaucratic apparatus for the creation and maintenance of hopelessness’⁴⁴. As Graeber succinctly puts it, ‘hopelessness isn’t natural. It needs to be produced’⁴⁵.
I would like to argue, though, that capitalism has not been alone in producing hopelessness.
Revolutionaries too have been just as culpable. From the perspective of the traditional Left, the story of the twentieth century is one of dashed hopes and unfulfilled dreams. It is not that the prophets of History overlooked the importance of hope to our movements, but rather that they propagated endless false hopes in a tomorrow which never comes. Reality was never really able to live up to their manifestos. The prophets will usually fault reality for failing to fulfill their version of utopia, but it is instead their utopia that must be faulted for failing to correspond to reality. It was situated in the distant future, completely cut off from the living present. It was thought, furthermore, that it could be achieved only by means of negation. In practice, negating the present also meant negating oneself. Sacrifice and discipline were what was commanded. Revolutionaries came to conceive of their practice as war, rather than creation, and their creative desires were endlessly deferred until after the revolution. The point I am getting at is that if people today are mired in cynicism and feel helpless to change the world, it is not only because the elites have perfected their bureaucratic apparatus for the production of hopelessness, but also because the traditional Left offers absolutely no alternative. Many people have grown wary of the vanguardists and self-appointed prophets, whose faith in the inevitability of historical progress now seems more misguided than ever, but at the same time have yet to be convinced that alternative revolutionary practices are viable, worthwhile, or even possible. The result is apathy, but an apathy that could very well be political⁴⁶ – a sensibility, perhaps, of profound antipathy towards the authoritarianism of both capitalism and the traditional Left, but one that lacks sufficient hope to be able to be enacted in alternatives.
Many writers who wish to avoid the authoritarianism of the manifesto tradition might very well feel that their solution is to offer simple critiques, sans prescriptions. I would like to argue here, however, that failing to offer any hope at all is no alternative to offering false hope. Even Foucault, whom earlier I identified as an ally, oftentimes falls into this trap. A detailed knowledge about the workings of various forms of power, most notably ‘discipline’⁴⁷, can only take us so far. What then? What about counterpower? Foucault tends to give the impression that the reach of power is total. His concept of the ‘carceral continuum’⁴⁸ means that we are forever on the backfoot, only ever able to resist in a scattered and piecemeal way. But there are some profound ironies here. The first is that, despite Foucault’s philosophical emphasis on contingency, his writings often leave the reader (well, at least this reader) with the impression that relations of force are an inevitable aspect of social life. The second irony is as follows: Foucault knew as much as anyone that our discourses do not simply emerge from the world, but also serve to produce it. Therefore, if we do not allow enough discursive space in our work for resistance, subversion, and counterpower, we only end up reproducing the very conditions of our own incarceration. What is perhaps needed, then, is to make a subtle, yet profound inversion: that it is power on the backfoot, forever in an attempt to contain our uncontainable vitality.⁴⁹ Where things do cohere together and take on the character of something resembling an insurmountable power structure, we would do well to remind ourselves that the longevity of such social formations is, historically-speaking, much more exceptional than the event of their break-up and dissolution – not vice versa. Certainly, it is of paramount importance to understand the world and the systems of oppression and exploitation that we are up against, but if our writing stops there and avoids giving due attention to what people are doing to undo the status quo, then there is the risk that we will only end up leaving our readers feeling disempowered – armed with knowledge, but starved of the hope necessary to act on this knowledge. An example drawn from personal experience – even despite it being in the context of teaching, rather than writing – will illustrate well the point I am attempting to make here.
A few years ago, I was helping to teach an undergraduate course entitled ‘Environmental Issues in Asia’ – one of my earliest experiences as a university educator. In the last class of the semester, I asked each student, as we went around the room, to share one thing that they would be taking away with them from the course. The response that most stood out to me was that of a young Asian Australian man, the gist being more or less as follows:
Well, I came into this really interested in the environment; interested in learning more about the issues and exploring how I could get involved to make a difference. But I’m left feeling really overwhelmed. The issues are just so big and the scale of the challenges so great that I’ve almost lost hope. We’re all doomed. Indeed, there seems these days to be more and more of an apocalyptic zeitgeist about the place, especially when it comes to the environment and issues around climate change. What I realised from this feedback was that, as educators, myself and my colleagues had given too little thought to mitigating against this kind of counter-productive, fatalistic resignation. The course content covered things like dam construction in China, the effects of glacier melt and rising sea levels in Bangladesh, deforestation and oil palm monocultures in Malaysian Borneo, and so on, but gave scant attention to what can be done about such issues (including what we in Australia can do, especially considering the record of some Australian companies in the Asia-Pacific region), or how indigenous peoples and others are already fighting back. On this last point, local peoples have rarely been treated as agents acting on the stage of world history, only as helpless victims. This, however, must change. I realised through this experience how mistaken I had been in thinking that it was enough to simply convey content about the issues, without also conveying hope – not a false hope premised on some transcendental future utopia, but an immanent hope, grounded in real-life, real-world futures already in construction in the present. I hence resolved from then on that, in both my teaching and writing, I would not limit myself to trying to conscientise people simply by pointing out what is wrong with the world. Equally important would be showing what can be done – indeed what already is being done – about injustices everywhere; that relations of force are never total or inevitable and that new worlds are always in construction. Hope (in the very specific sense in which I have been using the term here) is what makes the difference between empowerment and mere conscientisation. And the propagation of such hope, through the exposition of alternative futures already in construction, is one very important role that both radical educators and writers can play.
The futurology of the present, then, might fruitfully be characterised as a practice of hope. It is not simply about the transfer of knowledge, but more significantly of ‘affect’⁵⁰. It is animated by revolutionary desire, while at the same time acting as a relay for this desire to spread. It does not speak about movements, but with them. It thinks with them, moves with them, and tries to inspire movement in turn. This is exactly what happened with a recent article by the North American-based CrimethInc Collective on the Really Really Free Market (RRFM)⁵¹ – an anarchist initiative best described as a kind of celebratory potlatch in which nothing is bartered or sold and everything is free. The idea is that people bring food, clothes, books, art, music, skills, services, or whatever else to share, and the rest takes care of itself. This is a perfect example of prefigurative politics in that it embodies, in the here and now, what an alternative commons-based society would look like. There is no question of having to wait until after the revolution to begin building a new world. And it demonstrates that we do not have to choose between Josef Stalin and Milton Friedman, but rather, can opt for an alternative politics of liberating the commons from both the state and the market. Indeed, the RRFM (along with other such cooperativist initiatives) acquires a new poignancy in light of the Crash of 2008 – its very name being an irreverent poke at neoliberal free market ideology. Soon after the appearance of the CrimethInc article in print and online, RRFMs began popping up across North America, Australia, Indonesia, and elsewhere. The latest I have heard is that Philippine anarchists are now beginning to organise such events as well, of course adapting them to local conditions. As the idea parachutes into a new context, it immediately enters into a new set of relations and necessarily emerges transformed in the process. It is a becoming and not a matter of simple repetition (unless, however, we are talking about a McDonalds franchise). I should also add here that it is never a matter of initiatives flowing in a one-way direction from the ‘West’ to the ‘Rest’, since there is also considerable cultural traffic in the opposite direction. Consider, for instance, the sheer global influence of the Zapatista movement or of the World Social Forum initiative originating from Brazil. A more recent example might be the affective vector that traversed the Mediterranean from Tahrir Square, Cairo, to Puerta del Sol Square, Madrid, from there emanating throughout the rest of Spain and beyond.
In each of the above cases, the role of the writer in acting as a relay for hope and inspiration cannot be discounted or underestimated. To foment affect in this way is especially revolutionary considering the ‘veritable obsession on the part of the rulers of the world with ensuring that social movements cannot be seen to grow, to flourish, to propose alternatives’⁵². To actively help in circulating, amplifying and making visible the alternatives being realised all around us is to shatter any sense of inevitability. And by this, I am really referring to two things: firstly, to the inevitability of the present promoted by the political-economic elite, and secondly, to the inevitability of the future posited by the traditional Hegelian-Marxist Left. The former would say that there is no alternative to the present; the latter that there is no alternative to their prescribed future. The futurology of the present, in contrast, emphasises that there are always alternatives. It offers examples of creative subversion, while at the same time refusing to channel movement in a particular direction, as with the manifesto form. To participate in the cultivation and propagation of new liberatory potentials – the ‘production of production’⁵³, in short – is enough. What matters is that creativity, desire and the imagination remain free to flourish, rather than be shut down, domesticated, canalised, or stultified.
In addition to the aforementioned CrimethInc article, another work that I would consider as exemplary of the futurology of the present is The Take⁵⁴, a documentary by Avi Lewis and Naomi Klein on the workers’ rebellion in Argentina that followed the financial meltdown of 2001. Here, I depart from my focus on writing for a moment, since the futurologist of the present need not necessarily be bound by the written word. The Take’s activist filmmakers aimed to mobilise their audience not solely by rousing in them an indignation against the local elites and International Monetary Fund, but more importantly by highlighting the real alternatives to capitalist social relations that Argentinian workers are already building in the present. Through their appropriation and collective self-management of abandoned factories, these workers are setting about the task of building a new and different kind of economy without having to first take state power. The bosses are not overthrown, but simply made redundant – completely surplus to the needs of society. This is another instance, like the RRFM, of creative subversion. In demonstrating real alternatives and emergent futures, The Take stands in stark contrast to the long tradition of documentary realism amongst radical filmmakers, the goal of which is simply to raise consciousness and bear witness to a given situation of injustice, in much the same vein as the jeremiad. In this style of documentary, the creative autonomy of people on the ground in responding to their situation is submerged or rendered irrelevant – perhaps because it is deemed a priori that local people are incapable of self-organisation and hence that solutions need to come from elsewhere and be imposed from the outside. It is the self-legitimating discourse of vanguardists and professional revolutionaries. The Take, however, partakes of no such nonsense, nor does it limit itself to merely communicating information about what is wrong with the world. Rather, it offers an inspiring, concrete example of how the world can be, and already is becoming, otherwise. In conveying an immanent hope, it too is exemplary of that which I have been calling the futurology of the present.
Graeber’s Direct Action is also worth mentioning.⁵⁵ Graeber, who sometimes likes to refer to himself as a ‘professional optimist’, describes in his book the proposals for a new society embodied in the practices of North American activists in the alterglobalisation movement. His work takes the form of an ethnography, albeit one that centres not on some supposedly static culture (as with traditional ethnographies), but on culture-in-motion. It strikes me that ethnography in the latter mode seems particularly well-suited to the futurology of the present. This is because embodied participation in people’s social worlds arguably allows us to grasp newness in its very contexts of production and at the very moments of its inception. The ethnographer starts with small things in small places and, from there, learns to appreciate their wider significance and connect the dots between them. The small, therefore, is never to be confused with the insignificant or trifling, since, arguably, it is only ‘through attention to detail that we can find different kinds of collectivity in formation’⁵⁶. Social theorists of the more conventional, desk-bound kind have typically overlooked the small details on the ground in favour of abstract theory, but in so doing, they have often also overlooked those formative processes by which newness enters the world.
Without wishing to indulge too much, my own research project at present is one which combines an ethnographic and futurological sensibility. In short, my work is concerned with the fate of national liberation movements under conditions of globalisation, focussing, most importantly, on the tentative green shoots that are beginning to emerge from their ashes.⁵⁷ My primary case study is that of the Philippines, which, although having been granted formal independence from the United States (US) in 1946, is still considered by many Filipin@s⁵⁸ to be under the thumb of US imperialist control – and with good reason. As such, the Maoist insurgency against the US-backed Marcos dictatorship in the 1970s and early 1980s – led by the Communist Party of the Philippines (CPP) and their armed wing, the New People’s Army (NPA) – was imagined as a war of national liberation, in much the same vein as those which arose in Nicaragua and El Salvador during the same period. Despite having mobilised hundreds of thousands of people on countless fronts for almost two decades, the CPP-NPA was ironically absent in the developments which finally brought down the Marcos regime in February 1986. What toppled the dictator in the end was a military mutiny, accompanied by a popular though bloodless uprising. This dramatic turn of events became known as the People Power Revolution. In adherence with Maoist orthodoxy, the CPP-NPA’s focus was guerrilla war in the countryside, and yet the popular uprising that had swept Marcos from power had taken place in urban Manila. Long accustomed to proclaiming themselves as the vanguard of the movement, these developments came as a severe shock to many. The CPP-NPA’s absence in the midst of an insurrection meant that what replaced Marcos was not the long-prophesised communist seizure of state power, but the restoration, at least nominally, of liberal democracy. These events plunged the entire Philippine Left (in which the Maoist CPP had for so long been hegemonic) into a full-blown crisis. This was only further compounded by the collapse of the Eastern Bloc and Soviet Union in the years between 1989 and 1991, therefore dovetailing with the generalised Crisis of the Left that had, by that point, become a global phenomenon. By that time, too, the national liberation movements that had won political independence had proven themselves utterly incapable of improving the lot of the populations they now presided over. One set of bureaucrats was simply replaced by another. The same old problems associated with statism persisted, and imperialist logics were indigenised and perpetuated in the form of exclusionary nationalisms.
In 1993, the CPP-NPA imploded, with two-thirds of its members choosing to defect en masse, rejecting not only its increasingly authoritarian leadership, but also Maoist ideology as a whole. Although many of the defectors still find themselves shackled by old habits, their response to the crisis of the Left, for the most part, is not the rectification and reconsolidation of old orthodoxies (as is the case with those who remained loyal to the Party), but an effort to invent new subjectivities more in consonance with the times. Indeed, in my ethnographic fieldwork in both the Philippines and Filipin@ diaspora, these two contrasting responses to the Crisis of the Left – rectification and reinvention – were what I found to constitute the most significant fault-line in Philippine radical politics today. The flipside to the Crisis of the Left, then, has been a vibrant regeneration of radical political culture. With the Marcos dictatorship gone and the Maoists a spent force, there occurred a veritable flowering of new ideas and practices throughout the 1990s, continuing through to the present day. The disintegration of the CPP-NPA in 1993 in fact coincided with the beginning of a boom period for the environmentalist, feminist, and anarchist movements in the Philippines. Today, the Philippine social movement landscape is home to a diverse array of nascent subjectivities, constitutive of efforts to re-found transformative politics on new grounds. During my fieldwork, I sought out those former CPP activists who had broken with Maoism; those who were rethinking all of the old certainties and endeavouring to enact new modes of activism in tune with contemporary realities. I also sought out the younger generation of Filipin@ activists in order to get a sense of both the continuities and discontinuities between their ideas and those of the older generation. In each of these cases, what I paid special attention to was the new; that is, to intimations of alternative futures arising in the present, which I took to be the same thing. These intimations included all manner of emergent, even insurgent, subjectivities – new political tendencies and ways of seeing, innovations in practices and methods, new modes of cultural identification, alternative values, and so on. It is important to point out, though, that these were most often elemental or larval in form – small becomings that did not necessarily add up to fully-baked ideas or practices, nor to formal theory that was written down or codified into political programmes. This did not mean, however, that they were any less significant. On the contrary, these larval subjectivities turned out to be of paramount importance in my work, since it was at the micropolitical level of identity and desire that some of my most significant insights were gleaned. In addition, the concept of hope that I detailed earlier remained, at all times, extremely pertinent, since the novel imaginings, identities, values, practices, and experiments that I picked up on already point the way beyond the impasse within which many activists have floundered in recent decades. From the ruins of the traditional Left, a new radical politics for the twenty-first century is in the process of being born.
Although having presented a number of examples of the kinds of things that the futurology of the present concerns itself with, each in relation to the idea of immanent hope, I do wish to leave a degree of openness in my formulation so that readers can remain free to take up the practice and carry it in their own directions. Social movements, often the hotbeds of cultural innovation, have been my main focus in this article, but they certainly need not constitute the entirety of what the futurologist of the present looks at. Glimpses and intimations of other worlds in the making are indeed all around us. There is, in all spheres of life, an ‘unceasing creation’ and ‘uninterrupted upsurge of novelty’⁵⁹. Anywhere where there is an autonomous cultural production taking place, outside of the habituated channels by which the status quo reproduces itself, is a potential site for the futurologist of the present to involve herself in and draw inspiration from. Wherever there is disobedience, insubordination, creative maladjustment, play, experimentation, or creation, no matter whether at the micro or macro scale, there is something happening which deserves our attention.

Revisiting the Art-Activism Nexus
Apart from hope, another point that has resurfaced throughout this article is the vital place of creativity. This idea, however, will now need to be unpacked and expanded upon. It turns out that the ways in which I have been using the terms ‘creation’ and ‘creativity’ have really been operating on three distinct levels. There is, first of all, the ontological creativity of the ‘chaosmos’⁶⁰ – a point alluded to upon my introduction of the concept of the perpetual present. Secondly, there is the creativity of activists and countercultural deviants. Thirdly, there is the creativity of artists and writers in their production and relaying of affect. Although each of these forms of creativity are able to be distinguished from one another, it is the relationships between them, and not the categorical divisions, which are of paramount importance here. To begin with, activist practice aligns with creativity in the first sense in that to forge new forms of life outside of prevailing apparatuses of domination is to allow ontological processes of creation to continue flourishing without blockage or curtailment. From the moment there is an imposition of relations of force, or a reduction of life to either state or market logics, there is creative subversion. ‘Life revolts against everything that confines it’⁶¹, as Suely Rolnik felicitously puts it. The same could certainly be said of creativity in the artistic sense.
Activists and artists alike converge in the figure of the creator – that inventor of new values of the kind celebrated by Nietzsche⁶² as well as by autonomist theorists of ‘self-valorization’⁶³ – in that they self-consciously endeavour to bring newness into the world. Each intervenes into the material-semiotic realm that we have become accustomed to calling ‘culture’ and there, works to shake up and reinvent conventional ways of seeing, thinking, feeling, valuing, doing. Hence, to revisit a point I made in the beginning of this article, perhaps there is little real difference between making art and making change. Perhaps the production of new forms of life by activists is itself an art – not art that simply represents life, but art that is utterly indistinguishable from it.⁶⁴ As such, the futurologist of the present does not simply observe and describe at a distance the alternative futures arising in social movements and countercultural milieux, but rather, participates politically in their production and propagation. In other words, to write of countercultural practice, broadly conceived, need not take the form of a detached reportage, but can alternately become a countercultural practice in its own right. Before there was ever such a thing as viral YouTube videos, there were contagions of revolutionary desire of the kind that spread with lightning speed in 1848, 1968, 1989–1991, and 1999–2001, not to mention the Arab Spring currently underway. The principle, though, is the same. One important role that the radical writer can play, as I have suggested, is to act as a relay through which such contagions can spread – not as a spokesperson or representative of a given initiative or movement, but as a participant; an element amongst others, animated only by the winds of collective desire that fill her sails.
At this point, yet further unpacking of the concept of creativity will be required. Implicit in this article to date has been an idea of creativity defined in opposition to two separate, albeit related, aspects of Hegelian dialectics. The first is the primacy that Hegel accords to negation, which relates to the past-present-future trinary of compartmentalised time. The second, meanwhile, is Hegel’s faith in an ultimate telos, inextricably related to the notion of linear time. I will discuss each of these in turn, zooming in first of all on creation beyond negation, before then turning my attention to creation beyond teleology.
It is only owing to the dialectical schema imported into radical politics by Marx that we have come to conceptualise movement practice as war rather than as creation. Had radical politics been based upon an alternative set of premises, the history of the recent past might have looked very different. From today’s standpoint, Tristan Tzara’s quip in the early twentieth century that ‘dialectics kills’⁶⁵ seems strangely prescient of what was to ensue. ‘It lives by producing corpses, which lie strewn across an empty field where the wind has ceased to blow’, he continued.⁶⁶ Tzara was a key figure in the Dada movement, and what set the Dadaists apart from other avant-garde groups was precisely their staunch anti-Hegelianism. In fact, the Dada Manifesto of 1918 was not really a manifesto at all.⁶⁷ Instead, what Tzara produced was a parody of the very manifesto form, mocking his contemporaries for the Hegelian sense of historical self-importance which they accorded themselves.
Tzara’s distaste for Hegel was likely to have been inherited from Nietzsche, a well-known influence on Dada. The idea that dialectics kills has echoes of Nietzsche all through it, perhaps no better illustrated than when he affirmed: ‘We have art in order not to die of the truth’⁶⁸. For Hegel, truth meant dialectics and the law of negation, to which Nietzsche counterposed an affirmative philosophy of creation. He upheld creativity and the artistic sensibility as alternatives to those modes of thought which attempt to reduce reality to a stable set of laws, axioms, and equations. For Marx and Hegel, creation is always suspended until after the moment of negation, but Nietzsche’s radical contribution was to free creativity from the negative, while at the same time freeing temporality from the past-present-future trinary. Jeremiad writers and documentary realists are amongst those who continue to enslave their creative sensibilities to the negative, their practice bound by an unthinking adherence to Hegelian folk theories. Their overarching imperative of needing to first negate the present means that they fail to appreciate the creativity happening all around them. Blinded by the Sun of Hegel, they lose sight all those other stars out there; those ideas, practices, and intimations of alternative futures continually coming into being in our midst. Once we are able to regain our vision, our actions in the present cease to be rendered simply as means to an end, but instead become ‘means without end’⁶⁹ – a protean creativity and endless becoming that knows no discrete temporal stages, no telos, no hidden god. When means and ends become discordant, we forget that both are in fact immanent within the perpetual present. Creativity needs to be able to flourish, and to do so it must be liberated from negation. This is the place of means without end, of prefigurative politics, of the futurology of the present, and of all art that ceases to become abstracted from life and instead becomes life itself.
Having just discussed the possibility of creation beyond negation, I will now direct my critical gaze to creation beyond teleology. To free temporality from the telos of linear time is to do away with the idea that there is any kind of intrinsic point to history. Earlier, I recounted a Facebook debate I had with one particular Marxist who insisted that slavery was a necessary stage in human history. In this case, the African peoples brought to the Americas were quite literally the slaves of someone else’s future. This trans-Atlantic trade in human lives, however, was a contingent and non-inevitable event, not a progression along a linear timeline toward some ultimate telos – no matter whether the telos of colonial masters or Marxist historiographers. For the prophets of the hidden god of History to naturalise the entire past as inevitable only makes them the strange bedfellows of the slave-masters. And their naturalisation of the future only makes all of us slaves, condemned to playing catch-up with their version of what the future should look like.
In this schema, there can never be anything new, since everything is already given a priori. The future is foreordained and simply awaits realisation. Only when we can unmoor ourselves from hidden gods, illusory tomorrows, and other such stultifying ideas, can we really embrace creativity and appreciate the production of novelty on its own terms. From the instant that the god of History is dethroned by Janus, infinite horizons fan out in all directions. And our creativity suddenly becomes creativity per se, not the mere fulfilment of a telos. This is an idea I characterised earlier in terms of drawing, rather than merely colouring-in. The blank sketchbook knows no a priori designs; only the a posteriori marks that we leave behind as we move. In the realm of activism, this sensibility is embodied in the practice of prefigurative politics – a break not only from the cult of negation, but also from the idea that revolution has to mean fulfilling some programme handed down from on high. As Graeber writes, ‘we’re all already revolutionaries when we make something genuinely new’⁷⁰. What this means for radical writing, meanwhile, is to do away with manifestos and instead tune our attention into the profound creativity everywhere in our midst. Unlike in the manifesto tradition, the futurology of the present does not prescribe a single monolithic future, but tries instead to articulate the many alternative futures continually emerging in the perpetual present. The goal of such an endeavour is to make visible the living, breathing alternatives all around us, while at the same time fomenting an immanent hope that can spread virally and be enacted in other places elsewhere.
To sacrifice today in the name of an illusory tomorrow is just not the point anymore. It is for this reason that I chose to open with those extraordinary words from Janis Joplin – tomorrow never happens. The point is to draw, not simply to colour-in or fulfill some pre-ordained utopian future. It is to continually re-invent reality from within reality, rather than from some external, transcendental standpoint such as that mystical realm where invisible hands and hidden gods reside. As an aside, it has occurred to me, as I sit here at my kitchen table punching out these final words, what a happy coincidence it is that the names Janis and Janus bear such a striking resemblance to one another. If I was a visual artist (not just a writer-cum-artist manqué), I would no doubt enjoy experimenting with ways to combine the two in some sort of installation – perhaps a stone bust of Janus, singing in the unmistakably raw and passionate voice of one of the legends of the hippie movement. But it matters not that I am no artist in any formal sense, since each of us are already artists of the present in our own ways. ‘One creates new modalities of subjectivity in the same way that an artist creates new forms from the palette’, writes Guattari.⁷¹ The parallel he draws between art and social transformation is not to be taken as mere metaphor, however. What he calls for is a merging of art with life, his contention being that global warming and the other great issues of our times cannot be adequately addressed ‘without a mutation of mentality, without promoting a new art of living in society’⁷². To the ends of forging a more habitable and convivial present, the cross-fertilisations between artistic and activist practices need to continue proliferating, and creativity in general must remain free to flourish. Just as the economic crisis in Argentina in 2001 was quickly and creatively responded to by way of a slew of liberatory initiatives at the grassroots (including the occupied factory movement discussed earlier), the same is now happening in response to the current economic crisis, albeit at a global scale. In these conditions, the futurology of the present is needed now more than ever. The question becomes whether to resign ourselves to the life-denying ossification of creativity under capitalism and the traditional Left alike, or, to liberate life wherever it is imprisoned and to participate passionately and deliberately in the production of the new.

1.) Acknowledgements are due first of all to Anamaine Asinas for all her love, support, and inspiration. Ana – I cannot help but think that the kind of intensely passionate, nurturing and mutually-liberating relationship we share is the very stuff that revolutions are made of. I would also like to extend my warmest thanks to Eric Pido and Marta Celletti, since it was in many a conversation with these dear friends that some of the ideas presented in this article were first formed. Sincere thank yous must also go out to Marc Herbst, Rosi Braidotti, Steven Morgana, Suzanne Passmore, and Elmo Gonzaga, each of whom kindly read various incarnations of this work and provided some very helpful and encouraging feedback. Lastly, I would like to express my deepest gratitude to all of the many activists whom I have worked with over the years, since it is really the collective imagination of our movements that is the true author of this work.
2.) Janis Joplin, ‘Ball and Chain’ in Janis Joplin’s Greatest Hits, CBS Records, 1973.
3.) See Gottfried Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1977 [1807].
4.) As the Hegelian philosopher Alexandre Kojève put it: ‘Time in which the Future takes primacy can be realized, can exist, only provided that it negates or annihilates’. See Alexandre Kojève, Introduction to the Reading of Hegel, Basic Books, New York, 1969, p. 136. Hegel’s ideas on negation are drawn, in no small part, from physics: ‘In modern physical science the opposition, first observed to exist in magnetism as polarity, has come to be regarded as a universal law pervading the whole of nature’ (Hegel, Phenomenology of Spirit, p. 223). Here he takes the positive-negative opposition found in electrical and magnetic phenomena and adapts it to social relations, elevating it as a mechanical law governing all of history.
5.) See, for example, Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels, The Communist Manifesto, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1992 [1848]; Michael Albert, Moving Forward: Program for a Participatory Economy, AK Press, San Francisco, 2000; and George Monbiot, Manifesto for a New World Order, New Press, New York, 2004. The manifestos of the twentieth century avant-gardes (Futurist, Surrealist, Situationist, and so on) are perfectly exemplary too – with the exception, perhaps, of the Dada Manifesto of 1918, which was more a parody of the manifesto form.
6.) See, for example, Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels, The Communist Manifesto, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1992 [1848]; Michael Albert, Moving Forward: Program for a Participatory Economy, AK Press, San Francisco, 2000; and George Monbiot, Manifesto for a New World Order, New Press, New York, 2004. The manifestos of the twentieth century avant-gardes (Futurist, Surrealist, Situationist, and so on) are perfectly exemplary too – with the exception, perhaps, of the Dada Manifesto of 1918, which was more a parody of the manifesto form.
7.) Michael Hardt & Antonio Negri, Labor of Dionysus: A critique of the state-form, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 1994, p. 6.
8.) Rebecca Solnit, 2009, ‘The Revolution Has Already Occurred’, The Nation, viewed 19 April 2009, http://www.thenation.com/doc/20090323/solnit, p. 13.
9.) Dimitris Papadopoulos, Niamh Stephenson & Vassilis Tsianos, Escape Routes: Control and Subversion in the 21st Century, Pluto Press, London, 2008, p. xiii.
10.) Gilles Deleuze, ‘What is a dispositif?’, in T. J. Armstrong (ed), Michel Foucault: Philosopher, Harvester Wheatsheaf, Hemel Hempstead, 1992, p. 163.
11.) Félix Guattari, Chaosmosis: An Ethico-Aesthetic Paradigm, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1995, p. 12.
12.) Colectivo Situaciones, 2003, ‘On the Researcher-Militant’, European Institute for Progressive Cultural Policies, viewed 28 January 2011, http://eipcp.net/transversal/0406/colectivosituaciones/en, p. 3.
13.) David Graeber, Fragments of an Anarchist Anthropology, Prickly Paradigm Press, Chicago, 2004, p. 12.
14.) Maurizio Lazzarato, ‘Multiplicity, Totality, Politics’, Parrhesia, iss. 9, 2010, p. 24.
15.) Michael Hardt, Gilles Deleuze: An Apprenticeship in Philosophy, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 1993, pp. ix–xv.
16.) See Uri Gordon, Anarchy Alive!: Anti-Authoritarian Politics from Practice to Theory, Pluto Press, London, 2008; and Jeffrey S. Juris, Networking Futures: The Movements Against Corporate Globalization, Duke University Press, Durham, 2008.
17.) Bruno Latour, ‘Postmodern? No, Simply Amodern!: Steps Towards an Anthropology of Science’, Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science, vol. 21, iss. 1, 1990, pp. 145–171.
18.) Guattari, Chaosmosis, p. 92. Here, Guattari draws from the concept of ‘duration’ as found in Henri Bergson, Creative Evolution, Dover Publications, Mineola, 1998 [1911].
19.) Cited in Gerald Raunig, Art and Revolution: Transversal Activism in the Long Twentieth Century, Semiotext(e), Los Angeles, 2007, p. 47.
20.) Scott Littleton, Gods, Goddesses, and Mythology, Vol. 6, Marshall Cavendish, Tarrytown, 2005, p. 770.
21.) Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Penguin Books, London, 2003 [1885], p. 150.
22.) Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish, Penguin, London, 1991 [1977], p. 31; Michel Foucault, ‘Nietzsche, Genealogy, History’, in P. Rabinow (ed), The Foucault Reader, Penguin Books, London, 1984, pp. 76–100.
23.) Free Association, 2010, How to generate a generation, viewed 25 February 2011, http://freelyassociating.org/2010/10/how-to-generate-a-generation/, p. 1.
24.) Gilles Deleuze cited in Félix Guattari & Suely Rolnik, Molecular Revolution in Brazil, Semiotext(e), Los Angeles, 2008 [1986], p. 19.
25.) See Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, What is to be Done?, Oxford University Press, Clarendon, 1963 [1902].
26.) Karl Marx, Capital, Volume 1, Penguin Books, London, 1986 [1867]; Karl Marx, Capital, Volume 2, Penguin Books, London, 1985 [1885]; Karl Marx, Capital, Volume 3, Penguin Books, London, 1981 [1894].
27.) See David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 2007 [1740].
28.) An analogy might help to illustrate the problematic I am dealing with here: Imagine that you are a houseguest at the home of a friend and you get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. The only problem is that there is an electrical storm outside and the power has failed. All is dark. Would it be necessary to have a complete map of the entire household in your mind in order to be able to reach the bathroom, or might it also be possible to feel your way there through the dark? The futurology of the present is not concerned with the map of the house; only with those feeling their way through the dark. Instances of the latter kind are what Maurice Merleau-Ponty has referred to as ‘absorbed coping’. See Komarine Romdenh-Romluc, Merleau-Ponty and ‘Phenomenology of perception’, Routledge, Abingdon, 2011, pp. 96–97.
29.) Examples include Jean Baudrillard, The Intelligence of Evil or the Lucidity Pact, Berg, Oxford, 2005; Paul Virilio 2005, The Information Bomb, Verso, London; and Annie Le Brun 2008, The Reality Overload: The Modern World’s Assault on the Imaginal Realm, Inner Traditions, Rochester.
30.) Harry Cleaver, 1992, ‘Kropotkin, Self-Valorization and the Crisis of Marxism’, Libcom, viewed 9 March 2010, http://libcom.org/library/kropotkin-self-valorization-crisis-marxism, p. 4.
31.) The commons could be considered as capitalism’s constitutive outside. It is the very lifeblood of capital and yet, even as it is harnessed, it must simultaneously be negated lest it threaten the calcified order necessary for capitalism’s own reproduction. The concept of the ‘constitutive outside’ has been drawn here from Judith Butler, Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex“, Routledge, New York, 1993, pp. 3, 8.
32.) Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels, The German Ideology, Progress Publishers, Moscow, 1976 [1847], p. 57.
33.) Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. See also Gilles Deleuze, Nietzsche and Philosophy, Athlone Press, London, 1983 [1962].
34.) Karl Marx, Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1982 [1844], p. 138.
35.) Alexandre Kojève, Introduction to the Reading of Hegel, p. 136.
36.) Rosi Braidotti, Transpositions: On Nomadic Ethics, Polity Press, Cambridge, 2006, p. 167.
37.) Guattari, Chaosmosis, p. 29.
38.) Jorge Luis Borges, ‘The Garden of Forking Paths’ in D. Yates & J. Irby (eds), Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings, New Directions, New York, 1964, p. 28.
39.) Richard Day, Gramsci is Dead: Anarchist Currents in the Newest Social Movements, Pluto Press, London, 2005, p. 183.
40.) Karl Marx, ‘Estranged Labour’ in K. Marx, Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow, 1961 [1844], pp. 67–83.
41.) This is an idea expressed in Gottfried Hegel, ‘The doctrine of essence’ in W. Wallace (ed), The logic of Hegel, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1892 [1817], pp. 207–286. ‘[T]hings really are not what they immediately show themselves … there is a permanent in things, and that permanent is in the first instance their Essence’ (pp. 208–209).
42.) Lazzarato, ‘Multiplicity, Totality, Politics’, p. 24.
43.) David Graeber, 2008, ‘Hope in Common’, The Anarchist Library, viewed 1 July 2011, http://theanarchistlibrary.org/HTML/David_Graeber__Hope_in_Common.html, pp. 1, 4.
44.) Graeber, ‘Hope in Common’, p. 1.
45.) Graeber, ‘Hope in Common’, p. 1
46.) This formulation of a ‘political apathy’ is indebted to the work of Feeltank Chicago. See Jerome Mast Grand, Amber Hasselbring & Corndog Brothers, 2008, ‘Renaming Bush Street’, Journal of Aesthetics and Protest, iss. 6, viewed 5 July 2011, http://www.journalofaestheticsandprotest.org/6/antiwar/renamingbushstreet.html.
47.) Foucault, Discipline and Punish.
48.) Foucault, Discipline and Punish, pp. 293–308.
49.) Michael Hardt & Antonio Negri, Empire, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 2000.
50.) My thinking on affect is primarily sourced from Brian Massumi, Parables for the virtual: Movement, affect, sensation, Duke University Press, Durham, 2002. In short, affect is the capacity to affect and be affected. It is not a personal feeling, but a pre-personal intensity that exists only in flows between people and things.
51.) CrimethInc., 2008, ‘The Really Really Free Market: Instituting the Gift Economy’, CrimethInc. Ex-Workers’ Collective, viewed 8 July 2011, http://www.crimethinc.com/texts/atoz/reallyreally.php.
52.) Graeber, ‘Hope in Common’, p. 1.
53.) Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus, Penguin, New York, 2009 [1972], pp. 4–8.
54.) Avi Lewis & Naomi Klein, The Take, Barna-Alper Productions, New York, 2004.
55.) David Graeber, Direct Action: An Ethnography, AK Press, Oakland, 2009.
56.) Penny Harvey & Soumhya Venkatesan, ‘Faith, Reason and the Ethic of Craftsmanship: Creating Contingently Stable Worlds’, in M. Candea (ed), The Social After Gabriel Tarde: Debates and Assessments, Routledge, Abingdon, p. 130.
57.) The bulk of my research results are still in the process of being written up, although a few preliminary sketches have so far been published. See, for instance, Marco Cuevas-Hewitt, ‘Sketches of an Archipelagic Poetics of Postcolonial Belonging’, Budhi: A Journal of Culture and Ideas, Vol. 11, No. 1, 2007, pp. 239–246; and Marco Cuevas-Hewitt, ‘The Figure of the “Fil-Whatever“: Filipino American Trans-Pacific Social Movements and the Rise of Radical Cosmopolitanism’, World Anthropologies Network E-Journal, no. 5, 2010, pp. 97–127.
58.) I seek to neutralise gender here by synthesising both the feminine and masculine suffixes (‘-a’ and ‘-o’, respectively) into the new suffix of ‘-@’. The reason that I have chosen this form over the standard ‘Filipino’ is that I wish to avoid using a gender-specific descriptor to stand in for all Filipin@s. This is an unfortunate grammatical inheritance from Spanish colonialism, since pre-Hispanic indigenous languages in the Philippine archipelago were, by and large, gender-neutral. I might have chosen to use the alternative suffix of ‘-a/o’ but decided against it, not just because it reads somewhat clumsily, but more importantly because it perpetuates the rigid binary notion of gender by which genderqueer individuals are marginalised.
59.) Guattari, Chaosmosis, p. 29.
60.) Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, Continuum, London, 2004 [1987], p. 7.
61.) Cited in Guattari & Rolnik, Molecular Revolution in Brazil, p. 87.
62.) Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra; Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, Prometheus Books, Buffalo, 1989 [1886].
63.) Harry Cleaver, Reading Capital Politically, Anti/Theses, Leeds, 2000 [1979], p. 18; Antonio Negri, Books for Burning: Between Civil War and Democracy in 1970s Italy, Verso, London, 2005, pp. 198–207, 215–230.
64.) See John Jordan, ‘Deserting the Culture Bunker’, Journal of Aesthetics and Protest, iss. 3, viewed 10 July 2011, http://www.joaap.org/new3/jordan.html.
65.) Cited in Lee Scrivner, ‘How to Write an Avant-Garde Manifesto (A Manifesto)’, London Consortium, viewed 9 July 2011, http://www.londonconsortium.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/02/scrivneripmessay.pdf, p. 13.
66.) Cited in Scrivner, ‘How to Write an Avant-Garde Manifesto (A Manifesto)’, p. 13.
67.) Tristan Tzara, 2006 [1918], ‘Dada Manifesto’, Wikisource, viewed 4 July 2011, http://www.freemedialibrary.com/index.php/Dada_Manifesto_(1918,_Tristan_Tzara).
68.) Cited in Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus, Penguin Books, London, 2005 [1942], p. 90.
69.) Giorgio Agamben, Means Without End: Notes on Politics, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 2000.
70.) Graeber, ‘Hope in Common’, p. 4.
71.) Guattari, Chaosmosis, p. 7. To interpret Guattari here as saying that the production of novelty is simply a straightforward matter of human intent and free will would be gravely mistaken. Becomings can only occur through ‘heterogenesis’ (pp. 33–57); that is, through a multiplicity of elements in symbiosis. In the case of multiplicities in which human beings play a part, subjectivity is certainly one ingredient in the mix, but it does not assume the role of primary causal determinant. There is always an unpredictability to heterogenesis and we often we end up with entirely different outcomes to what we originally intended. It must furthermore be stressed that human subjectivity does not exist on some separate plane of reality as René Descartes presumed, but must rather be seen to be part of matter.
72.) Guattari, Chaosmosis, p. 20.

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There is no Alternative: The Future is self-organised

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:38 +0000

Part 1
As workers in the cultural field we offer the following contribution to the debate on the impact of neoliberalism on institutional relations:
– Cultural and educational institutions as they appear today are nothing more than legal and administrative organs of the dominant system. As with all institutions, they live in and through us; we participate in their structures and programmes, internalise their values, transmit their ideologies and act as their audience/public/social body.
– Our view: these institutions may present themselves to us as socially accepted bodies, as somehow representative of the society we live in, but they are nothing more than dysfunctional relics of the bourgeois project. Once upon a time, they were charged with the role of promoting democracy, breathing life into the myth that institutions are built on an exchange between free, equal and committed citizens. Not only have they failed in this task, but within the context of neoliberalism, have become even more obscure, more unreliable and more exclusive.
– The state and its institutional bodies now share aims and objectives so closely intertwined with corporate and neoliberal agendas that they have been rendered indivisible. This intensification and expansion of free market ideology into all aspects of our lives has been accompanied by a systematic dismantling of all forms of social organisation and imagination antithetical to the demands of capitalism.
– As part of this process it’s clear that many institutions and their newly installed managerial elites are now looking for escape routes out of their inevitable demise and that, at this juncture, this moment of crisis, they’re looking at ‘alternative’ structures and what’s left of the Left to model their horizons, sanction their role in society and reanimate their tired relations. Which of course we despise!

In their scramble for survival, cultural and educational institutions have shown how easily they can betray one set of values in favour of another and that’s why our task now is to demand and adhere to the foundational and social principles they have jettisoned, by which we mean: transparency, accountability, equality and open participation.
– By transparency we mean an opening up of the administrative and financial functions/decision making processes to public scrutiny. By accountability we mean that these functions and processes are clearly presented, monitored and that they can in turn, be measured and contested by ‘participants’ at any time. Equality and open participation is exactly what it says – that men and women of all nationalities, race, colour and social status can participate in any of these processes at any time.
– Institutions as they appear today, locked in a confused space between public and private, baying to the demands of neoliberal hype with their new management structures, are not in a position to negotiate the principles of transparency, accountability and equality, let alone implement them. We realise that responding to these demands might extend and/or guarantee institutions’ survival but, thankfully, their deeply ingrained practices prevent them from even entertaining the idea on a serious level.
– In our capacity as workers with a political commitment to self-organisation we feel that any further critical contribution to institutional programmes will further reinforce the relations that keep these obsolete structures in place. We are fully aware that ‘our’ critiques, alternatives and forms of organisation are not just factored into institutional structures but increasingly utilised to legitimise their existence.
– The relationship between corporations, the state and its institutions is now so unbearable that we see no space for negotiation – we offer no contribution, no critique, no pathway to reform, no way in or out. We choose to define ourselves in relation to the social forms that we participate in and not the leaden institutional programmes laid out before us – our deregulation is determined by social, not market relations. There is no need for us to storm the Winter Palace, because most institutions are melting away in the heat of global capital anyway. We will provide no alternative. So let go!

The only question that remains is how to get rid of the carcass and deal with the stench:
– We are not interested in their so-called assets; their personnel, buildings, archives, programmes, shops, clubs, bars, facilities and spaces will all end up at the pawnbroker anyway…
– All we need is their cash in order to pay our way out of capitalism and take this opportunity to make clear our intention to supervise and mediate our own social capital, knowledge and networks.
– As a first step we suggest an immediate redistribution of their funds to already existing, self-organised bodies with a clear commitment to workers’ and immigrants’ rights, social (anti-racist, anti-sexist, anti-homophobic) struggle and representation.
There is no alternative! The future is self-organised.
– In the early 1970s corporate analysts developed a strategy aimed at reducing uncertainty called ‘there is no alternative’ (tina). Somewhat ironically we now find ourselves in agreement, but this time round we’re the scenario planners and executors of our own future though we are, if nothing else, the very embodiment of uncertainty.
– In the absence of clearly stated opposition to the neoliberal system, most forms of collective and collaborative practice can be read as ‘self-enterprise’. By which we mean, groupings or clusters of individuals set up to feed into the corporate controlled markets, take their seats at the table, cater to and promote the dominant ideology.
– Self-organisation should not be confused with self-enterprise or self-help, it is not an alternative or conduit into the market. It isn’t a label, logo, brand or flag under which to sail in the waters of neoliberalism (even as a pirate ship as suggested by mtv)! It has no relationship to entrepreneurship or bogus ‘career collectives’.
– In our view self-organisation is a byword for the productive energy of those who have nothing left to lose. It offers up a space for a radical re-politicisation of social relations – the first tentative steps towards realisable freedoms.

Self-organisation is:
– Something which predates representational institutions. To be more precise: institutions are built on (and often paralyse) the predicates and social forms generated by self-organisation.
– Mutually reinforcing, self-valorising, self-empowering, self-historicising and, as a result, not compatible with fixed institutional structures.
– A social and productive force, a process of becoming which, like capitalism, can be both flexible and opaque – therefore more than agile enough to tackle (or circumvent) it.
– A social process of communication and commonality based on exchange; sharing of similar problems, knowledge and available resources.
– A fluid, temporal set of negotiations and social relations which can be emancipatory – a process of empowerment.
– Something which situates itself in opposition to existing, repressive forms of organisation and concentrations of power.
– Always challenging power both inside the organisation and outside the organisation; this produces a society of resonance and conflict, but not based on fake dualities as at present.
– An organisation of deregulated selves. It is at its core a non-identity.
– A tool that doesn’t require a cohesive identity or voice to enter into negotiation with others. It may reside within social forms but doesn’t need to take on an identifiable social form itself.
– Contagious and inclusive, it disseminates and multiplies.
– The only way to relate to self-organisation is to take part, self-organise, connect with other self-organising initiatives and challenge the legitimacy of institutional representation.

We put a lid on the bourgeois project, the national museums will be stored in their very own archive, the Institutes of Contemporary Art will be handed over to the artists unions, the Universities and Academies will be handed over to the students, Siemens and all the other global players will be handed over to their workers. The state now acts as an administrative unit – just as neoliberalism has suggested it – but with mechanisms of control, transparency accountability and equal rights for all.

END

Disclaimer:
This text can be freely distributed and printed in non-commercial, no-money contexts without the permission of the authors.
It was originally conceived as a pamphlet with the aim of disrupting the so-called critical paths and careers being carved out by those working the base structure of the political-art fields. We’re aware of contradictions, limits and problems with this text and invite all to measure the content in direct relation to the context in which it may appear. In fact, it has come as no surprise to us that its dodgy, legitimising potential has been most keenly exploited by those it originally set out to challenge.
Having let it fly we now invite you, the reader, to consider why it’s in this publication, whose interests it serves and the power relations it helps to maintain.

Stephan Dillemuth in Munich, Anthony Davies in London and Jakob Jakobsen in Copenhagen, 12 June 2005.

Wiederabdruck
Der Text erschien zuerst in: Will Bradley/Charles Esche (Hg.): Art and Social Change. A Critical Reader. London 2007, S. 378–381.

Gesellschaftliche Utopien. Oder: Wie politisch ist die Kunst?

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:37 +0000

Ein revolutionäres Grundrauschen zieht sich durch die Kunst: Die gesamte Schöpfungsgeschichte der Moderne ist eine Geschichte radikaler Kulturkämpfer und kriegerischer Rhetorik. „Legt Feuer an die Regale der Bibliotheken! Leitet den Lauf der Kanäle ab, um die Museen zu überschwemmen! Oh, welche Freude, auf dem Wasser die alten, ruhmreichen Bilder zerfetzt und entfärbt treiben zu sehen! Ergreift die Spitzhacken, die Äxte und die Hämmer und reißt nieder, reißt ohne Erbarmen die ehrwürdigen Städte nieder!“, schrieb Filippo Tommaso Marinetti im „Manifest des Futurismus“, das 1909 veröffentlicht wurde. Bei allen Avantgardebewegungen ging es stets um Destruktion und Revolution. Die Wut war groß und es dauerte lange, bis sich die Kunst vom Joch der Auftragsarbeit der Kirche und politischen Herrschern befreite und sich der Macht und dem Einfluss der jeweiligen Interessen entziehen konnte.
Heute gibt es keine klaren Feindbilder mehr, an denen sich die Künstler abarbeiten könnten. Und es gibt auch keine sozialen Bewegungen mehr, denen man gerne angehören möchte. Einzig ein diffuses Dagegen eint die Szene. Um die Künstler zu verstehen, die sich heute mit politisch engagierter Kunst beschäftigen, muss man zunächst einmal über die spezifischen historischen Hintergründe nachdenken. Denn auch der erste Weltkrieg und das Gefühl der totalen Sinnentleerung war ein Grund für die Entstehung des Dadaismus. Wir sind alle die Kinder von Marx und Coca-Cola. Und wir sind auch alle die Kinder der Antiglobalisierungsbewegung, die mit Naomi Kleins „No Logo“ ein Manifest bekam und die dann Kalle Lasns „Adbusters“-Bewegung mit dem entsprechenden Outfit („Blackspot Sneaker“) und schicken Anti-Logo ausstattete. Gerade haben wir wieder einmal eine globale Finanzkrise überstanden, wir haben den Zusammenbruch der Finanzmärkte hautnah miterlebt und die negativen Auswirkungen des entfesselten Liberalismus. Wir leben in einer Welt, die nach dem 11. September 2001 zu einer umfassenden Überwachung aller geführt hat, in der durch die Rhetorik eines „Kampf gegen den Terror“ die Angst vor einer unbekannten Bedrohung omnipräsent ist und die durch Politik und Massenmedien noch weiter geschürt wird. Neue Formen von Ungerechtigkeit und Ungleichheit sind entstanden, der Kampf der Kulturen ist in vollem Gange und noch nie war die Macht der Religionen und der Zorn gegenüber anderen Religionen so groß. Es ist eine Welt geprägt von ökologischem Defätismus: Der drohende Klimawandel gefährdet schon jetzt die gerechte Verteilung von sozialer Sicherheit und Ressourcen, aber trotzdem scheint dies die politischen Entscheidungsträger nicht weiter zu kümmern. Verheerende Naturkata-strophen, Überschwemmungen in Pakistan, Erdbeben in Japan, Haiti und China, der Tsunami an der Küste Thailands, der Hurrikan Katrina in New Orleans, brechen in regelmäßigen Abständen über die Menschheit herein. Zu dem neuen Opium des Volkes gehören betäubende Massenmedien, Fußballstadien, Vergnügungsparks und eine Tourismusindustrie, die uns ständig neue Abenteuer verspricht. Die Werbeindustrie hat sich die Ästhetik der Revolution erfolgreich angeeignet. Und unsere scheinbare Freiheit besteht nur noch darin, diverse Konsumentscheidungen zu treffen. Auch das Verhältnis zur Politik hat sich verändert: Die politischen Führer haben auf der ganzen Welt an Glaubwürdigkeit eingebüßt. Wobei natürlich auch bereits die Negation der Politik eine politische Handlung ist. Aber wir haben uns an den Typus des Politiker-Bürokraten, der Politiker-Berühmtheit gewöhnt, und das Marketing hat die Kontrolle über die Politik übernommen. Auch die Medien, früher einmal als vierte Gewalt im Staat bezeichnet, haben an Glaubwürdigkeit und Macht verloren, weil drastische Sparzwänge auch zu drastischen Qualitätsdefiziten geführt haben. Investigativen Journalismus betreiben heute nicht mehr die Medien, sondern Hacker wie Julian Assange – oder Künstler.
Künstler reagieren auf all diese Defizite, diese Themen unserer Generation und Konfliktfelder des 21. Jahrhunderts und schlüpfen in die unterschiedlichsten Rollen: Sie agieren in ihren Projekten auch als Journalisten, Stadtplaner, Philosophen, Architekten, Politiker, Umweltaktivisten, als Aufklärer, Kommentatoren, Zeugen, Dokumentatoren, Mahner. Die Künstler zeigen in ihren Projekten Alternativen auf, zielen auf soziale, politische und ökonomische Missstände, sind oft radikal und asozial, spielen mit Grenzen und provozieren. Manche Künstler legen die Finger in die Wunde, manchmal werden Fragen gestellt, die sonst niemand stellt, und manchmal werden konkrete Lösungen angeboten. „Was die Politik anbetrifft, so betrachte ich sie als ein ungeheures Kunstwerk, gemalt mit Blut und Leid, Freuden und Gelüsten, und all dies kann mich nur inspirieren“, sagte der Situationist Asger Jorn 1952. Politische Kunst ist kultureller Widerstand, ein Kampf gegen die kulturelle Hegemonie und ein Aufschrei voller Leidenschaft. Es geht nicht um Konsens und Akzeptanz. Es geht um den Wunsch, politisch engagiert zu denken und zu handeln, die Kunst wird zu einer Form des Politik-Machens mit anderen Mitteln. Die Folge sind individuelle Strategien, die so unterschiedlich wie die Motive selbst sind: Man sieht den Kunstwerken die Einflüsse libertärer, anarchistischer, autonomer, ökologischer, feministischer, kommunistischer und humanistischer Ideen an. Viele hat die Taktik der Guerillakriege inspiriert: Es geht dann um Überraschungseffekte, Täuschungsmanöver und Desinformation, um Sabotage, Zweckentfremdung und Überidentifikation. Es finden sich Anleihen der Philosophie der Frankfurter Schule oder der französischen Existenzialisten wieder, auch die Avantgardebewegungen wie Dada, Surrealismus, Fluxus, Wiener Aktivisten, Provo, Situationistische Internationale spielen eine wichtige Rolle. Guy Debord und die Situationistische Internationale in Frankreich, die Gruppe SPUR, Joseph Beuys und Wolf Vostell in Deutschland, Brion Gysin und William S. Burroughs in den USA gehörten zu den wichtigsten Vertretern einer Gegenkultur, die den gesamten Kunstbegriff nachhaltig veränderten und die vor allem die Kunst mit dem alltäglichen Leben verbinden wollten. Und natürlich erkennt man bei neuen Werken auch Anleihen an die Menschenrechtsbewegungen, die Subkultur und Popkultur mit ihren Hippies, Rockern und Punkern, die Graffiti- und Skateboardszene und das gesamte Repertoire der Gegenkultur – von Culture Jamming, Agit-Prop bis Kommunikationsguerilla.
Die Grenzen zwischen politisch-revolutionärer und künstlerisch-avantgardistischer Kunst sind dabei fließend: Auch die politischen Protestformen scheinen sich der Kunst anzunähern. Aus den subversiven Techniken der situationistischen Zweckentfremdung entwickelte sich auch die Spaß- und Kommunikationsguerilla und heute realisieren auch politische Aktivisten zeitgenössische Interventionen im Stadtraum. Die Front Deutscher Äpfel parodiert die nationalsozialistische Ästhetik, um die Identifikationsmerkmale der rechten Szene zu zerstören, die Yes Men geben sich als Repräsentanten -internationaler Konzerne aus und betreiben mittels übertriebener Forderungen eine „Identitätskorrektur“, und das Netzkunst-Duo Ubermorgen.com führt „Experimente in globalen Kommunikationsräumen“ durch, lotet dabei Schwachstellen aus und infiltriert virtuelle Unternehmen. Die Gruppe Voina, russisch für Krieg, attackiert mit absurden Aktionen die russische Politik und Gesellschaft, kämpft gegen ein autoritäres Russland, gegen Korruption, Vetternwirtschaft, die Dominanz des Religiösen und gegen den übermächtigen Staat. Künstler wie Ruppe Koselleck platzieren eigene Fotografien direkt im Möbelhaus, und Antoine Lejolivet und Paul Souviron alias Encastrable bleiben gleich im Baumarkt, nutzen die Waren als Rohstoff und realisieren damit vor Ort temporäre Installationen. Marjetica Potrcˇ oder die Gruppe WochenKlausur geben konkrete Vorschläge zur Veränderung gesellschaftspolitischer Defizite und versuchen diese auch umzusetzen. Künstler wie Brad Downey, The Wa, Bronco, Ox oder Elfo bespielen mit Skulpturen und illegalen Interventionen den öffentlichen Raum. Ihre Arbeiten richtet sich gegen den Funktionalismus und für den Einschluss der Ausgeschlossenen. Der sogenannte öffentliche Raum ist in Wirklichkeit scheinöffentlich und spiegelt allein die -Realität der herrschenden Ideologie wieder. Diese demokratische Hegemonie basiert vor allem auf Konsens. Ein solcher Konsens bedeutet nach Jacques Rancière jedoch die Auslöschung des Politischen, da das Wesen der Politik den Diskurs, die streitbare Auseinandersetzung, braucht. Ohne Dissens also kein Gegenentwurf und ohne Gegenentwurf keine Vision und Utopie. Durch Street Art wird die Stadt selbst zum Kunstwerk, das frei gestaltet werden kann, und dient, ganz im Sinne der -Situationisten, als ein Laboratorium für spielerische Revolutionierung des Alltags. Die Straße wird zur Leinwand, zweckgebundene Stadtmöbel werden zweckentfremdet und jede Bushaltestelle, jede Sitzbank, jeder Pflasterstein ist ein nächstes, potenzielles Kunstwerk. Gerade die Theorien der Situationistischen Internationale bieten dieser neuen Szene eine fast unerschöpfliche Quelle an Inspiration. Schon damals wollten die Situationisten die Kunst aus den Museen in die Kneipen bringen, die Metroschächte für nächtliche Feiern öffnen und Abfahrtszeiten an den Bahnhöfen fälschen, um zufällige Begegnungen zu provozieren. Eine zentrale Theorie war dabei das Spiel. Denn Kultur entsteht durch Spiel – den Spaß daran und durch die daraus -entstehende Spannung. „Der Mensch ist nur da ganz Mensch, wo er spielt“, schrieb Friedrich Schiller. Und der niederländische Kulturhistoriker Johan Huizinga prägte 1938 den Begriff des „Homo ludens“, der spielende Mensch, der für diese Künstler so beschreibend ist. Das ziellose Umherschweifen („Dérive“) in der Stadt war für die Situationisten ein Spiel, bei dem man sich den zweckgerichteten Handlungen im urbanen Raum entziehen konnte. Der russische Künstler Ivan Chtcheglov schrieb 1953 darüber: „Es ist bekannt, dass ein Ort, je mehr er für die Freiheit des Spiels reserviert ist, desto mehr das Verhalten beeinflusst und Anziehungskraft hat.“ Und die größte Spielwiese der Welt ist momentan das Internet: Durch Blogs, soziale Netzwerke, Foto- und Videoplattformen haben starke symbolische Aktionen oder selbst kleine, temporäre Interventionen die Möglichkeit, weltweit ein Echo auszulösen und Sympathisanten zu finden. Durch diese Demokratisierung und „Amateurisierung“ von Information und Produktionsmitteln haben Staaten, Medien und Industrien an Macht und Autorität verloren, und es haben sich zahlreiche temporäre autonome Zonen gebildet.
Doch das Dilemma der politischen Kunst ist: Durch die Kommerzialisierung, Medialisierung und Globalisierung gehören alternative Wertesysteme, ob kritische Kunst, Jugendbewegungen oder Popkulturen, irgendwann zum kulturellen Mainstream und werden in die Ästhetik des Alltags integriert. Subkulturelle Gegenbewegungen werden so zu globalen Pop-Phänomenen, das revolutionäre Potential wird abgeschöpft und in neue Waren gegossen oder dient als Jungbrunnen für die alten Industrien. Zu jeder erfolgreichen Antihaltung wird es den passenden Händler geben, der weiß, wie man daraus Profit schlägt. Die rebellischen Anti-Helden werden zunächst bejubelt – und irgendwann vereinnahmt, ausgeschlachtet, wiederverwertet und vernichtet. Und natürlich ist politische Kunst auch noch immer oft Selbstinszenierung, Zeitgeistphänomen und ein Kassenschlager der Kunstgeschichte. Für viele junge Künstler ist Kunst so etwas wie der neue Rock‘n‘ Roll. Alleine der Wunsch, Künstler zu werden und das Leben eines Künstlers zu führen, sind bereits bewusste Gegenpositionen zur klassischen Gesellschaft. Und Künstler stilisierten sich schon immer gerne zu Rebellen, und Galeristen nutzen das Etikett zur Vermarktung, weil auch Sammler sich einen Hauch von revolutionären Schick ins Wohnzimmer hängen wollten. Jeder Unternehmer brüstet sich gerne mit besonders provokanten Werken, mit denen er auch gleich viel risikobereiter und energischer wirkt. Und so verkommt der revolutionäre Habitus dann oft auch zu einem Marketingtrick – denn je subversiver sich ein Künstler gibt und je mehr er die Kunst-Bourgeoisie beschimpft, desto inniger wird er von ihr geliebt. Banksy und Maurizio Cattelan sind darin wahre Experten. Und leider gipfelt die Mehrheit der Kunst, wie es der Künstler Artur .Zmijewski nennt, deshalb noch immer in einer „Überproduktion überflüssiger Objekte».
Der Unterschied zu früherer Politkunst ist, dass Kunst sich immer stärker verweigert, dekorierende Ornamente zu produzieren: Kunst möchte wie ein Virus das System infizieren, um es zu beschädigen oder zu verändern. Das infizierte System soll sich verändern: Es soll geheilt werden. Das heißt, die Kunst zielt auf eine tatsächliche Veränderung der Realität. Aber die Künstler in demokratischen Systemen verhalten sich wie Parasiten, die wissen, dass sie den Wirt nicht töten können, aber trotzdem mit Leidenschaft den Organismus attackieren, um ein wenig Chaos in die Ordnung zu bringen. Die Künstler haben dabei die Rolle des Hofnarren übernommen. Sie haben die absolute Freiheit, nur den König werden sie trotzdem niemals stürzen. Denn die Künstler haben akzeptiert, dass sie dem kapitalistischen System nicht entkommen können – deshalb operieren sie subversiv und ironisch innerhalb des Systems gegen das System. Den Künstlern ist bewusst, dass sie Teil der großen Vergnügungsmaschinerie sind und dass ihre Kunst selbst einen großen Unterhaltungswert hat. Das Spiel der rebellischen Künstler wird von den Mächtigen meist sogar toleriert – und vielleicht füttert es das System sogar. Ist politische Kunst also der Geist, der das Gute will und doch nur das Böse schafft? „Es ist eine Kunst, die funktional auftritt und dem anschwellenden Imperativ gehorcht, sich nutzbar und nützlich zu machen, indem sie einen gesellschaftlichen Mangel symbolisch kompensiert“, sagt der Künstler und Autor Hans-Christian Dany. „Eine bestimmte Kunst füllt jetzt entstandene Leerstellen und stabilisiert das Gefüge.
Die bestehenden Machtverhältnisse und der reibungslose Ablauf der Geschäfte bleiben davon unberührt.“
Aber das trifft nicht immer zu, denn: Entscheidend für politische Kunst bleibt aber vor allem der Kontext und die Konsequenz einer künstlerischen Praxis. Das Politische liegt nämlich erst in der Konsequenz, die ein Kunstwerk auslöst. Die Künstler, die trotz aller Zweifel und Hindernisse tagtäglich politisch motivierte Kunst schaffen, treibt eine Mischung aus Nostalgie und Sehnsucht an. Eine Nostalgie nach den nie persönlich erlebten revolutionären Bewegungen, die durch die Medien auch noch zunehmend verklärt werden, und eine Sehnsucht, an solchen Bewegungen teilzuhaben. Man möchte zumindest zu irgendetwas gehören. Es geht darum, dem Dasein einen Sinn zu geben. „Politische Kunst hat Zweifel, keine Gewissheiten; sie hat Absichten, keine Programme; sie teilt mit denen, die sie finden, und drängt nichts auf; sie definiert sich in dem Moment, in dem sie geschieht; sie ist eine Erfahrung, kein Bild; sie schreibt sich in das Feld der Emotionen ein und ist komplexer als eine Gedankeneinheit“, sagt die Künstlerin Tania Bruguera. „Politische Kunst ist die Kunst, die gemacht wird, wenn sie nicht in Mode ist und wenn es -unbequem ist, sie zu machen: juridisch unbequem, gesellschaftlich unbequem, menschlich unbequem.“ Die Kunst gibt dem Künstler Halt, erhält eine überirdisch-spirituelle Dimension und der Künstler bekämpft damit die Leere, Einsamkeit und Langeweile, er bekämpft den Alltag. Und der Wunsch nach Authentizität und Intensität ist ungebrochen. Künstler fordern wieder eine „höhere Qualität der Leidenschaft“ (Debord) und versuchen, außergewöhnliche Augenblicke zur Normalität werden zu lassen. Und natürlich ist die rebellische Geste, das Aufbegehren gegen die Obrigkeit und Machtstrukturen, gegen die subtile Herrschaft, auch romantisch. Diese Künstler beweisen: Es darf wieder geträumt und gewünscht werden! „In jeder Revolte entdeckt man die metaphysische Forderung nach Einheit, die Unmöglichkeit, ihrer habhaft zu werden, und die Herstellung eines anderes Universums. Die Revolte bringt Welten hervor. Das kennzeichnet auch die Kunst. Die Forderung der Revolte ist auch eine ästhetische“, sagte Albert Camus. Die zeitgenössischen politischen Künstler reflektieren nicht nur die Gegenwart, sondern denken die Zukunft. Jedem, dem die Macht zur realen Veränderung fehlt, kann solche gesellschaftliche Utopien denken. Und Utopien waren schon immer das Merkmal der künstlerischen Avantgarde.

Wiederabdruck
Dieser Text erschien zu erst in: Besand, Anja (Hrsg.): Politik trifft Kunst. Zum Verhältnis von politischer und kultureller Bildung, Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung, Bonn 2012, S. 83–92.

Die Beste Aller Parteien

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:36 +0000

JW: Sie sind Komponist und Trompeter; zusammen mit Björk, Siggi, Frikki und Bragi haben Sie die Band Sugarcubes gegründet, und Sie waren auch bei Purrkur Pillnikk und KUKL dabei. Außerdem haben Sie Sibirien, das erste Internetcafé in Reykja-vík, betrieben. Nach der isländischen Finanzkrise von 2008 haben Sie zusammen mit Freunden – Schauspielern, Pop-Stars und Freischaffenden der Kulturindustrie – eine politische Partei mit dem Namen Best Party 1 gegründet – die beste Partei. Ihr Image ist das eines Haufens von Spaßvögeln, die die isländische Politik aufmischen wollen. Während Ihrer Wahlkampagne haben Sie zum Beispiel vorgeschlagen, einen Eisbären für den städtischen Zoo zu erwerben, Gratis-Handtücher in den Schwimmbädern der Stadt zu verteilen und dafür zu sorgen, dass das Parlament bis 2020 drogenfrei sein würde. Mit über 34 Prozent waren Sie die stärkste Partei bei den Kommunalwahlen, trotzdem werden Sie häufig als die Falschen am richtigen Ort betrachtet.
EÖB: Wir unterscheiden uns auf jeden Fall von den -Leuten, die vor 2008 unsere Regierung führten und -unsere Banken und Finanzinstitute leiteten. Sie waren äußerst seriös und ebenso destruktiv. Sie glaubten an die Spekulationsblase und stürzten das Land in die größte Wirtschaftskrise seiner Geschichte. Wir sehen vielleicht wie Spaßvögel aus, aber das heißt nicht, dass wir uns nicht als realistischer erweisen können als
die sogenannten Politprofis. Warum sollte ein Schauspieler, Sänger oder Künstler keinen guten Politiker -abgeben? Sie werden abgelehnt, weil die Politik ein Image hat, das von einer Clique professioneller Politiker geprägt wurde, die sich äußerst exklusiv geben und damit völlig isolieren. Man will uns glauben machen, dass man, um Politik machen zu können, eine spezielle Sorte Mensch sein muss, besonders talentiert und mit mehr Verstand und sozialer Kompetenz ausgestattet sein muss als ein normaler Mensch. Dieses Politikverständnis hat mich daran gehindert, selbst Einfluss darauf zu nehmen, wie mein Land regiert wird. Man musste ein »richtiger Politiker« sein, um »richtige Politik« zu machen. Dadurch wurde die ganze Politik total langweilig. Politprofis sind immer gleich. Es ist ein -exklusiver, mit der Führung des Landes beauftragter Club. Der Finanzcrash von 2008 hat aber nicht nur das Bankensystem, sondern auch das politische System -erschüttert. Die Situation ist den Politikern über den Kopf gewachsen. Dabei wäre es ihre Aufgabe gewesen, den Finanzsektor zu kontrollieren oder den turbokapitalistischen Traum zu beobachten. Sie schauten aber nur tatenlos zu und haben die drohende Gefahr nicht gesehen.

Nach dem wirtschaftlichen Zusammenbruch erschien die Situation so ausweglos, dass jemand das ganze Land bei eBay zum Verkauf angeboten hat. Damals ist die Best Party auf der politischen Bühne erschienen, eine Spaßnummer, die jedoch die Wahrheit enthüllte.
Von dem bekannten Komiker und Satiriker Jón Gnarr inspiriert, haben wir zusammen mit ein paar Musikern, Schauspielern, Fernsehleuten, Künstlern und Freiberuflern die Best Party gegründet und traten als Gruppe auf der politischen Bühne auf. Bei den Kommunalwahlen von Reykjavík 2010 konnten wir eine Mehrheit von 34 Prozent erreichen, und Jón Gnarr wurde Bürgermeister. Es war ein Experiment, wir wollten sehen, ob die Stadt auch ohne Politexperten funktionierte. Für mich ist es eine Gelegenheit, Politik auf einer menschlicheren Ebene zu betreiben und nicht von einer durch Inzucht entstandenen Parteistruktur abhängig zu sein. Wir haben keine versteckte politische Agenda; wir denken an das allgemeine Wohl und unterlaufen normative Politik. Wir glauben, dass wir die politische Landschaft Islands verändern können, schließlich haben wir innerhalb kürzester Zeit extrem viele Stimmen zu einem sehr günstigen Zeitpunkt gewonnen, als nämlich die Menschen enttäuscht und wütend waren und mehr Transparenz forderten. Es gibt aber auch viele, die uns nicht mögen und lautstark verkünden, wir seien inkompetent und untragbar, einfach nur Künstler und Popstars, die von nachhaltiger Politik keine Ahnung hätten. Unser Image ist das von Erlösern, Karnevalisten und Dilettanten. Wir spielen die traditionelle Rolle von Künstlern, aber von involvierten Künstlern. Künstler oder -Musiker werden oft als Vermittler zwischen dem politischen und gesellschaftlichen Bereich betrachtet, als Verteidiger einer guten Sache. Häufig konfrontieren sie die Gesellschaft mit dem, was tatsächlich abläuft und was es zu bedeuten hat. Sie setzen die politische Botschaft um und hinterfragen sie. Sie stellen Fragen und kritisieren die Politiker. Ähnlich wie sie haben wir als Künstler und bekannte Persönlichkeiten aus Kultur und Unterhaltung unser Engagement institutionalisiert, um eine Plattform für neue Möglichkeiten zu schaffen. Politik sollte Menschen ansprechen und motivieren, Stellung zu beziehen, ihre Meinung zu sagen.

Haben Sie vor dem Kollaps auch an den isländischen Traum geglaubt?
Vor 2008 haben die meisten aktiv an diesem Traum mitgewirkt. Doch unsere wirtschaftlichen Kenntnisse reichten nicht aus, um der Finanzfalle zu entgehen. Wir sind nicht so unschuldig, wie wir aussehen. Wir haben das Unsrige zu diesem Traum vom großen Geld und gewinnträchtiger Spekulation beigetragen und versuchen jetzt, den Karren aus dem Dreck zu ziehen.

Island gilt als ein ziemlich progressives und eigenständiges Land mit sehr wachen Bürgern.
Wie all die anderen nordischen Länder hat auch Island im 20. Jahrhundert tiefgreifende Transformationen erlebt. In den 1960er- und 1980er-Jahren florierte unsere Wirtschaft, und damals wurde auch ein soziales Sicherungssystem aufgebaut. Doch in den 1990ern änderte sich das. Wir glaubten, wir könnten mehr Geld machen, wenn wir uns auf Spekulieren verlegten, statt unsere Fisch-industrie zu entwickeln, mehr noch als die Wallstreet-Typen, die darin Weltmeister waren. Die Leute gaben ihre Arbeit in Industrien wie der Fischerei oder dem Transportwesen auf und verschrieben sich dem Traum vom schnellen Geld und dem Kreditmarkt. Viele hatten wirklich keine Ahnung, was Wirtschaft betraf. Ich kenne ein paar Leute, die jeden Monat eine Million Dollar scheffelten. Und nur die Wenigsten wussten, dass das ein böses Ende nehmen könnte. Auf sie hat aber niemand gehört.
Wie sähe die Situation aus, wenn es nicht zum -Kollaps gekommen wäre? Würde es einen postdemokratischen Konsens anstelle von Pluralismus geben?
Island hätte wahrscheinlich eine glückliche Elite von Multimillionären, die die Medien und die Politik kontrollierten. Die Leute waren berauscht von dem Erfolg, den das Land für sich verbuchte, und wir haben alle mitgemacht. Nach dem Kollaps wurde man dann sehr viel kritischer und skeptischer. Heute plädieren dieselben Leute, denen es früher nur um Profite ging, für wirtschaftliche Chancengleichheit.

Ein isländischer Kurator sagte: »Sie sind der reinste Segen für uns.« Eine solche Erklärung überrascht die Kunstszene, die sich normalerweise von der Politik übergangen fühlt. Sie scheinen etwas in die Politik einzubringen, was man »emotionales Kapital« nennen könnte.
Wir müssen beweisen, dass wir als Bürger in der Lage sind, Politik zu machen. Aber das System wird alle nur möglichen Hindernisse in den Weg legen, da es die Macht nicht abgeben will. Wenn sich ein ganz normaler Bürger in die Politik wagt, wird das System ihn schnell wieder hinausbefördern, weil er kein Politprofi ist, auch wenn er gute Arbeit leistet. Er folgt nicht den Regeln, die die sogenannte Politik ausmachen: Er sagt offen seine Meinung, er vernichtet seine Gegner nicht, für ihn zählen die Bedürfnisse der Menschen, und er stellt die Hierarchie nicht über alles und so weiter. Tatsache ist, dass wir solche Leute brauchen und Politik deshalb auch für jeden offen sein sollte. Am besten wäre es, überhaupt kein System zu haben, sondern eine gut funktionierende Anarchie, die sich selbst genügt, in der sich jeder um den anderen kümmert und alle bekommen, was sie wollen. Die Best Party unterscheidet nicht zwischen einem ästhetischen, von einem Kunstwerk inspirierten Experiment und einer politischen Aktion. Es ist dasselbe. Es berührt einen. Man macht sich Gedanken. Man nimmt sich und seine Umgebung wahr. Politik war nicht mehr für die Menschen da, gesunde Gefühle wie Solidarität und Aufrichtigkeit waren nicht mehr gefragt, ebenso wenig wie Fehler zu machen und sie zuzugeben. Wenn sich ein Politiker von der menschlichen Seite zeigt und wie ein normaler Mensch reagiert, sind die Leute richtig beeindruckt, ja schockiert. Und wenn man in der Politik Leuten begegnet, die normal sprechen und gleichzeitig Künstler, Schauspieler oder Musiker sind, so ist das sexy und eine richtige Offenbarung. Es ist intelligent und glamourös, offen und kritisch. So wie es sein soll. Jón Gnarr wurde gebeten, ein deutsches Marineschiff im Hafen von Reykjavík zu begrüßen. Er ist nicht hingegangen, hat aber eine Rede gehalten und erklärt, er sei Pazifist und gegen jede militärische Präsenz in einem neutralen Land. Ist das ein diplomatischer Faux-pas? Hat er keine Ahnung von Politik? Man kann es gut finden oder auch nicht, jedenfalls wird man seine politischen Aktionen nicht gleichgültig hinnehmen können. Und das zählt. Die Operation wurde als zweifelhaft sabotiert – man weiß auch nie genau, was ernst gemeint ist und was nicht. Eine kleine Parodie des politischen Systems dient als Warnung.
Wir sollten uns das Leben so einrichten, dass wir uns darin wohlfühlen.

Das klingt sehr schön.
Die Best Party ist eine Antwort auf einen gewissen Status quo. Lange Zeit waren Künstler einfach nur diejenigen, die Denkanstöße gaben und die Probleme der -Menschen in ihrer Kunst ausgedrückt haben. Wenn sie einen weiteren Schritt tun und in die Politik gehen, -setzen sie ihren eigenen Widerstand in die Tat um; sie geben politischen Konzepten eine menschliche Dimension, sie arbeiten gegen ein platt machendes System.
Mit seinen Künstlern in der Politik kann Island als eine Art Experiment gelten. Dreihunderttausend Menschen auf einer kleinen Insel bilden einen Mikrokosmos für sich. Was hier in kleinem Maßstab geschieht, spiegelt wider, was in einem größeren Maßstab in einer Welt von unterschiedlichen Interessen und Einflüssen geschieht. Island liegt auf halbem Weg zwischen Europa und den USA.

Sie sind Musiker. Ihr Wahlsong war ein Remix von Tina Turners Simply the Best.
Pop ist ein Mittel zum Zweck, ein ziemlich unwiderstehliches. Wir haben mit 19 Prozent der Stimmen in der Stadt angefangen, was absolut erstaunlich ist für eine Bewegung, die sich auf Punk zurückführen lässt. Ich bin der Zweitälteste in der Best Party und war selbst ein Punk. In die Politik zu gehen, hat für mich viel mit der Do-it-yourself- Moral dieser Musik zu tun. Ehrlich gesagt, ist es schon ein gewisses Dilemma für uns, da wir es nicht wirklich geplant hatten. Wir haben einfach nur auf die Situation hier reagiert. Wir haben jetzt sechs von fünfzehn Sitzen in der Stadtverwaltung, und wir sind uns unserer Verantwortung bewusst. Und wir können auch mit Kritik umgehen.

Antanas Mockus, ehemaliger Bürgermeister von Bogotá, war einfach zu aufrichtig für einen Politiker. Er legte seine Karten auf den Tisch und sagte, er würde nicht für alles eine Lösung haben, und hat schließlich verloren. Anscheinend ziehen die Menschen einen Lügner vor. Gehört Ihre Partei zu den Aufrichtigen?
Wir sind dabei zu lernen, learning by doing sozusagen. Gemeinsam versuchen wir, ein Problem oder eine Aufgabe zu bewältigen. Wir haben keine festen Verhaltensmuster, von denen sich ableiten lässt, was wir als nächstes tun. Von unserem Bürgermeister Jón Gnarr lässt sich das ebenso wenig sagen. Als Profischauspieler hält er
in den unterschiedlichsten Zusammenhängen seine Reden, und er glaubt daran, dass aus Worten Taten werden, dass sich mit Worten viel erreichen lässt. Eine Modenschau hat er mit einer Rede über Hunger, Armut und Schönheit eröffnet. Und er hat sich das Symbol der Stadt Reykjavík auf den Arm tätowieren lassen. So lässt sich mit Kunst Politik machen. Was immer er beschließt, wir sind bereit.

Sie sind für den Sektor Kultur und Tourismus zuständig. Was werden Sie für die isländischen Freischaffenden tun?
Wir wollen alles, was kreativ und gut ist, unterstützen, ohne darüber zu urteilen. Das frühere Kulturamt hat eine Agenda mit Programmen für unterprivilegierte Gruppen oder Minoritäten ins Leben gerufen. Dieses Geld wollen wir für gute Projekte, die weitergeführt werden sollen, verwenden. Wir unterstützen das Kino Bió Paradis, eine Art Schirmprojekt für isländische Filmemacher. Wir haben eine Tanzfabrik eröffnet, wo sich Choreografen betätigen können. Wir setzen uns für Künstlerkollektive ein, ohne zu selektieren oder Vorschriften zu machen. Wir nehmen die Dinge, wie sie sind. Reykjavík hat eine Künstlervereinigung, und man kann einmal im Jahr ein Projekt einreichen. Die Vereinigung entscheidet, wer das Geld bekommt. Nicht die Politiker sind zuständig, sondern die Künstler selbst. Wir segnen es nur ab. Isländische Kultur ist eines unser wertvollsten Güter, und wir verteidigen sie, so wie sie ist. Leider gibt es für weitere Abenteuer kein Geld.

Allein aufgrund seiner Größe ist Island eine Art politischer Versuchsanordnung. Wenn Sie sich -andere europäische Länder anschauen, denken Sie, dass ein Phänomen wie die Best Party auch dort -Erfolg haben könnte?
Die Iren wollten die Best Party in Dublin einführen, aber sie waren pessimistisch, ob das in ihrem Kontext funktionieren kann. Sie fragten uns, was sie machen können, um die Leute optimistischer zu stimmen. Jón Gnarr und ich gingen während der diesjährigen Wahlen nach Dublin, wo eine Gruppe von Künstlern eine Pseudo-Kampagne für Kandidaten organisierte, die gar nicht existierten. Ich sagte den Iren, dass sie bereits etwas Neues auf den Weg gebracht hätten, indem sie eine Partei gründeten, die es als solche gar nicht gibt. Sie auftreten lassen. Jón hätte das mit der Best Party auch so gemacht. Wichtig sei, das System herauszufordern. Ein Konzept wie das der Best Party kann in jedem Land Erfolg haben, die Leute müssen nur dahinter stehen. Vor allem darf man aber keine Angst haben, gegen das Establishment anzutreten.

Ich wollte herausfinden, was über die Best Party geschrieben wurde. Das Material bestand zum größten Teil aus herablassenden Witzen über Ihre Politik. Das Image ignoranter Optimisten reduziert Ihre Aktionen häufig zu Anekdoten.
Ich mache keine Witze, wenn ich interviewt werde. Ich verfolge eine bestimmte Politik. Ich bin bodenständig, ich stelle mich den Fragen und versuche, eine Antwort zu finden. Jón und ich haben eine Reihe sehr ernsthafter Interviews gegeben. Und alle vier politischen Parteien Islands waren sauer. Wir sagten, die Politiker würden sich gegenseitig fertigmachen, das wäre kein gesunder Wettbewerb. Die Sozialdemokraten, unsere Partner, meinten, das sei nicht fair. Aber es ist fair. Das bringt uns zurück auf die Frage von Künstlern, die sich in der Politik betätigen. Künstler können in der Politik absolut aufrichtig sein. Ich bin aufrichtig, wenn ich etwas sage. Wenn ich nicht verstehe, was die Politiker sagen, weil sie »im Namen des Systems« sprechen, melde ich meinen Widerspruch an. Statt mir eine ehrliche Antwort zu geben, werden sie ausfällig. Mit konstanter Bosheit nennen sie die Best Party die »Boy’s Party«, weil weniger Frauen drin sind. Und sie nennen Jón einen Gangster. Doch sie vergessen, dass die Finanzkrise in einem Sektor begonnen hat, wo es viel zu viele Männer gab, wo Testosteron der Treibstoff war.

Woher kommt Ihre politische Kompetenz?
Wir sind Politiker aufgrund unserer Lebenserfahrung. Viele der Politprofis gehen sofort nach der Universität in die Politik. Sie haben keine Ahnung, wie man einen Film dreht oder ein Buch schreibt, eine Plattenaufnahme macht oder ein Taxi fährt, ein Haus baut oder sich in einer Band behauptet. Unglücklicherweise haben sie nie diese wichtigen Erfahrungen gemacht. Wir schon.

Sind Sie nach einem Jahr nicht völlig ausgepowert? Denken Sie nicht ab und zu daran, doch lieber wieder Musik zu machen?
Man hat keine Mühe gescheut, um uns zum Aufgeben zu zwingen. Um uns die Sache so schwer wie möglich zu machen. Um die Atmosphäre zu vergiften. Daran habe ich mich gewöhnt. Und eigentlich habe ich auch damit gerechnet. Wenn ich jetzt aufgeben würde, könnte ich mir das nie verzeihen. Wer außer mir würde die Drecksarbeit machen? Wir haben ein menschliches Gesicht und intuitive Strategien. Wir sind eine Gruppe von Künstlern und Nicht-Künstlern, die sich angesichts des Defätismus und der Verzweiflung, die in Island und mehr und mehr auch in Europa überhand nehmen, spontan zusammentaten. Wir haben unsere Überzeugungen. Viele Leute fragen uns um Rat. Aber es gibt keine rationale Erklärung für unseren Erfolg.

In der isländischen Verfassung steht, dass jeder Bürger Präsident werden kann. Und wir setzen diesen Text in die Tat um. Die Best Party fordert:
1. Die Haushalte unseres Landes müssen unterstützt werden. Familie ist die beste Erfindung unserer Gesellschaft. Regierungen müssen den Bedürfnissen und Forderungen der Haushalte Rechnung tragen. Die Haushalte hier müssen von einem eisernen Schild umgeben werden. Für isländische Haushalte ist das Beste gerade gut genug.
2. Die Lebensqualität der weniger Privilegierten muss verbessert werden. Wir wollen für euch alles tun, was in unserer Macht steht, und euch eine kostenlose Nutzung der öffentlichen Verkehrsmittel und der Schwimm-bäder anbieten, damit ihr euch frei in Reykjavík bewegen könnt und immer frisch gewaschen seid, auch wenn ihr kein Geld habt oder unter irgendwelchen Handicaps leidet.
3. Schluss mit der Korruption. Wir versprechen, dass es damit ein Ende haben wird. Wir werden das erreichen, indem wir mit offenen Karten mitspielen.
4. Gleichheit. Jeder Mensch verdient das Beste, unabhängig davon, wer er ist und woher er kommt. Und wir wollen unser Bestes tun, damit jeder in dem besten Team mitspielen kann.
5. Mehr Transparenz: Am besten ist, wenn alles auf dem Tisch liegt, dann wissen die Leute, was Sache ist. Wir möchten das auf jeden Fall unterstützen.
6. Eine Demokratie, die funktioniert: Demokratie ist ja gut und schön, aber eine funktionierende Demokratie ist noch besser. Dafür treten wir ein.
7. Alle Schulden erlassen: Wir hören auf die Nation und richten uns nach ihren Wünschen, denn die Nation muss schließlich wissen, was für sie am besten ist.
8. Kostenlose Nutzung von städtischen Bussen für Studierende und Krüppel. Wir können mehr kostenlose Dinge versprechen als jede andere Partei, weil wir genau wissen, dass wir unsere Versprechen nicht halten werden. Also können wir versprechen, was wir wollen. Zum Beispiel Freiflüge für Frauen oder kostenlose Autos für Leute, die in ländlichen Regionen leben. Was auch immer.
9. Kostenlose zahnärztliche Behandlung für Kinder
und Behinderte. Das hat es bislang noch nicht gegeben, und wir wollen auf jeden Fall auch diese Versprechung machen.
10. Freier Zugang zu Schwimmbädern und Gratis-Handtücher für alle: Das muss eigentlich auch allen imponieren – auf dieses Wahlversprechen sind wir besonders stolz.
11. Diejenigen, die für den Wirtschaftskollaps verantwortlich sind, sollen sich vor Gericht verantworten.
Wir hatten das Gefühl, das dürfte nicht fehlen.
12. Völlige Gleichstellung der Geschlechter.
13. Frauen und alte Leute sollen mehr Gehör finden. Man hört ihnen einfach nicht richtig zu. Als würden alle denken, sie würden sich doch nur beklagen. Wir wollen das ändern. Siehe: http//en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Best_Party (Zugriff am 13.12.2011).

Aus dem Englischen von Uta Goridis

Dieses Gespräch erschien anlässlich der Publikation „Forget Fear“ der
7. Berlin Biennale für zeitgenössische Kunst (27. April – 1. Juli 2012), hrsg. von Artur .Zmijewski und Joanna Warsza, Köln 2012, S. 276–281.

D. D. I. Y. Don’t Do It Yourself

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:35 +0000

D.I.Y. has been stolen, and we haven’t even seemed to notice. A plague veiled in the ideal of empowerment is sweeping our nation, leaving in its wake neighborhoods scarred by crappy home improvement, families destroyed by badly cooked gourmet meals, and scores and heaps of barely used tools, leftover supplies, and unfinished projects. This particular affliction goes by the familiar initials D.I.Y., which stands for “Do It Yourself”. The idea is rooted in positivity, but the reality is sinister.
Those corporations who promote D.I.Y. have co-opted our spirited movement by the same name, transforming an idealistic, anti-consuming, proindependent, pro-active ethos into an opportunity to shop. Stealing D.I.Y. from zines, communes, artists, and denizens of the avant-garde underworld, the new corporatized D.I.Y movement attempts to make the individual feel as though they are in control of their lives and environment in a disparate, disconnected world. They flatter us, making us understand that we can indeed make and do anything as well as a professional. Their trickery makes us feel special, talented, smart, good-looking. We have fine taste and the ability to master anything. We have latent skills yearning to be released. We are underachievers, and by buying and consuming more and more how-to books, kits, lumber, tile, yarn, drywall, and specialty tools, we will unleash our inner artisans.
D.I.Y. used to mean grabbing the best TIG welder and starting one’s own revolution through words and actions. Now it means going into debt at mega-stores, consuming more and more materials manufactured overseas, raping the earth, destroying forests, creating garbage, and mucking up our lives with badly fixed toilets, leaking tile floors, ill-fitting sweaters, bowing floorboards, crooked walls, and ugly mosaics. We are bankrupting competent carpenters. We are destroying the careers of electricians and hvac crews.

Our D.I.Y. travesties of home improvement leave us with closets full of under-used tools and sheds full of extra wood and steel wool and toxic chemicals and mastic and caulk. These closets don’t really even shut correctly; our hinges aren’t straight and we brashly scrape the undersides of our doors with a plane, hoping that two crookeds will combine into one straight. If you want to build your a walk-in closet, you may contact a Custom Closet Company and hire experts to install custom cabinets and shelves.

Our D.I.Y. adventures in making our own clothes, clutter our homes with extra fabric, yarn, and sewing supplies. The clothes we manufacture are good for a couple times out and about, but our learning curve is steep and the seams don’t always stay together. Our D.I.Y. exuberance for cooking unfamiliar cuisines fills our cabinets with jars of exotic spices, specialized contraptions, bamboo steamers, Moroccan tagines, the requisite fondue set; all items that will flood thrift stores shortly after whichever particular cooking trend is succeeded by the next. Guests to our homes smile and swallow appreciatively; does this really mean our cooking adventures are successful? We are constantly experimenting with something new, with no time to perfect anything before our next project looms on the horizon, bringing with it a new supply of gadgets and raw materials.
The trickery of advertisers makes us feel like human beings, while in reality we are, in the minds of the global mega-companies who have us all on a short leash, slavish consumers. D.I.Y. has become just another tactic to rip away our humanity, turning us into operators of cash machines and credit cards. We exist to be rippedoff and profited from. D.I.Y. panders to our beliefs, while at the same time ripping us a new asshole and sending our hard earned money straight to hell. We are stewing in our own fat. Our utopia is on layaway, with an option for 1.5 % cash back if we sign up for the right credit card. We have become hungry monsters, drooling to take back production for ourselves, whatever the cost. Our ethos has been gift wrapped and sold back to us. Our revolution has been pilfered.
We can and must stop this madness once and for all.
“Don’t Do It Yourself” is our new battle cry. D.D.I.Y. means working with friends, hiring a professional, consuming wisely and conscientiously, and providing for ourselves while working with others. We do what we do best, do what we know how to do, while allowing others to help us with what we are not equipped for. D.D.I.Y. allows us to admit that we might not be able to do everything ourselves, that we can’t be a specialist in all
fields. D.D.I.Y. says we don’t need to purchase all the tools necessary for a minor repair, especially when our neighbor has a toolbox covered in cobwebs in the back shed. It is pointless for us to learn electrical wiring in order to fix one chandelier; we don’t need to invest in a table saw to build a birdhouse. Our new ethos of D.D.I.Y. asks us to reclaim creativity in order to retreat from the corporate food chain and to embrace frugality, common sense, common property, and skill-sharing.
D.D.I.Y. compels us to invest in people instead of material. We must understand that expert wisdom exists, and that it cannot be learned overnight or from the Idiot’s Guide or For Dummies series of how-to books. Employ those who know what they are doing. Imagine a world where everyone has mountains of supplies but no idea how to use them – not pretty. Employment need not always entail a monetary exchange (though sometimes there is no choice). D.D.I.Y. contests that we all have something to offer, no matter how modest, and that our skills can be swapped for those of others. D.D.I.Y. asks us to bake bread in trade for having a friend rototil our garden or to knit a hat for the person who fixes our bicycle. If we cannot bake or knit, perhaps we can build a website,
provide childcare, walk a dog, dig a ditch, run an errand.
D.D.I.Y. is the new D.I.Y. It is un-commoditized, barterbased, community crazed, and liberating. D.D.I.Y. asks us to ask ourselves if we want to spend our time learning plumbing basics while the plumber next door now
spends many of her working hours undoing the mistakes made by amateurs. D.D.I.Y. asks us to support those who know how to do things, so that their crafts may survive. D.D.I.Y. encourages freedom, creativity, earth-consciousness and skill-sharing. The days of Do-It-Yourself are over. In the face of the corporatized takeover of our uprising against globalized consumer culture, we once again must transform our ideologies and rectify the injustices brought against humanity in the name our former revolution. Don’t-Do-It-Yourself finds us standing side by side, leaving behind the “army of one” while moving forward into a world of our own design.

Wiederabdruck
Der Text erschien zuerst in: Lisa Anne Auerbach, d. d. i. y. Don’t Do It Yourself, Journal of Aesthetics and Protest, Theory in Three Acts, issue 6, November 2008. Und online im Internet: http://www.journalofaestheticsandprotest.org/6/lovetowe/lisa.html [10.02.2013].