Erzählung – what's next?

Visuelle Anschlüsse

admin — Mon, 05 Jan 2015 13:17:04 +0000

Mit der veränderten Medienkultur geht eine zunehmende Aktualität und Relevanz der Bilder für unser Leben einher. Was daran für die Kunstpädagogik zukünftig interessant sein könnte, ist vor allem die Frage, wie durch Bilder etwas anders organisiert wird und wie damit auch anders gedacht werden kann, als z. B. durch Sprache. Dies jedenfalls legen neue Studiengänge, wie z. B. „Visuelle Publizistik“ an der Hochschule für Angewandte Wissenschaften in Hamburg nahe. Neu ist daran nicht nur die visuelle Grundierung des Publizierens, sondern damit verwoben scheint ein anderes Verständnis für die Funktion der Bilder im Plural auf. Dies verschiebt auch den Gegenstand der Kunstpädagogik. Das Sichtbare und die Einzelbilder, die immer noch im Vordergrund kunstpädagogischer Studien und vermutlich auch der Lehre stehen, sollten sich m. E. stärker der Verkettung der Bilder widmen.
Das Spektrum dessen, wie man visuelle Anschlüsse und deren Grenzen zeigen und thematisieren kann, reicht von Graphic Novels über Filme bis hin zur Datenverknüpfung in Kartographien oder in den medialen Übersetzungsschritten der Bildtechnologien, wie die Ausstellung „Maschinensehen“ im ZKM kürzlich zeigte.¹ Während es für textuelle Weisen der Verkettung komplexe Narratologien gibt, scheinen die visuellen Verknüpfungen und Fortsetzungsformate noch relativ -unerforscht. Das hängt damit zusammen, dass der Bildbegriff, gedacht als Bewegungs-Bild und als Zeit-Bild, wie ihn schon Deleuze in den Kinobüchern herausstellte², kaum in seiner Tragweite für die Kunstpäda-gogik thematisiert wurde. Was bedeutet es also, Bildlichkeit als Kontinuum zu denken? Welche Formate der visuellen Kontinuierbarkeit gibt es? Wie unterscheiden sich visuelle von akustischen oder textuellen Übergängen? Wie erkennen wir, dass ein Bild Teil einer Bildsequenz ist oder als Einzelbild fungiert? Wie kann man den Verweischarakter der bewegten Bilder, ihre Sukzessivität und ihre temporäre wie objekthafte Instabilität zeigen?
Mit diesen Fragen wird deutlich, dass wir gerade die Anschlüsse und Verkettungen nicht einfach so beobachten können. Werden sie bei der Bildserie oder im Film noch durch Kadrierung, Montage, Perspektivwechsel, Einstellung etc. zumindest implizit mitgezeigt (sofern es sich um eine mimetische Repräsentationsfolge handelt) und kann man sie daher durch einen Bildvergleich von vorher und nachher rekonstruieren, verkompliziert sich die Sichtbarmachung bei technologischen Verknüpfungen zusehends: „Die bildgebenden Technologien bewegen sich nicht jenseits mimetischer Repräsentation, sie erweitern diese durch in den Bereich der Maschinenprozesse. […; AS] Die Veränderungen sind von planetarischem Ausmaß […]“³Das Ausmaß der Veränderungen bezieht sich auch auf zeitliche und konstituierende Verhältnisse von Bildern und ihrer Referenz. Im Bildkontinuum wird nicht nur etwas gezeigt, was es als Gegenstand schon vorher gab. Vielmehr kann das Bildkontinuum jederzeit kippen in einen Status des entwerfenden Bildes, eines -Vorbildes, das umgekehrt auf die Welt und das Subjekt einwirkt. Nach Didi-Huberman ist es vor allem diese „vorübergehende, gewagte, symptomale Fähigkeit, Erscheinung zu werden“, die das Bild als virtuelles Kontinuum charakterisiert.⁴Im Kontext der bildgebenden Technologien wird genau dieser Entwurfscharakter bewusst eingesetzt. Nach Anselm Franke haben wir es „vielmehr mit Messdaten zu tun […; AS], denen Pixel entsprechen, die wiederum zu einer Art Vorbild für Interventionen werden können.“⁵ Daraus ergibt sich eine performative Funktion des Visuellen, nämlich, dass sich ein „Untersuchungsgegenstand erst über Bildhaftes konstituiert.“⁶ Die Organisation einer Bildsequenz oder eines Filmes richtet also nicht nur wahrnehmende Subjekte aus, sie generiert auch neuartige Prozesse des Sichtbarwerdens und, damit verbunden, des Entstehens von etwas Neuem. Dabei wird der Überschlag von Sichtbarkeit, -Unsichtbarkeit und Virtualität, bzw. zum Imaginären zukünftig ein interessantes Forschungs- und Lehrfeld darstellen.
Der Wandel der Bildfunktionen – vom Einzelbild als Abbild über das Bild als Repräsentation bis hin zum Bild im Plural als temporäre Umwandlungsstelle für konstituierende, affirmative, antithetische, komplementäre Verknüpfungen von Vor- und Nachbildern, prägt aber nicht nur unsere Wahrnehmung , sondern weist zudem eine politische Dimension auf. Dies zeigt Seemann am gesellschaftlichen Kontrollverlust gegenüber der Datentransparenz: „Wenn wir ein Foto posten, einen Tweet absetzen, in ein Hotel einchecken oder uns einfach nur im Raum bewegen, wissen wir nicht, was morgen schon aus diesen Daten herauslesbar ist. Daten haben die Eigenschaft, verknüpfbar zu sein, und sie sind es morgen viel mehr noch als heute.“⁷In der Kunst spielen medienspezifische Fragen der Datenverknüpfung, d. h. hier der Bildverkettung und Bildkontinuierung, schon lange eine Rolle. In den Sozial- und Erziehungswissenschaften werden diese Fragen u. a. in methodischen Auseinandersetzungen zur Videographie deutlich. Aber es bedarf m. E. eines interdisziplinären Zusammenhangs welcher die Verknüpfungslogiken im Zwischenreich von Darstellung und Wirkung untersucht und nach den Bedeutungen für die Zukunft fragt. Dazu haben wir in Hamburg eine Ringvorlesung gehalten und im Diskurs mit Kollegen Konturen eines Forschungsfeldes „Visuelle Bildung“ (siehe FuL-Blog) skizziert.
Inwiefern dem Bildkontinuum und der Bildverkettung innerhalb der Daten eine spezifische Rolle zukommt, um diverse Daten und medialen Ordnungen zu verschränken und zu organisieren, ist nicht nur eine kunstpädagogische Frage. Aber in Anbetracht der immensen Relevanz sollten visuelle Anschlüsse auch ein Thema der Kunstpädagogik werden: „Angesichts des heutigen Verbreitungsgrads global standardisierter, -digitaler Bildtechnologie könnte sich erweisen, dass -Bilder nicht nur einzelne Teile einer Kette sind, sondern Bildlichkeit zunehmend die kontinuierliche Infrastruktur für Wissensgenese schlechthin ausmacht“.⁸ Damit würden visuelle Anschlüsse auch ein Thema der gesellschaftlichen Teilhabe.

1.) Anselm Franke, Felix Mittelberger, Sebastian Pelz und Margit Rosen (Hg.), Maschinensehen. Feldforschung in den Räumen bildgebender Technologien. Katalog zur gleichnamigen Ausstellung im ZKM Karlsruhe vom 2. März – 19. Mai 2013.
2.) Vgl. Gilles Deleuze, Das Bewegungsbild. Kino1. Frankfurt/M 1997.
3.) Anselm Franke et al., 2013, a. a. O., S. 17–27, hier S. 19.
4.) Georges Didi-Huberman, Vor einem Bild. München 2000, S. 197.
5.) Ebd.
6.) Inge Hinterwaldner, „Zur Operativität eLABORierter Wissenschaftsbilder“, in: Anselm Franke et al., a. a. O., S. 51–61, hier S. 59.
7.) Michael Seemann, „Das neue Spiel: Prism vs. Kontrollverlust“, in: Johannes M. Hedinger, Torsten Meyer (Hg.), What’s Next? Kunst nach der Krise, Berlin 2013, S. 519–523, hier S. 522.
8.) Margarete Pratschke, „Das Bild als Killer-App“, in: Anselm Franke et al., a. a. O., S. 63–74, hier S. 74.

Middle Class Hero: The True Revolutionary is Guided by Great Feelings of Love. Konzeptuelles Erzählen als Herausforderung für die Next Art Education

admin — Mon, 05 Jan 2015 13:16:39 +0000

Social Surrealism
Mit seiner Arbeit „English Magic“ im Britischen Pavillon auf der Biennale 2013 kredenzt uns Jeremy Deller ein giftiges Bonbon. Der middleclass hero hat präzise ausgewählte Zeichen und Versatzstücke britischer Klasse, Gesinnung oder sozialer Mythen zusammengetragen; er arrangiert sie in fantastischen Collagen und lässt zeitliche Kontexte aufeinanderprallen. Deller¹ selbst hat seine Arbeitsweise als „Social Surrealism“ bezeichnet – ein Surrealismus, der einerseits verfremdet, andererseits aber durch eine mediale bricolage neue Erzählungen vom Englisch-Sein hervorbringt (und so nebenbei grundsätzliche Konstruktionsprinzipien von nationaler Identität und Tradition offenlegt²).
Zentral für Dellers Arbeit im Britischen Pavillon sind drei monumentale Wandmalereien. Da ist zunächst, vis-à-vis des mittigen Eingangs, ein überdimensionierter hen harrier, ein Greifvogel, der auf den Betrachter zufliegt. Er hat sich gerade einen roten Range Rover gegriffen; die Scheiben sind zerborsten, jetzt naht er mit ausgebreiteten Schwingen, sein Argusauge auf den eintretenden Besucher gerichtet. Dieser mythologisch überhöhte, vom Aussterben bedrohte Vogel und der Range Rover werden später in einem Film erneut sichtbar werden, dessen Sound den gesamten Pavillon durchdringt. Gleich gegenüber berichtet eine zweite Wandmalerei von einem Szenario aus dem Jahr 2017, als St. Helier, die Hauptstadt der britischen Steueroase Jersey, bei einem Protest der britischen Steuerzahler in nicht allzu ferner Zukunft in Schutt und Asche gelegt worden sein wird. Als vorweggenommene Relikte der eskalierten Demonstration flankieren zwei Flaggen das Gemälde, die sich auf den zweiten Blick als diagrammatische Schaubilder für Steuerhinterziehung entpuppen.
Auf dem dritten Wandgemälde findet sich William Morris, der als Gott Poseidon mit mächtiger Geste die Yacht des russischen Milliardärs Roman Abramovich in die venezianische Lagune schmettert: Die Yacht eines der Profiteure der Privatisierung kommunistischen Besitzstandes versperrte während der letzten Biennale den Fußgängern auf der Promenade Via Giuseppe Garibaldi vor den Giardini den Blick. Nun wird Morris, bekannt als Vertreter sozialistisch kommunistischer Gesinnung, als wiederkehrender Gott und Rächer des Unrechts am Gemeinwohl und der kapitalistischen Gier heraufbeschworen. Diese drei großen Wandbilder etablieren Grundmotive von Wut, Zerstörung und Hoffnung, wie sie aus Märchen der Popkultur vertraut sind – verorten diese aber in sehr sozialen, und surrealisierten Kontexten.

English Magic
Neben diesen Grundmotiven werden die Räume durch das Prinzip von zeitlich-räumlichen Gegenüberstellungen miteinander verzahnt: Fotos von David Bowies Ziggy-Stardust-Tour 1972 neben den damaligen sozialpolitischen Ereignissen im Königreich, Zeichnungen von straffällig gewordenen ehemaligen Soldaten in Afghanistan und dem Irak, die englische Politiker und Kriegsverantwortliche des Jahres 2007 porträtieren. Eine gestrichelte Linie aus echten sowie gefälschten steinzeitlichen Feuersteinen verknüpft wie die Gedankenspuren einer Bildgeschichte die Räume miteinander. English Magic³, der zentrale Film und Ankerpunkt des Pavillons, dokumentiert Passagen der Werkgenese und zitiert assoziativ weitere britische Kontexte an: karnevaleske Straßenparaden, Stonehenge als Hüpfburg mit wackelnden Monolithen und ein riesiges Stück Schinken – all dies ist abgestimmt auf den Soundtrack des Melodian Steel Orchestra, aufgenommen in den berühmten Abbey Road Studios. Dieser Soundtrack, der in Form der kupfernen Aufnahmematrizen für Langspielplatten auch zu sehen ist, fungiert für Deller als „Kleber“ und Weichzeichner. Die Banner in diesem Raum feiern mit „Ooh-oo-hoo ah-ha ha yeah“ den Beat, den Rhythmus, der unsichtbar, quasi magisch alles zusammenhält. Dieses Dispositiv aus mythischen Nationenkonstruktionen, zusammen mit ihnen eingeschriebenen Ambivalenzen und Widersprüchen, lässt sich kaum überbieten, und so schafft Deller im letzten Raum Platz für die Besucher selbst; er gibt ihnen einen Ort der Ruhe und des Sinnierens – und lädt sie alle, wie könnte es anders sein, auf der sonnendurchfluteten Veranda zu einer Tasse britischen Tee ein.

Tell me your story
Dellers Arbeit thematisiert nicht nur die „Magie“, die den nationalen britischen Mythen inne zu wohnen scheint, auch seine eigene künstlerische Herangehensweise funktioniert „magisch“. Er spürt im Tabuisierten das Besondere auf und bemächtigt sich der „mythical qualities of popular culture and its abilities to weave spells“.⁴ Indem bei ihm alles tendenziell mit allem zu tun hat, sich mehrdimensional erstreckt und verstrickt, entsteht die ganz besondere, transformative Energie seiner Arbeit – nicht nur im handwerklichen, tricktechnischen Sinn: „Magisch“ ist die Art und Weise, wie Deller immer wieder mit ungeahnten Analogien operiert, „sozial“ dabei, dass er nicht versucht, bestehende Differenzen zu glätten. Deller dehnt die Alltagswirklichkeit in unwägbares Terrain aus und manipuliert so subtil unsere Selbst- und Weltwahrnehmung (vgl. Bourriauds Postproduction)⁵Hierzu trägt Dellers „social surrealism“ bei, für den er eine ganz spezifische Weise des Erzählens etabliert. Zum einen ist diese partizipativ und performativ – die Narrative des Pavillons sind konsequent mit Handlungsoptionen angereichert.⁶ So ergibt sich insgesamt eine zwischen Homogenität und Heterogenität oszillierende Erzählung von Großbritannien, die erst durch die Partizipationen der Besucher mit dem Pavillon ihre Form findet: die Wege, die sie durch den Pavillon gehen, die Schwerpunkte, die sie durch ihr Verweilen setzen, die Blicke, die sie werfen, oder den kostenlosen Tee (ein -weiterer Teil des Mythos Großbritanniens), den sie gemeinsam konsumieren. Die Besucher werden auf der -ästhetisch reflektierten Metaebene selbst Teil der Erzählung – wichtiger aber: Sie partizipieren aktiv an der Erzählung, generieren sie erst durch ihren Besuch.
Zum anderen verweigern sich Dellers Erzählangebote traditionell linearen Erzählstrukturen. Bereits die abgeschlossene, symmetrische Anordnung der Räume des Pavillons vermittelt die Fiktion von Zeitlosigkeit, da in ihnen eine Reihe von Erzählangeboten neben- und miteinander existieren. Einzelne Erzählstränge arbeiten diesem Eindruck noch zu, da in ihnen konventionelle Zeit aufgehoben scheint: Eine Demonstration im Jahr 2017, deren Relikte bereits in Form von Bannern präsent sind – dies ist nur aus der Erzählperspektive der vorzeitigen Zukunft eines Futur II, also preposterous (Hal Foster),⁷ möglich. Auch der überall vernehmbare Beat des Films in seiner Endlosschleife erzeugt eine Präsentifikation; er bindet die einzelnen kleinen Erzählstränge konsequent an ein körperlich erfahrbares Hier und Jetzt. Hinter dieser Strategie steht ein Konzept: Die Kategorie „Zeit“ im britischen Pavillon ist nämlich nur mehr als Erzählzeit feststellbar, nicht als erzählte Zeit, wo sie zumeist im Mythos aufgehoben ist. An dieser Erzählzeit jedoch partizipieren die Besucher und bestimmen sie durch ihr Rezeptionsverhalten mit. Zeitsprünge, medial verschränkte Wirklichkeitsbezüge und eingebaute Handlungsaufforderungen münden in einer Erzählcollage polyvalenter Bedeutungsstränge, deren Ausbalanciertheit darauf hinweist, dass sie konzeptuell entworfen ist. Nach dem Besuch gerinnt die Ausstellung für die Besucher zu einer Metaerzählung, und die magischen Effekte werden in ein aesthetic magic verschoben.

Aesthetic Magic in der Schulpraxis
Inwiefern nun kann Dellers konzeptuelles Erzählen die Arbeit des Kunstpädagogen verändern? Wie könnte eine solche Metaerzählung in Form eines aesthetic magic in der Schule aussehen?
(1) Dellers Arbeitsweise des „social surrealism“ in das Dispositiv Schule zu integrieren würde zunächst bedeuten, vermeintliche schulische „Tatsachen“ als Erzählungen zu demaskieren. Auch in der Schule gilt es, polyvalente Erzählungen herauszuschälen und zu inszenieren. Dies ist nicht abwegig: Ohnehin werden von allen Akteursgruppen der Schule im Modus einer intertextuellen und medialen bricolage ständig neue Erzählungen, Handlungsskripte, Szenarien entworfen.⁸ Sie entfalten „unbewusst bildende Wirkungen“⁹; in ihnen ist eine „Spannung von Realem, Symbolischem und Imaginärem in der Schulkultur“ angelegt. Insofern könnten solche Erzählungen, Handlungsskripte und Szenarien genutzt werden, um das monolithische System Schule gewissermaßen „gegenzulesen“. Aus einer kulturtheoretischen Perspektive würde dann ein Blick auf „Schulen als akteursgenerierte, strukturelle, symbolische Ordnungen von Diskursen, Praktiken und Artefakten“ möglich.¹⁰(2) Deller spürt als Akteure Helden des Alltags auf. Nicht alle diese Akteure sind jedoch in traditionellen Bildungsdiskursen präsent. Unterrepräsentiert ist beispielsweise das Milieu der sog. „hedonistischen Jugendlichen“ (Begriff aus der Sinus-Studie)¹¹ welches immerhin ein Viertel der analysierten Lebenswelten ausmacht. Sie sind „v. a. im Bereich der geringen bis mittleren, teilweise auch hohen Bildung angesiedelt und [orientieren] sich zwischen fortgeschrittener ‚Modernisierung‘ und ‚Neuorientierung‘ […]. Der Zurückweisung bürgerlich-konventioneller Werte und Stile entspreche die Ablehnung hochkultureller Äußerungen, wogegen sie ihre stark affektive Beziehung zur Popkultur setzten.“¹² Die Erzählungen dieser Jugendlichen, aber auch der Sekretärinnen, Lehrer, Hausverwalter, Eltern und anderer Schüler, gilt es, im Ort „Schule“ zu akkommodieren und für sie partizipative Erzählräume zu schaffen. Als exemplarischer „social surrealism“ könnten diese Erzählungen dann dort ineinander greifen und zum Dispositiv werden, wo Schule weniger als Ort von curricularem Wissen und Nichtwissen, sondern als Ort des Zusammentreffens konkreter differierender Lebenshaltungen – milieu-, alters- und rollenübergreifend – begriffen wird, und zwar bis ins Lehrerzimmer hinein.
(3) Dellers Arbeit wirkt „magisch“ aufgrund der inszenierten Verschiebung von Diskursordnungen und wird als Metaerzählung dann zu einem aesthetic magic. Erzählentwürfe materialisieren sich in einem begehbaren Pavillon und treffen in Erzählräumen zusammen, die Deller in einer Mischung aus Realität und Fiktion bereitstellt. Hier zeigt sich gemäß Saltz eine „Post-Art“, die auch im Schulkontext entstehen könnte,¹³ wenn der Blick auf bestehende schulische Diskursordnungen verschoben wird und im schulischen Raum materialisiert wird. Um Dellers Wandmalerei der Popmärchenfigur William Morris aufzugreifen: Wen würden jugendliche Schüler als „Poseidon“ an die Schulwände malen, der die Insignien etablierter Machtstrukturen bzw. erlebter Ohnmacht in eine „Lagune“ schmettert? Imagination bleibt nur durch reges Übermalen ausgedienter Wandpaneele aktuell. Bei Deller zeichnen die straffällig gewordenen Ex-Soldaten ihre Minister – wen zeichnen die Schüler? Statt eines bloßen Nachvollzugs von vorerzählten Strukturen in traditionellen Narrativen könnten in der Schule nicht-lineare und räumlich/zeitlich offene Erzählperspektiven eingenommen und präsentifiziert werden.¹⁴Dellers ästhetische Kontrastmittel – karnevaleske, ans Absurde grenzende Straßenparaden, ein aufblasbares Stonehenge oder ein riesiges Stück Schinken – fordern die Wahrnehmung in English Magic heraus. Wird diese Energie auch in der Schule aufgegriffen und als „social surrealism“ sichtbar, könnte sie den Lernort als Resonanz- und Möglichkeitsraum alltäglicher Lebenswelt in Spannung halten.¹⁵ Ein Dispositiv von Schule zwischen Fiktion und System kritisch aufzuspannen ist gerade deswegen wichtig, weil in einem curricularen Alltag, der von Bewährungsdynamik, Wiederholung, Kontrolle und Verwaltbarkeit geprägt ist, Bedeutungsüberschüsse schlicht nicht willkommen sind. Diese sind aber erzählgenerierend und diskursbildend, und sie bilden jeweils spezifische Formen eines „social surrealism“ im konkreten Schulalltag aus. Resümierend bedeutet dies: Eine konzeptuell-partizipative Erzählstruktur in die Schule zu integrieren kann Sinn stiften, wenn Narrative unterschiedlicher Akteursgruppen konsequent mit Handlungsperspektiven angereichert, als Meta-ebene etabliert und perspektiviert werden.¹⁶

Der Kunstpädagoge als True Revolutionary Guided by Great Feelings of Love¹⁷Werden jene Erzählsituationen in der Schule geschaffen, erhält schließlich auch die Lehrfigur eine andere Rolle. Aus dem middle class hero¹⁸ wird im besten Falle ein true revolutionary, angetrieben von great feelings of love.¹⁹ Deller zeigt uns, wie sich mit Hilfe der entsprechenden Erzählung aus schrägen Leidenschaften das Potenzial einer Kultur der Wertschätzung, des Gebens und Nehmens, eine Perspektivierung von Lerninhalten und Bedürfnissen entwickeln lässt – und zwar weniger in (selbst)ironischer Distanznahme als im Wagnis, solchen Gedanken auch materielle Form und Raum zu geben. Eingebettet in den social surrealism der Schule nimmt sich der Kunstpädagoge nicht als unterlegene oder abhängige Verkörperung eines objektivierten Bildungsstandards wahr, sondern als Lehrkünstler, der konzeptuelle Erzählungen mitentwirft²⁰ und dabei auf das Potenzial seiner Mitakteure mit angewiesen ist.
Natürlich kann Dellers Strategie den Alltag in der Schule nicht ersetzen. Er kann aber zumindest immer wieder Perspektivwechsel ermöglichen. In der Metaerzählung eines aesthetic magic wird das (schulische) Alltagsdrama Teil von Erzählungen; es wird formbares Material und kann damit zugleich als Reflexionspotenzial des „Schule-Seins“ dienen.
Als Lehrkünstler könnte der Kunstpädagoge die Maschinerie der Bewährungsdynamik unterbrechen und stattdessen die Sicht auf die Schule mit ihren je unverwechselbaren Subjekten verschieben und vielleicht auch erheitern – und, laut Saltz, selbst als Künstler handeln:²¹ „things that aren’t artworks so much as they are about the drive to make things that, like art, embed imagination in material […] Things that couldn’t be fitted into old categories embody powerfully creative forms, capable of carrying meaning and making change.“

1.) Deller: „I went from being an artist that makes things to being an artist that makes things happen.“, Zitat 054, whtsnxt.net/bookauthor/deller-jeremy, bzw. in: Jörg Schöller, „High Trash und das Avantgardeske“, in: Johannes M. Hedinger, Torsten Meyer (Hg.), What’s Next? Kunst nach der Krise, Berlin 2013 (im Folgenden abgekürzt als: What’s Next), S. 201.
2.) Vgl. dazu: Stuart Hall, „Jeremy Deller’s Political Imaginary“, in: Jeremy -Deller, Joy in People, London 2012, S. 81–89, sowie What’s Next, Text 135, S. 491 ff.
3.) www.jeremydeller.org/EnglishMagic/EnglishMagic_Video.php [4.1.2014].
4.) Deller zitiert in: Hal Foster, „History is a Hen Harrier“, in: The British Council/Jeremy Deller (Hg.), English Magic, London 2013, S. 7.
5.) Vgl. Nicolas Bourriaud, Postproduction. Culture as Screenplay: How Art Reprograms the World, New York, 2002, S. 9: „In Postproduction, I try to show that artists’ intuitive relationship with art history is now going beyond what we call ‘the art of appropriation,’ which naturally infers an ideology of ownership, and moving toward a culture of the use of forms, a culture of constant activity of signs based on a collective ideal: sharing.“
6.) Nora Sternfeld, „Das gewisse Savoir/Pouvoir. Möglichkeitsfeld Kunstvermittlung“, in: What’s Next, Text 153, S. 547ff.
7.) Hal Foster, „History is a Hen Harrier“, in: The British Council/Jeremy Deller (Hg.), English Magic, London 2013.
8.) Jerome Bruner, „The narrative construction of reality“, Critical Enquiry, 18 (1), 1991, S. 1–22.
9.) Karl-Josef Pazzini, „Berge versetzen, damit es was zu erzählen gibt“, in: Franz Billmayer (Hg.), Angeboten. Was die Kunstpädagogik leisten kann, München 2008, S. 157–163.
10.) Werner Helsper, „Schulkulturen – die Schule als symbolische Sinnordnung“, Zeitschrift für Pädagogik, 54 (1), 2008, S. 63–80.
11.) Milieus der U27 Sinus-Studie: experimentalistische, postmaterielle, hedonistische, konsum-materialistische, traditionelle, bürgerliche Jugendliche, sowie Moderne Performer, siehe www.sinus-institut.de/loesungen/sinus-milieus.html [20.2.2014]
12.) Ansgar Schnurr, „Weltsicht im Plural. Über jugendliche Milieus und das ‚Wir‘ in der Kunstpädagogik“, online Zeitschrift Kunst Medien Bildung | zkmb, Text im Diskurs, 2011, www.zkmb.de/index.php?id=42 [20.2.2014]
13.) Vgl. Battle of Orgreave, 2001: Insgesamt 800 Teilnehmer, zusammengesetzt aus Gemeindemitgliedern von Orgreave, professionelle Re-enactors, damals involvierte Polizisten, Minenarbeiter, Vertreter der National Union of Mineworkers, der Women’s Support Group. Zum Konzept vgl. „Post Art“ in What’s Next, Zitat 061, 103, 173.
14.) Eine über das Imaginäre gesteigerte bewusste Fiktionalität schließt gerade nicht die Lücke, die die Uneindeutigkeit schulischen Handelns evoziert, sondern lässt zu, dass diese sich als (konzeptueller) Erzählraum bildet: „committed but not judgemental“ (Deller); vgl. „In Conversation: Matthew Higgs and Jeremy Deller“, in: Deller 2012, a. a. O., S. 185–191.
15.) Vgl. Helsper S. 66ff., bzw. Hans-Christoph Koller und Rainer Kokemohr, Lebensgeschichte als Text. Zur biographischen Artikulation problematischer Bildungsprozesse. Weinheim 1994.
16.) Uwe Wirth, „Logiken und Praktiken der Kulturforschung als Detailforschung“, in: Ders., Logiken und Praktiken der Kulturforschung, Berlin 2008, S. 11–30.
17.) Zitat nach Matthew Higgs, „Unconvention, A True Revolutionary is Motivated by Great Feelings of Love”, in: Mark Wallinger and Mary Warnock (Hg.), Art for All; Their Policies and Our Culture, London 2000, S. 49.
18.) Ralph Rogoff, „Middle Class Hero“, in: Deller 2012, a. a. O., S. 9–21.
19.) Wirth 2008, a. a. O., S. 11–30.
20.) Andrea Sabisch, „Entwerfen oder Die Welt aus der Sicht einer Fliege“, in: Klaus-Peter Busse (Hg.), Kunstdidaktisches Handeln, Norderstedt 2003, S. 414–427.
21.) In: Jerry Saltz, „A Glimpse of Art’s Future at Documenta“, Vulture, 16.6.12; www.vulture.com/2012/06/documenta-13-review.html [22.4.2013]; vgl. zu „Post Art“ in What’s Next, Text 103.

Der kuratierte Unterricht – mit Zeigefinger

admin — Mon, 05 Jan 2015 13:16:15 +0000

Die seit den 1990er-Jahren im Betriebssystem Kunst sich etablierenden Kuratoren werden als jene unsichtbaren Intendanzen mit markanter Handschrift beschrieben, die gleichermaßen theoretisch wie praktisch, visuell wie diskursiv in Erscheinung treten. Ihre Orte haben sie traditionell in Museen, in denen sie als Direktoren für das Gesamtprogramm oder als Kustoden für eine spezifische Sammlung die Verantwortung haben. Oder sie haben sich etabliert als freie Kuratoren, die freischaffend und „independent“ außerhalb der offiziellen Strukturen meist zeitgenössische Kunst/Kultur vermitteln, Themenausstellungen realisieren oder als globale Kreativnomaden für Biennalen die Trends setzen. Ausstellungen dieser Art können einen Überblick über das Werk eines einzelnen Künstlers liefern, einen bestimmten Stil illustrieren, Repräsentationskritik üben oder thematische Setzungen (etwa zu Musik, Mode oder Medien) vornehmen. Inzwischen werden vielerorts Kuratoren-Lehrgänge offeriert. Es sind zunehmend Kuratoren, die bei Film- und Buchfestivals die Zusammenstellung von gehobenen Programmen betreuen. Der klassische Journalismus ist durch User-Generated-Content ebenfalls vom kuratorischen Virus infiziert. In sozialen Netzwerken wie Facebook trägt der Imperativ „Kuratiere Dich selbst!“ dem Zeitgeist Rechnung², dem Moment des Kreativen die eigene Selbstdarstellung und Zurschaustellung durch Bilder und Texte beizugeben – als erwartete Bereitschaft zum „Exhibitionismus“, zum umfassend sichtbaren Ausgestellt-Sein.

Eigenständige Haltung aktivieren
Das Kuratieren hat ein hybrides Alleskönnen zu seiner Voraussetzung. Es fordert ein, sich als Wissenschaftler, Philosoph, Künstler, Gestalter, Manager, Organisator, Coach, Buchhalter, Redner und Kunstvermittler zu versuchen. Was einem Dilettieren zwischen den Disziplinen allzu leicht die Tore öffnen kann.
Die gestalterische Energie eines kuratorischen Projekts sollte so fokussiert sein, dass die Adressaten mit einem Konzept imaginär an die Hand genommen werden, von der sie sich allenfalls losreißen können. Ohne diese „Handreichung“ werden Orientierung und Standpunkt entscheidend geschwächt. In einem Konzept für Kunstunterricht sollte eine strukturelle Idee (niederschwellig) wirksam sein, um die notwendige Sinnautorität und Interpretationshoheit über ästhetische Erscheinungsformen selbstermächtigend zu erlangen.
Wichtig aber wäre, im kuratorischen Gestus noch einen entscheidenden Schritt weiter zu gehen und für eine theoretische Reibungsfläche zu sorgen, die sich aus einer intellektuellen Unruhe generiert und die Dinge als Versuch und Experiment in Szene setzt. Erst dann bekommen die Adressierten einen Eindruck davon, wie die Auseinandersetzung mit den Kunstwerken die ästhetischen Überzeugungen und Gestaltungskräfte der kuratierenden Person herausfordern. Das legitimiert den Kurator/Lehrer im Recht und in der Pflicht, eine klare Position zu markieren. Jede Themensetzung und ihre Gestaltung basiert auf einem eigenen, intellektuellen Zuordnungsaufwand und adressiert eine Interpretationszumutung an die Angesprochenen. Zum Interpretationsangebot gewendet, animiert oder aktiviert das Gezeigte zu einer eigenständigen Haltung dem jeweiligen Gesehenen gegenüber.
Zu den präsentierten Dingen kann sich durch Widerstand und Nichtbeachtung immer auch eine Gegenreaktion des Publikums manifestieren, der im Unterricht am ehesten mit „show and tell“ entgegentreten werden kann.

Ohne „show and tell“ kein Kuratieren
Laut „Duden“ bezeichnet das schwache Verb kuratieren das Tun derjenigen, die als Kurator oder Kuratorin eine Ausstellung oder ein Projekt betreuen und für deren Organisation verantwortlich sind. Abgeleitet vom lateinischen Wort „curare“ (sich um etwas kümmern, für etwas sorgen), verdichtet sich die kuratorische Aktivität insbesondere um den Aspekt der „cura“, der Sorge, Sorgfalt und Umsichtigkeit eines Zueinander-Setzens von Raum und Dingen. Zwar findet diese Tätigkeit eines Kurators ihre unter anderem auch Fortsetzung in der Herausgeberschaft eines Ausstellungkatalogs, in dem Aufsätze, Essays, Kapiteltexte, Werkbeschreibungen und Abbildungen der kuratorischen Ideenproduktion über den Zeitraum der Ausstellung hinaus ihre dokumentarische Form geben.³ Die Kernaufgabe aber bleibt, Werke zu zeigen und Inhalte zu erzählen. Die dazugehörige Handlungsmaxime könnte lauten: „show and tell“. Ohne die Kategorien „Zeigen“ und „Erzählen“ kein Kuratieren.
Die Geste des Zeigens ist die Minimalbedingung gestalterischen Handelns und ergänzt sich zu einer kuratorischen Triade: Der Kurator als Subjekt des Zeigens (wer) bietet ein Thema (was) einem Publikum (wem) an. Das Kuratieren ist Form und Ausdruck, diese drei Elemente zusammenzuführen.⁴ Diese adaptierte Triangulation aus der Logik der „Operativen Pädagogik“ (Klaus Prange) zeigt die hohe Übereinstimmung im anthropologischen Handeln in Bezug auf Zeigen und Erziehen.⁵ Prange bezeichnet das Zeigen als die basale Operation des Erziehens, wobei wiederum das Lernen als eine Folge des Zeigens anzusehen ist. Die Formel ist dieselbe: Ohne Zeigen keine Erziehung. Denn Erziehung ist ein Zeigen in der Absicht auf ein Lernen. Das Zeigen ist ein – immer bedeutsam werdender – wichtiger Aspekt der Erziehung; dies nebst Anweisung und Motivation, Prüfung und Ermutigung, Arbeit und Spiel, Lob und Ermahnung. Das didaktische Dreieck zur Grundausrüstung einer pädagogischen Semantik basiert dabei auf einem „Lerngegenstand“, einem „Schüler“ und einem „Lehrer“, die sich je nach Disziplin auch anders benennen lassen: Nachricht/Empfänger/Sender oder Text/Interpret/Autor oder Information/Verstehen/Mitteilung.
In beiden Fällen, im Kuratieren wie im Erziehen, stellt sich die Frage nach dem „geistigen Band“ (so Goethe im „Faust“), das die drei Teile verbindet und ihnen Leben schenkt. Prange spricht davon, dass das Zeigen die Form ist, welche diese drei Komponenten zusammenbringt. In beiden Fällen geht es um den gleichen performativen Akt: Es gibt diejenigen, die einem anderen etwas zeigen können und wollen.

Ohne Zeigefinger keine Erziehung
Was mit dem Zeigen gemeint ist, verdeutlicht Prange auf vielfältige Art und in einer Sehnsuchtsgeste hin zum Barock: „Wir machen den Kindern vor, wie man mit Messer und Gabel isst, wie man richtig grüßt und mit welchen sozialen Abstufungen, wie man eine Schleife bindet und wie man Rad fährt. Wir erklären ihnen die Verkehrszeichen und üben dazu das überlebensfördernde Verhalten ein, entweder direkt oder indem wir dazu Darstellungen benutzen; das heißt: entweder ostensiv oder repräsentativ. Wir versuchen sogar, noch das zu zeigen, was sich zwar unmittelbar nicht sehen lässt, so dass wir nicht einfach darauf hinzeigen können, um es doch über Gleichnisse und Geschichten zu vergegenwärtigen. Was Gerechtigkeit ist und was Liebe und Hass, zeigen wir, indem wir davon erzählen und uns demonstrativ in einer bestimmten Weise so verhalten, dass das Gemeinte sich zeigt. Repraesentatio mundi: Das ist für diesen Kern des Erziehungsgeschäfts die herkömmliche Formel aus der Barockzeit, die ihrerseits auf ältere Muster zurückgreift.“⁶Der Autor streicht hervor, dass in der Zeigegebärde eine doppelte Bewegung enthalten ist: die Bewegung auf ein Thema hin und die Rückspiegelung auf das Subjekt des Zeigens. Diese Person hat ihrer Gebärde einen Sinn eingebettet, den andere erkennen oder erraten können. Sie bringt sich als Zeigende immer auch selbst zur Erscheinung. Sie zeigt sich, indem sie einem anderen etwas zeigt, und zwar am besten so, dass diese selbst wieder imstande ist, es anderen zeigen zu können. Als Medium und Realsymbol der Gebärde des Zeigens fungiert der Stock als Standessymbol des Lehrers, wobei diesem verlängerten Zeigefinger etwas Bevormundendes, Rügendes und Moralpredigendes anhaftet. Trotz allem stellt Prange fest, dass der ausgestreckte oder erhobene Zeigefinger als die „Grundgebärde des Erziehens“ zu betrachten ist. „Er macht aufmerksam und fordert Aufmerksamkeit, und er lenkt den Blick auf das, was gesehen oder gehört werden soll.“⁷Auf den Punkt gebracht lässt sich sagen, dass der Zeigefinger ein Finger ist, der von jemandem dann in die Szene gesetzt wird, wenn es etwas zu zeigen gibt. Kurzum: „Ohne Zeigefinger keine Erziehung.“⁸

Der platonische Zeigefinger
Im Wandgemälde „Die Schule von Athen“⁹ (1510/11) des Renaissancemalers Raffael im Vatikan in Rom kommt in lebendiger Form das gesamte antike Wissen der Griechen zum Ausdruck. Das Bildgeschehen zeigt die grundlegende Bedeutung der Hand für das Zeigen allgemein an den beiden im Zentrum positionierten Philosophen: Aristoteles Hand weist nach vorne und nach unten zur Erde (und zum Menschlichen), sein blaues Gewand lässt sich als Hinweis auf das Element Wasser lesen. In einem dazu gegensätzlichen Spannungsverhältnis steht Platon mit erhobenem Zeigefinger Richtung Himmel (und Ideenreich) und seinem roten Gewand, das für das Feuer steht. Für Platon befindet sich Gott ganz oben in einer feurigen Substanz, während Aristoteles die Meinung vertritt, Gott sei ein fünfter, ätherischer Körper. Beide halten ihre damals jeweils bekannteste Schrift in der linken Hand: Platon den „Timaios“, Aristoteles die „Nikomachische Ethik“, was beide programmatisch kennzeichnet.
Der Gestus Platons lässt sich einem bestimmten ikonografischen Typus zuordnen, den des auf Gott verweisenden Engels, Propheten oder Predigers. Raffael wusste nicht, welches Aussehen die alten Denker wirklich hatten, daher besitzt Platon die Gesichtszüge von Leonardo da Vinci. Platon gründete die „Akademie“ 387 v. Chr. in Athen und erteilte hier philosophischen und wissenschaftlichen Unterricht. Sein gestreckter Zeigefinger steht in einer zeitgenössischen Betrachtung (jenseits von theologischen Absichten) für ein Leben in einem Feld von spannungsreichen Gegensätzen.
Die zwischen Platon und Aristoteles bildhaft gewordenen polaren Gegensätze fordern und fördern sich gegenseitig. Im Gegen-Satz schließen sich zwei Aspekte scheinbar aus, die im Grunde genommen miteinander verbunden sind und sich gegenseitig zur Voraussetzung haben. Menschliches Geschehen ist meist gegenläufig, entsteht im Dialog zwischen Du und Ich, im Austausch mit anderen, in sachlicher und emotionaler Hingabe füreinander. Der Zeigefinger befördert dabei das Dialogische im Erziehungsstil, erhöht die Gegensatztoleranz und bedeutet, die „polare Zuordnung entgegengesetzter Möglichkeiten, Haltungen und Handlungen und ihrer Einheit auf anderer Ebene“¹⁰ zu verwirklichen.

Homo curare creativum
Die Anwendung des Begriffs „Kuratieren“ auf Erziehung, Pädagogik und Didaktik transportiert auch den Hinweis, dass im Ausstellen als ältestes Medium der Präsentationsgeschichte das Zeigen immer vor dem Nennen kommt. Ein Exponat zu präsentieren (durch kuratorische Praxis) nimmt seinen Platz vor jeder anderen möglichen Form der Repräsentation (durch kunsthistorische Dokumentation).
Der Homo curare creativum (der kuratierende Kreativmensch) findet seine Spielform, statt sich eines robusten Realismus zu bedienen, in der Anwendung eines wendigen Möglichkeitssinns. Als bedachtsamer Gestalter ist er vorrangig an der Innovation kreativer Partnerschaft und Zusammenarbeit interessiert. Sein Präsentationsgestus richtet sich nie dezidiert gegen etwas, sondern organisiert sich für andere oder aber in bewusster Abgrenzung zu anderen. Mehr als an normativen Raum-Zeit-Ordnungen orientiert er sich an Beziehungsfeldern und Aggregatzuständen. Wesentlich ist die Ausformulierung eines bedeutungsstiftenden Verfahrens von konzeptionellem Auswählen, Zusammenstellen und Zeigen. Wichtig wird der Moment des Übergangs, wo Kunstwerke und andere Dinge nicht nur als isolierte Artefakte, sondern als Segmente eines visuellen Kontinuums begriffen werden und so eine These über Kunst und Kultur formulieren – die entweder Akzeptanz oder aber Ablehnung findet.
Das unter anderem fordert den Kurator/Lehrer heraus, sein Zeige-Dispositiv nach Möglichkeit in ein dynamisches Geflecht von Form, Attitüde, Existenz und Bewusstsein einzubinden. Seine explizite Hinwendung zum „Neuen Ausstellen“ schließt folgerichtig zugleich eine klare Abwendung von einem einfachen Hinstellen, Verstellen, Vollstellen und Zustellen der darzubietenden Exponate ein. Ob die Anordnung der Werke dabei thematisch (etwa zu Farbe, Form oder Material), nach Einzelkünstlern, Künstlerkreisen oder chronologisch vorgenommen wird, ist einerlei. Maßgebend ist für die Intention die Umsetzung mit einer bestimmten Radikalität, aber nicht ohne die erforderliche Genauigkeit zu vollziehen. Nur so wird es möglich, die Differenziertheit und die Kontraste innerhalb einer Epoche darzustellen oder Dinge zusammenzubringen, deren Präsentation in ein und demselben Raum die ästhetische oder moralische Grenze sprengte (religiöse Motive neben der Darstellung von Affen). Das kuratorische Zeigen ist entdeckend und verdeckend zugleich, es reguliert und kontrolliert das Gezeigte und Nichtgezeigte, es entscheidet über Ein- und Ausschluss.
Der kuratorische Zugang im Unterricht mittels Kulturpraktiken des Zeigens eröffnet jene neuen Formen der Präsentation, die diese absetzt von der rein verbalen Vermittlungsarbeit einer Lehrmeisterei.¹¹ Kuratieren ist immer auch der Versuch, den Adressaten ein Übungsfeld des eigenen Sehens und Erlebens zu bieten, bevor Vorkenntnisse den Blick dirigieren. Der Grad des Gelingens eines kuratorischen Wirkens hängt davon ab, wie sehr es der kuratierende Lehrer vermag, das Gewicht eines Themas mit der Komplexität des Zeigens in Einklang zu bringen. Im Idealfall gehen Thema und Umsetzung in einem unangestrengten Ganzen auf – ein Unterricht aus einem Guss.

Antagonistische Sinnlichkeit
Ob zu Recht oder nicht, gerade mit dem Etikett „kuratiert von …“ versehene Projekte wecken beim Publikum bestimmte Erwartungen. Die Frage ist, ob sich der Grund dafür im kuratorischen Ansatz findet, Unternehmungen nicht mit monologischen Identitäten zu gestalten, die nur eine Erkenntnisspur zulassen und den Dingen eine festgesetzte Struktur unterstellen. Der avanciert kuratorische Ansatz agiert denn auch wider den Konformismus und die Widerspruchsfreiheit. Beabsichtigt ist nicht das Erlangen höherer Einsichten, sondern das Erkennen der Vielzahl gleich gültiger Wahrheiten. Der dialogisch arbeitende Kurator/Lehrer produziert seine ästhetische Praxis als eine Identitätsbestimmung, die Widersprüche produktiv in der Schwebe hält. Das erhöht nicht zuletzt das Moment des Überraschtseins von einer Sache. Wenn es den Teilnehmenden von Ausstellungs- und Unterrichtssettings möglich wird, sich von ihren Urteilen und Vorkenntnissen über Kunst und Kultur(en) zu suspendieren, wird eine Schärfung der eigenen Beobachtungsfähigkeit begünstigt und eine Reflexionsebene aktiviert, die kunstähnliche Gestalt annimmt.¹²Die Figur der Kuratorin, des Lehrers benötigt ein Containment (Vereinbarung über Ort, Zweck, Organisation und Dauer des Projekts), um sich artikulieren zu können, um zu einer eigenen, authentischen Sprache zu finden und ihre, seine Sicht der Welt inszenatorisch zu gestalten. In einer von einer Person oder einem Team kuratierten Situation finden immer jene Dinge ihren besten Ausdruck, die den Modus einer inneren Bewegtheit zum Ursprung haben. Intellektuelle Überfrachtungen, abstrakte Abhandlungen und angespannte Selbstdarstellungen besitzen kaum Gestaltungsmacht und verlieren sich im Ungefähren. In geglückten Settings kann es autonomen Agenten wie Kuratoren, Gestaltern, Szenografen, Künstlern, Lehrern und Vermittlern gelingen, eine antagonistische Sinnlichkeit erfahrbar zu machen. Sie tritt als Gegenspielerin zum Mainstream in Erscheinung. Ihre Kritik entzündet sich an den gängigen Ästhetisierungsformen des Alltaglebens oder an den Atmosphären der Macht. Diese Kreativmenschen setzen sich nicht nur in Widerspruch zu den konventionellen Auffassungen von Ästhetik, sondern betreiben gezielt deren fundamentalen Wandel mit der Intention, neuen Gestaltungs- und Lebensformen Raum zu geben. Unterrichten wird als Kunst verstanden, das meint: zeigend, erzählend, darstellend, gestaltend der Sache, dem Menschen, der Beziehung zueinander ein Quantum Bedeutung beigeben.
Man bekundet Interesse füreinander, fantasiert über den anderen, hegt Erwartungen und durchsteht Konflikte, ohne die dialogische Atmosphäre grundlegend zu zerstören. Diese Kreativmenschen sind bereit, Zeit und Energie für Studierende und Künstler zu investieren.

Ein kuratierter Dialograum
Der kuratorische Ansatz ist insgesamt sowohl an einer Rhetorik der Dinge als auch an einer Politik des Zeigens interessiert. Das meint, dass die Bedeutung der Dinge immer an eine Materialität gebunden ist und eine Sache immer selbst in Augenschein genommen werden muss, um sie deuten und auslegen zu können. Die Bedeutung der Dinge ist jedoch nicht in den Exponaten per se angelegt, sondern erschließt sich erst im Dialog zwischen Zeigenden, Betrachtenden und Gezeigtem.
Wer das Ausstellen und Unterrichten als Dialograum begreift, trifft auf ein Setting, das frei von Autorität und Hierarchie ist, das keinen bestimmten Aufgaben und Zielen folgt, das niemanden verpflichtet, zu irgendwelchen Schlüssen zu kommen. Ein kuratierter Dialograum zeigt Wirkung auf ganz andere Weise. Er reicht über die bloße Funktion des Zeigens hinaus und wird zum Auslöser assoziativer Bedeutungsströme. Er ermöglicht das aktive Eingreifen, verführt zum Probehandeln und fokussiert auf die Interaktion zwischen Gestaltern und Nutzern, zwischen Kuratierenden und Betrachtenden, zwischen Objekten und Subjekten.
Neben dem Sagen und Zeigen tritt etwas Drittes in Erscheinung, das Sich-Zeigen. Dieses Sich-Zeigen geht dem Sagen und Nennen voraus, auch dem Zeigen im Sinne des Etwas-Zeigens und Zeigen-als. Das sich Zeigende steht nicht in der Reihe der Zeichen, sondern ergeht aus deren spezifischer Ekstatik. Beim Ausstellen und Unterrichten als Dialograum ist ein Ereignen-Lassen des Sich-Zeigens konzeptiver Fokus. Im kuratorischen Ansatz steht nicht ausschließlich der Diskurs im Vordergrund, vielmehr ist von Bedeutung, wie etwas in Erscheinung tritt – sinnlich präsent, leidenschaftlich und ereignishaft.

1.) Paolo Bianchi, „Das kuratorische Zeigen von Dingen. Über das Neue Ausstellen als Ästhetik des Dialogs“, Schweizer Kunst, 115, 2013, S. 6–11. – Der hier abgedruckte Text basiert in einigen Teilen auf diesem Essay, der nun gekürzt, angepasst und zugleich mit im Kontext der Pädagogik verorteten Aspekten neu ergänzt worden ist.
2.) Vgl. Stefan Damm et al. (Hg.), Das kuratierte Ich. Jugendkulturen als Medienkulturen im 21. Jahrhundert. Berlin/Kassel 2012.
3.) Zur Idee und Funktion des Kuratierens vgl. hierzu: Beatrice von Bismarck, „Curating“, in: Hubertus Butin (Hg.), DuMonts Begriffslexikon zur zeitgenössischen Kunst, Köln 2006, S. 56–59. Und: Gerhard Finckh, „Kuratieren“, in: Verena Lewinski-Reuter, Stefan Lüddemann (Hg.), Glossar Kulturmanagement, Wiesbaden 2011, S. 212–217. Und: Matthias Götz, „Szenogramme – Von Ausstellungen und Vorstellungen“, Archithese, 4, 2010, S. 72–75. Und: Beatrice Jaschke, „Kuratieren. Zwischen Kontinuität und Transformation“, in: ARGE schnittpunkt (Hg.), Handbuch Ausstellungstheorie und -praxis, Wien/Köln/Weimar 2013, S. 139–145.
4.) Vgl. Schaubild „Education/Curating“, online verfügbar via QR-Code.
5.) Vgl. Klaus Prange, Die Zeigestruktur der Erziehung. Grundriss der Operativen Pädagogik, Paderborn/München/Wien/Zürich 2012.
6.) Klaus Prange, „Machtverhältnisse in pädagogischen Inszenierungen“, in: Karen van den Berg, Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht (Hg.), Politik des Zeigens. München 2010, S. 61–72, hier S. 66.
7.) Ebd., S. 70.
8.) Ebd., S. 72.
9.) Vgl. die Abbildungen zu „La scuola di Atene“, online verfügbar via QR-Code.
10.) Theodor Bucher, Dialogische Erziehung. Der Mensch vor der Frage nach dem Sinn des Lebens. Bern/Stuttgart 1983, S. 55.
11.) Zu Kulturpraktiken des Zeigens und neuen Formen der Präsentation vgl. hierzu: David Ganz, Felix Thürlemann (Hg.), Das Bild im Plural. Mehrteilige Bildformen zwischen Mittelalter und Gegenwart. Berlin 2010. Und: Fritz Franz Vogel, Das Handbuch der Exponatik. Vom Ausstellen und Zeigen. Köln 2012.
12.) Vgl. Paolo Bianchi, Gerhard Dirmoser, „Die Ausstellung als Dialograum. Panorama atmosphärischer Gestaltungsmöglichkeiten von Displays“, in: Paolo Bianchi (Hg.), Das Neue Ausstellen. Bd. 1: Ausstellungen als Kulturpraktiken des Zeigens, Ruppichteroth 2007. Erschienen als: Kunstforum International, 186, 2007, S. 82–101.

Neue Öffentlichkeiten

admin — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 12:42:45 +0000

Was meinen wir mit „Öffentlichkeit“? Jeder Versuch einer Definition verursacht Kopfschmerzen und ist zum Scheitern verdammt. Was soll das: „Öffentlichkeit“? Was ist bitteschön öffentlich? Und was nicht? Sprechen wir vom „öffentlichen Raum“? Oder von dem „Öffentlichen“? Noch komplizierter wird es, wenn wir diesen Begriff in eine andere Sprache übersetzen, ins Englische zum Beispiel. Ist das nun „public space“, was eher einen Raum im euklidischen Sinne meint, oder „public“ (ist da nicht das Publikum gemeint?) oder „publicity“ (was an Werbung erinnert) oder „public sphere“? Letzteres scheint die übliche Übersetzung des von Habermas im Jahre 1962¹ geprägten Begriffes zu sein, der aber immer auch einen räumlichen Platz impliziert. Ist denn das Öffentliche wirklich an Plätze gebunden? Braucht es für eine Öffentlichkeit auch einen öffentlichen Platz? Und heißt das, dass wenn wir öffentliche Plätze bauen, sozusagen im Doppelpack auch Öffentlichkeit generieren? Oder wäre es auch möglich, dass zwar öffentliche Plätze gebaut werden, die aber keine Öffentlichkeit generieren? Oder zumindest nicht die gewünschte? Noch sprachloser werden wir, wenn wir Konzepte für „mehr Öffentlichkeit“ herstellen sollen. Lösungen, die sich auf reine bauliche Maßnahmen beschränken, funktionieren nicht immer. Was ist zu tun? Dieser Artikel wird keine Lösung anbieten, er ist keine Gebrauchsanweisung. Vielmehr unternimmt er eine gedankliche Reise hin zum Begriff der Öffentlichkeit, umkreist ihn und beleuchtet ihn von verschiedenen Seiten. Am Schluss jedoch steht ein Plädoyer für einen künstlerisch/performativen Ansatz zur Produktion von neuen Öffentlichkeiten.
Die Diskussion um den Begriff ist schwer in Mode – die Konstruktion der Missverständnisse um ihn allerdings auch. Das Konzept „Öffentlichkeit“ wird in mehreren Bereichen verwendet und dort jeweils verschieden benutzt. Gemeinsam aber scheint zu sein, dass der Begriff immer aus zwei Komponenten besteht, nämlich aus einer, die sich eher im Feld des Räumlichen lokalisieren lässt, und einer, die sich eher im Sozialen festmachen lässt. Offensichtlich braucht es beide Teile, damit Öffentlichkeit Sinn macht. Besonders gut lässt sich dies am englischen Begriff „public sphere“ diskutieren. Der erste Teil „public“ lässt sich aus dem lateinischen „publicus“ ableiten, was wiederum eine Sache bezeichnet, die das Volk (populus) angeht. Wird der Terminus als Substantiv benutzt, dann meint er unter anderem auch eine Gruppe, die wir auch als Zuschauer (audience) bezeichnen. Seit Bourriaud² 2002, Bishop³ 2006 und Rancière⁴ 2008 wissen wir aber, dass auch das passivste Publikum an dem Werk, das es betrachtet, wesentlich mitwirkt – eben durch die Betrachtung des Werkes. Insofern haben wir es bei einer Angelegenheit, die „public“ ist, einerseits mit einer das Volk angehenden Sache zu tun, andererseits mit etwas, das vom Volk auch mitgestaltet wird. Wenn man über „public“ spricht muss man unweigerlich an den Gegenspieler denken – an das Private. Diese Trennung geht zurück in die antike Patriziergesellschaft, in der genau bezeichnet wurde, was nicht zur „polis“ gehörte, sondern eben zum „oikos“. Neben den Bereichen wie Beziehung und Familie, gehörten dazu interessanterweise auch Gesundheit, Erziehung, Arbeit, Wirtschaft und überhaupt alles, was mit Geld zu tun hatte. Spätestens seit Richard Sennett 1970 mit seinem Buch „The Fall of Public Man“⁵ konstatierte, dass der neu entwickelte Narzissmus des Individualisten eine „Tyrannei des Intimen“ hervorbringt, was eine funktionierende Öffentlichkeit verunmöglichen würde, muss die Trennung von Privatem und Nicht-Privatem immer wieder neu ausgehandelt werden.
In unserer Zeit scheint eine zweifache Bewegung diese unsichtbare Mauer zu durchdringen: Einerseits hat die Veröffentlichung des Privaten in den social medias ein Maß erreicht, das eine Steigerung kaum mehr als möglich erscheinen lässt. Gleichzeitig ist eine Erweiterung des privaten Raumes weit außerhalb der eigenen vier Wände ersichtlich. Ich denke da an intime bis sexuelle Handlungen in urbanen Räumen, die weit über die öffentliche Sexualität der 1960er/70er Jahre hinausgehen⁶. Natürlich hat auch die Verbreitung der Mobiltelefonie dazu geführt, dass sowohl familiäre Probleme als auch aktuelle Geschäfte jederzeit und überall erledigt werden können, eben auch in allen öffentlichen Orten der Stadt.
Wenden wir uns nun dem Terminus der Sphäre zu, dem zweiten und eher räumlichen Teil der „public sphere“. Der etymologische Ursprung „sphaira“ (griech. Ball) weist auf die geometrische Form der Sphäre hin, bei der jeder Punkt der Oberfläche gleich weit vom Zentrum entfernt ist. Dieses Idealbild einer Demokratie beinhaltet sowohl ein Zentrum als auch die Möglichkeit einer gleichmäßigen und egalitären Verteilung auf einer Oberfläche. Wahrscheinlich gibt es kein unpassenderes Bild für Öffentlichkeit oder öffentlichen Raum als die geometrische Sphäre, deren äußerliche Form unverändert bleibt, wie auch immer sich die einzelnen Punkte auf der Oberfläche bewegen oder versammeln. Im Terminus „public sphere“ schwingt implizit ein Bild eines leeren Gefäßes mit, das eine bestimmte Form hat und ein bestimmtes Volumen aufweist, das eben eigentlich leer ist. Die Stadtverwaltung würde sich um das Bauen dieser Gefäße kümmern, sozusagen die materiellen Grenzen des Öffentlichen bestimmen, und die Auffüllung dieses Gefäßes würde dann der Öffentlichkeit (dem „publicum“) obliegen.
Wunderbar – damit ist ja alles geregelt: Die geplanten und freigegebenen Räume für die Öffentlichkeit sind ja da, man muss sich lediglich noch über die Anzahl, die Größe und die ideale Platzierung in der Stadt unterhalten und alles läuft rund. Warum findet dann aber trotzdem wenig Öffentlichkeit statt und warum verschwindet der öffentliche Raum zunehmend?
Es scheint klar zu sein, dass sich Öffentlichkeit nicht einfach auf dem Reißbrett planen lässt. Obwohl sie eng mit Raumproduktion verknüpft ist, lässt sie sich nicht in Quadratmeterzahlen ausdrücken. Seit den Situationisten in den 1950er/60er Jahren, seit de Certeau (1980)⁷, Lefebvre (1974)⁸, Löw⁹ (2001) und Harvey¹⁰ (1989) ist bekannt, dass wir Räume nicht mehr als objektive Konstante betrachten, sondern als ein Konstrukt, eine Produktion aus sozialen, kulturellen, politischen und künstlerischen Einflüssen verstehen sollten. Mit anderen Worten: Die „public sphere“, die gewünscht wird, wird nicht von den Stadtplanern und den Architekten (alleine) produziert, sondern von den Menschen, die diese Plätze und Orte benutzen und der Art und Weise, wie sie diese benutzen. Die Konstruktion ist nicht einmalig, sondern muss immer wieder neu erschaffen werden, sie wird sich verändern und anpassen.
Wer aber sind die Akteure, die diese Öffentlichkeit erschaffen? Diese Frage weist direkt auf Potenziale und Chancen für die Produktion und Mitgestaltung des Öffentlichen für viele Akteure hin und zeigt gleichzeitig auch eine große Gefahr auf: Wer auch immer den Zugang zu den gegebenen Räumen hat oder sich Raum aneignet und ihn durch seine Aktivität nutzt, der wird die Art und Weise der Öffentlichkeit mitproduzieren, bestimmen und prägen. Mit anderen Worten: Wenn wir die Städte ausschließlich nach marktwirtschaftlichen Kriterien bebauen und bevölkern, dann werden die Akteure, die in der Marktwirtschaft erfolgreich sind, die Öffentlichkeit der Städte bestimmen. Das Ergebnis kann an unzähligen Innenstädten betrachtet werden, die nach Schließung der Ladenlokale sehr ausgestorben wirken. Das Bild der Öffentlichkeit wird vom kommerziellen Konsumieren und den Angeboten internationaler Ketten geprägt.
Es ist wichtig, dass wir uns Gedanken darüber machen, wie unsere Öffentlichkeiten sein sollten. Denn nicht nur der Gehalt der öffentlichen Diskussion, sondern auch die Art wie und wo sie im öffentlichen Raum verhandelt wird, spiegelt und prägt die Kultur des Zusammenlebens der städtischen Gesellschaft.
Hier kommen künstlerische Strategien und Produktionen ins Spiel, die sich öffentlichen Raum durch den Einsatz von performativen, narrativen und gestalterischen Mitteln aneignen und den gewohnten Umgang mit dem Öffentlichen verändern. Die Produktionen¹¹, an die ich denke, lassen sich nicht in den Reigen der unzähligen großen Events oder Festivals einreihen, sie nützen dem Stadtmarketing nichts und eignen sich nicht für das Hopping von Biennale zu Biennale. Vielleicht produzieren sie nicht einmal ein überragendes künstlerisches Endprodukt. Aber sie generieren einen Prozess, in dem die Bewohner und Benutzer einer Stadt ihre bekannten Orte mit neuen Augen sehen und sie mit neuen Geschichten aufladen.
Für diesen Prozess sind künstlerische Qualitäten außerordentlich wichtig, denn nur wenn der Prozess funktioniert, wird er etwas verändern. Solche künstlerischen Prozesse schaffen neue Öffentlichkeiten, die nicht von Planung und Bebauung geprägt sind, sondern von Narration, Identität und Aneignung. Diese Öffentlichkeiten sind eher ephemer als solide, sie müssen ständig neu hergestellt und dabei neu verhandelt werden. Sie haben aber durchaus das Potenzial, dass sie das Leben in den Städten transformieren und dabei die Kultur des Zusammenlebens in urbanen Räumen mitgestalten.

1.) Habermas, Jürgen: Strukturwandel der Öffentlichkeit. Untersuchungen zu einer Kategorie der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft. Neuwied/Berlin: Luchterhand 1962.
2.) Bourriaud, Nicolas: Relational aesthetics, Dijon-Quetigny: Les Presses du Réel 2002.
3.) Bishop, Claire: Participation. MIT Press 2006.
4.) Rancière, Jacques: Der emanzipierte Zuschauer. (R. Steurer, Trans., P. Engelmann, Ed.) (1st ed.). Passagen Verlag 2008.
5.) Sennett, Richard: The Fall of Public Man, New York: Knopf 1977.
6.) Siehe dazu: Zˇizˇek, Slavoj: THE UNDOING OF AN EVENT, OR, TOWARDS THE LOSS OF PUBLIC SPACE. Vortrag bei reART:theURBAN, Zürich 2012.
7.) Certeau, Michel de: L’Invention du Quotidien. Vol. 1, Arts de Faire, Paris 1980.
8.) Lefebvre, Henri: La production de l‘espace, Paris: Gallimard, Collection „Idées“ 1974.
9.) Löw, Martina: Raumsoziologie, Frankfurt a. M. 2001.
10.) Harvey, David: The Condition of Postmodernity, Oxford, 1989.
11.) Siehe Beispiele auf www.whatsnextart.net

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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From World Art to Global Art. View on a New Panorama

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

Recent books with titles such as World Art History and Global Art History seem to suggest that the two terms can be used as synonyms. But, in fact, world art and global art today have very different meanings, ever since the notion global art came up around twenty years ago. World art is an old idea complementary to modernism, designating the art of the others because or although it was mostly to be found in Western museums. It continues to signify art from all ages, the heritage of mankind. In fact, world art included art of every possible provenance while at the same time excluding it from Western mainstream art – a colonial distinction between art museums and ethnographic museums. World art is officially codified in international laws for the protection of cultural heritage and monuments. Global art, on the other hand, is recognized as the sudden and worldwide production of art that did not exist or did not garner attention until the late 1980s. By its own definition global art is contemporary and in spirit postcolonial; thus it is guided by the intention to replace the center and periphery scheme of a hegemonic modernity, and also claims freedom from the privilege of history (for an overview of publications see: this volume*, pp. 60–73).
This essay was written to prove how the notion of world art and its new companion term global art came into use, how the meaning of the terms changed, and what they reveal about the history of ideas and the inherent notions of art. I hope to make it clear how terminology provides a key to understanding the underlying intentions. However, one and the same notion, namely world art, also changed what it referenced, especially when the term global art came into use. This essay is divided into four parts, and begins with the concept of world art before turning to global art. A Paris exhibition in 1989 serves as a missing link, as it marked the time when world art split from global art. A fourth and final section deals with art history and its new challenges.

1.
World art was initially coined as a colonial notion that was in use for collecting the art of “the others” as a different kind of art, an art that was also found in different museums where anthropologists and not art critics had the say-so. The so-called Atlas of World Art, which John Onians edited in 2004, admittedly corrected this bias by including Western art in such an overview, the only remaining distinction being geographical difference. But up to this date the colonial connotation had been inherent in the conception of world art. It was central to the separation of world art from Western art by the abyss created by art history’s narratives. The Vienna school of art history, a hundred years ago, favored the term Weltkunst in order to expand the discipline’s field of competence. In this sense, Heinrich Glück, in the Festschrift for Josef Strzygowski, in 1934, wrote a study with the title Hauptwerke der Weltkunst. In Germany,
the magazine Die Kunstauktion, founded in 1927, was -relabeled Weltkunst in 1930 since world art had become -attractive for collectors. For some people, world art nourished a feeling of nostalgia whenever they felt dis-illusioned with modern art and longed for a lost past. This is not to say that a general study of art production across the world makes no sense; it depends on which purpose its description serves and whether it includes or excludes the one who is speaking. “World History,” as initiated by William H. McNeill and others in the postwar period, proved to be a successful approach; however, it left no doubt that it included the West and that there was no longer a Eurocentric view of the “other”
as a subject for writing history.¹ Ultimately, historians have the same problem with a terminology that distinguishes between world history and global history – despite the obvious need for such a distinction in the global age. History has less of a problem in the case of “world literature” as a comparative field of studies and in the sense that Goethe used the term when he recomposed the German translation of Arab poems in his West-Eastern Divan. After all, translation as a burden and challenge distinguishes literature from the field of art. Colonial trading and collecting of art and artifacts was always directed toward single objects or artifacts, which more often than not were deprived of their history and previous use when they arrived in Western collections. When we look back on colonialism the reader and the collector are two different roles.
The history of the world art discourse also distinguishes the background of two schools which have introduced education in world art into the academic curriculum. There is, on the one hand, the new School of World Art Studies at Leiden University, which was initiated as an interdisciplinary project by the art historian Kitty -Zijlmans and the ethnographer Winfred van Damme.
At Leiden, the global production of today’s art is seen against the presence of the colonial history of the Netherlands.² And, on the other hand, there is the Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts at the University of East Anglia in Norwich whose Department of Art History was renamed in “Departmentof World Art Studies” in 1992. In this case, the Sainsbury Collection of art from Africa and Oceania was presented to the university as a gift, and John Onians, in his Atlas of World Art, paid tribute to the legacy of the Sainsbury collection in his own way.³ The magazine World Art, which was launched by the Sainsbury Centre in March 2011, in its editorial pointed to
“a major change in attitudes concerning what art is.” “World art,” the text continued, “has widely differing resonances,” and is “centered on human creativity […]. The consideration of ancient cultures around the globe must inform a broader rethinking of world art.”
The Sainsbury collection was, however, guided by a Kantian value judgment as an aesthetic postulate. This justified art by what seemed to be its universal and timeless form, purified from whatever content and cultural context. Thus, so-called world art was regarded as evidence that art had always been modern and had always been nothing but form, whatever its cultural conditions may have been. This view served both ends and justified modern art as well as world art. The Sainsbury family enjoyed “primitive” art for the same reasons as modern art, collecting the one and the other side by side. The collector Sir Robert Sainsbury found general consent when he confessed, to quote from the mission statement of the museum, that he had brought together “work spanning 5000 years of human creativity.” This confidence, however, only worked when the two parties were neatly separated: on the one hand the anonymous object, and on the other modern artists who by definition had to be Western and, preferably, British, like Francis Bacon whose work was collected in the 1950s by the Sainsbury family.
The Sainsbury Centre in the meantime acknowledges the fact that a watershed separates the traditional artisan, as he appeared in a colonial gaze, from a postcolonial artist who was born into the diversity and coevalness of “contemporary worlds,” to borrow Marc Augé’s felicitous term, and can no longer be represented by an ethnographic object.⁴ He or she may work next door as an artist-in-residence. At the British Museum, the Department of Ethnography, with its rich collections also from the Sainsbury family, started an initiative to actively collect contemporary art and to collaborate with artists, mostly of African origin, as a wall text informed visitors to the collection in 2007.⁵ But artists from the former colonies turned against such Western collections with their postcolonial critique, since these did not allow for the self-representation of their ancestors. Also Western curators of ethnographic museums face a crisis which makes the collection principles and exhibition practices a difficult problem. Sally Price points up the problem trenchantly in her book Primitive Art in Civilized Places, an acerbic account of the appropriation politics of foreign artifacts and religious art in Euramerica.⁶
World art – a kind of aesthetic appropriation of objects as pure “form” or as proof of individual creativity on a universal scale – was best described in André Malraux’s book Le musée imaginaire⁷, first published in 1947, a book based on a universal aesthetics despite cultural and historical differences.⁸ The author, a writer with personal experience of the French colonies in Asia, claimed to have overcome the traditional dualism between (Western) art and (ethnic) world art, which he identified as an outdated colonial attitude. Malraux also applied a Western art concept, the formalism of those days, without regard to the chronology and geography of art history, and compared medieval Western art and Buddhist sculpture or the art of Gandha-ra. Paradoxically, he still worshipped the museum, even if he dreamed of an ideal museum without walls, a museum in the brain or, for that matter, in a book.
World art, in the meantime, matters for identity politics in cultures that had no previous share in colonial selecting and collecting. Their history, whether precolonial or colonial, was embedded in and embodied by objects as items of cultural practice, but usually this was lost with their entry into a Western museum. Neil MacGregor, the director of the British Museum, therefore turned the tables when he published his BBC series A History of the World in 100 Objects in 1996. He gave their history back to the objects and also included modern Western examples or objects with a colonial use among them. The change from the exhibition hall to the text of a book also made it possible for him to include specimens of mass culture from the modern age.
But world art nowadays also receives unwelcome attention due to the growing pressure of repatriation claims from the former colonies. Metropolitan museums of the West, often accused of being outposts of empire and colonialism, today have to rethink their arguments in order to defend their collections. The British Museum is among them, and Neil MacGregor, claimed his museum to be “not only a museum of the world but also a museum for the world.”⁹ Along these lines he opened a blockbuster show with the Chinese Terracotta Army that attracted large crowds in 2007,¹⁰ thus ascertaining his claim not only to own, but also to promote world art. A bookshop on Great Russell Street I came across at the time, unintentionally offered a telling -example for the need of our distinction. The owner of the shop presented two books on world art and one on global art, although all three books were about art from China, side by side in the same window display.¹¹ The catalog of the show at the British Museum across the street shared the window with a book that was dedicated to visits to the studios of living Artists in China, as the title stated, and therefore would not have been possible as recently as twenty years ago.
The relation of world art to modern art, as the very canon of Western art, was linked to the notion of so-called Primitivism, as Robert Goldwater called a certain current of modern avant-garde in his book Primitivism in Modern Painting of 1938, published a few years after the MOMA had launched the exhibition African Negro Art in 1935. Primitivism, one of the basic creeds of modernism, was represented, and representable, for the last time ever in William Rubin’s Museum of Modern Art show of 1984 when its time already was over and the -reviews concentrated almost unanimously on the ethnocentric bias of the concept. The show’s subtitle “The Affinity of the Tribal and the Modern” was an attempt to explain, and to exculpate, the hegemonic appropriation of tribal artifacts by modern artists who borrowed “primitive” forms for their own work, thus translating them into an idiom of modern art. After the fact, the -so-called affinity was celebrated as a proof of the universality and timeless formal value of the modernist canon. But James Clifford, in a review of the show, -objected that one should “question the boundaries of art and the art world,”¹² and also opposed the distinction between modernist art and traditional craftsmanship in a colonial discourse.
A few years later, in 1988, Susan Vogel launched the exhibition Art/Artifact in the Center for African Art in New York as an attempt to reconsider the issues of the MOMA show. The debate about art and artifact had been lingering on for quite some time and had divided the exhibition practice of ethnographic museums. However, now the debate took a new turn. The shift happened at a moment when the Western concept of art had lost its clear profile in contemporary practice and had left the definition of art up in the air. A symposium linked to the 1988 show addressed the question “What makes something art?”. Thomas McEvilley, one of the participants, stated that “the boundaries of what had been called art had been stretched to the point where it seemed silly even to bring it up,” and he added that -so-called primitive art “is the only context left, which brings up the question of what is art.” As a result he -proposed “anthropology as a cultural critique, not forcing objects from other cultures into our categories, but rather allowing those objects to raise questions about ours.” The author concluded: “The fact that we designate something as art means that it is art for us, but says nothing about what it is in itself or for other people.”¹³ In the catalog of Susan Vogel’s show, Arthur C. Danto not only challenged the modernist creed of universal art. He even turned the debate about the so-called primitives on its head and maintained “there is no art more advanced than theirs.”¹⁴ In other words, the notion of “art” had lost its clear agenda in late modernism and could no longer be applied to or turned against the ethnographic object. Rather, the debate centered after 1989 on the question of how to deal with the fact that modern international art had lost its geographical frontiers, or home base, and had now ended up in global art, as the new distinction from world art was called. The former dualism of art and artifact was put aside when contemporary art production in a professional sense had become general practice and was no longer the West’s prerogative.

2.
A first step along this road was taken by the Havana Biennial, founded in 1984, at its two venues in 1986 and 1989. With 690 artists from 57 countries, the 1986 Biennial “created a new space, acting as a gigantic ‘Salon des Refusés’,” to quote Gerardo Mosquera.¹⁵ The focus on Latin America was a critical response to mainstream art, although the notion of “Third World Art” was only included in the official title for the 1989 venue. The two Havana Biennials still insisted on otherness and proclaimed an alternative internationalism without the dictate of Eurocentrism. Already in 1987, Rasheed Araeen had founded the periodical Third Text as a critical forum “for Third World Perspectives on the visual arts.” The concept of “Third World” went out of use with the end of the Cold War but it served as an interlude -before global art emerged (see: this volume*, pp. 41–48). The third Havana Biennial, in 1989, mixed high art with popular art in order to undermine the Western art system and to insist on local traditions other than art history’s narratives.¹⁶
The MOMA exhibition of 1984 had still been a colonial project, although it took place in the postcolonial era. Jean-Hubert Martin was ready to go beyond this divided world by proclaiming division as a practice had to be abolished. Magiciens de la terre, as the participants were called to avoid any protests by Western art critics, was hailed as “the first really global exhibition of contemporary art” (La première exposition reellement mondiale d’art contemporain), to quote the Gazette des Arts (see: this volume*, pp. 66–67 and pp. 212–220). The huge discussion and dissent which his show provoked, was not only due to its location in a former center of colonial politics and modernist Western art. Of equal importance was the unprecedented confrontation of a number of renowned Western artists with an equal number of formerly excluded artists from what had been the colonies. Each artist was given equal treatment, two pages in the catalog, giving only his or her name, work title, and place of birth.
It was a bold step to leave the opposing worlds of modern art and world art behind and to arrive in a shared world of global art. But Martin was accused of continuing the colonial game of the authentic because of selecting so-called “native” artists as the counterparts of their Western colleagues, especially since postcolonial artists working with video and installation already -replaced the former artisans. Martin also invited professional artist, for example, Chéri Samba, who presented his artistic self in the show with a self-portrait and a biography: the anonymous artisan from Africa had become a face with a name and a professional career. In the end the show succeeded in that both parties, even against their will, emerged as contemporaries with a name and a passport. The one no longer looked modern, and the other no longer ethnic in the old colonial sense. A few years later, in 1995, Jean-Hubert Martin became the director of André Malraux’s Musée des Arts d’Afrique et d’Océanie (founded 1962) in Paris. As par-ticipating curator of the first Johannesburg Biennale, -Africus, in the same year, Martin analyzed what he hoped would be a new future for world art, as a contemporary practice, in the museum.¹⁷ He distinguished between the ethnographic museum, where everything is explained, and the art museum where living artists, as representatives of human creativity, would honor “art’s heroes and ancestors.” But the boundaries, as he argued, were to become “increasingly unclear, and we have yet to create an art museum […] where artists of all the world can meet […] and compare themselves with historical works.” His own museum in Paris, Martin hoped, would “become such a place” and also artists would be able to take over the former role of anthropologists. At that time Martin did not know that his museum would soon be incorporated in the newly created Musée du Quai Branly in Paris, which opened its doors in 2006 and initially excluded professional contemporary artists from Africa and Oceania in order to celebrate once again the old myth of the arts premiers, a myth from colonial times. André Malraux had founded his museum as a place where ethnic art would be staged as an aesthetic experience, as was the creed of modernist times. In the meantime, however, such a colonial attitude was pass., and it was generally agreed that Malraux’s project no longer represented the global age.¹⁸

3.
In 1990, Thomas McEvilley, who had previously contributed to the catalog, reviewed the Magiciens show under the heading “The Global Issue.”¹⁹ Despite all criticism, whether from the right or the left, he acknowledged that the show was a first attempt to curate art in a truly postcolonial way. This was also the general response in the July 1989 edition of the magazine Art in America where a review of the Magiciens exhibition appeared titled “The Whole Earth Show.” The front cover of the same magazine featured a NASA shot of the Earth together with the title “The Global Issue” (see: this volume, pp. 64–65). For the first time the planetary view had been taken from an extraterrestrial position in space.
In order to justify what was a neologism in the art scene, the magazine presented six statements on the global world, including a text by the artist Martha Rosler and one by the anthropologist James Clifford. There was a general feeling about the danger of an unwelcome homogenization and consumer culture, caused by the -euphoria of Theodore Levitt’s view of “the marketing -imagination.”²⁰ Nevertheless, Craig Owens concluded: “Perhaps it is in this project of learning how to represent ourselves – how to speak to, rather than for or about, others – that the possibility of a ‘global’ culture resides.”²¹ Further, the interviews with fourteen “peripatetic artists,” as they were labeled in the same edition, confirmed that a global space for art was in the making.
History writing changed as well with the arrival of globalization. A “New Global History,” as Bruce Mazlish called it, “focuses on the history of globalization” and views “processes that are best studied on a global rather than a local, national, or regional level.”²² After all, he continued, “globalization is a process now going on around us, while world history stretches in all directions. One speaks of globalization; one can hardly speak of worldlization as a movement operating today.” It was a paradox to write a history not of the past, but of living together on the planet.
Globalization, indeed a road of no return, provided a place for artists who for a long time had been excluded with the label world art. Thus we can call the Magiciens show an intermezzo in which the cards were shuffled again. One could also call it a rite de passage, which marked a one-off transitory event that passed. The project would have been impossible before, and was no longer possible afterwards when globalization had opened up a new territory of art. Both terms, modern art and world art, suddenly looked old. The Magiciens project led into no man’s land where we still are and where we navigate with the help of provisional terminology. The show happened at the same time the posthistory debate reached its climax and the Cold War, with its confrontation of two systems, collapsed. It now seemed that inter-national art, an art between nations, though to be sure Western nations, had been an affair of the modern age and that the term no longer covered a polycentric map where cultures took over the former distinctions of nations.
With the Paris Magiciens show, global art made its entry into the art world. While world art remained synonymous with the art heritage of the “others,” global art by contrast crossed the boundaries and demanded acceptance as a contemporary practice on an equal footing with Western art. As the term global art was not yet acceptable to everybody, in January 1992 the journal Kunstforum International returned to the term “Weltkunst,” but linked it to an explanatory definition of “Globalkultur.” The editor, Paolo Bianchi, reminded his readers that a new kind of ethnicity was transforming the visual arts.²³ Ethnicity had been a concern in the debate on world art, but never in modern art. Now it became an issue in aspirations to identity and difference even for those who presented themselves as postethnic (for example, as “artists from Africa” instead “African artists”).²⁴ As a result, curators of biennials take over the former “fieldwork” of ethnographers to promote local artists and to create new “art regions” with a common transnational profile.
There was another notable episode in the terminology of the 1980s. Shortly before the term global art became firmly established, the old term world art was given a new significance as a label for the emerging new geography of art production. Thus, Jean-Louis Pradel’s book chose the title World Art Trends. 1983–84 in order to include a few newcomers from non-Western countries among the international artists. This kind of confusion also reached the seventh Sydney Biennale of 1988 which was proclaimed as A View of World Art 1940–1988 (see: this volume*, pp. 60–73). It should be noted that a show in Cologne, seven years earlier, in 1981, with the same time period (1939 to 1981) marked the -inclusion of American artists in what the curators called postwar “Western art” (Westkunst). However, this postwar position no longer represented the new frontiers. It was even attacked in retrospect when in 1989 Rasheed Araeen curated the exhibition The Other Story in London, emphasizing the other, neglected story of modern art.²⁵ The Sydney catalog explains the 1988 Biennale’s purpose as “an exhibition in Australia of contemporary art both from here and overseas”²⁶ and as an “attempt to view key developments in world art since 1940 from an Australian perspective,”²⁷ as against the old center and periphery view from Paris or New York.
The year 1988 also marked the bicentennial of white settlement of Australia, a commemoration that caused a hot debate among the Aboriginal Australians about their participation at the Sydney Biennale. In order to cope with the controversy, the curatorial board commissioned 200 hollow log bone coffins to be created by twelve Aboriginal artists from the Ramingining Artists Community symbolizing 200 years of oppression (see: this volume*, p. 127 and p. 167). But it could not be overlooked that the Biennale was otherwise restricted, as far as Australia’s part was concerned, to twenty-six “European Australians,” among them several pioneers of the modernist movement. Five years later, indigenous Australians entered the official ranks of the contemporary art scene. Three Aboriginal women artists were included among the nine participants from Australia. The Asia Pacific Triennial of Contemporary Art, launched in 1993 by the Queensland Gallery, Brisbane, was an ambitious attempt at remapping the former art world (see: this volume*, pp. 112–113). Australia in the meantime opted for the Asia-Pacific region as its cultural background. The official acceptance of Aboriginal art as -contemporary art had been heralded by the exhibition Dreamings in 1988, which left behind the ethnocentrism at the Sydney Biennale of the same year. Thus, -Aboriginal art, as a branch of what had formerly been called world art, entered the territory of contemporary art under the auspices of what was now called global art.

4.
The global conditions of today’s art production, to come to my final section, leaves art history with unexpected questions. Can art history become global at all? Who writes art history in the future, and does it need to be art history in the common sense and with a common concept not only of art but also of history? It was not a coincidence that the 2008 Congress of the International Committee of the History of Art (CIHA), which took place in Melbourne, Australia, did not by chance address these questions with such vigor. And because this was so, it changed the history of art history forever. Its title Crossing Cultures, understood as a move in every direction, indicated a shift of perspective that gave up the idea of a privileged viewing point and also the notion of cultures not already penetrated by other cultures. Understandably enough, though, there was still ambiguities in terminology as there were many participants. Conference sections with titles such as “Perspectives on Global Art History” and “The Idea of World Art History” raised the question whether the two notions mean the same at all.²⁸ If we are willing to use definition as distinction, rather than as affirmation, then the different history of the two terms cannot be overlooked. After the arrival of global art, also world art must be newly defined and, ultimately liberated from its colonial baggage.
The same CIHA congress had a section on global art, but labeled the latter as contemporary art in a new sense. “Writing the history of contemporary art,”²⁹ to quote the title of Terry Smith’s essay, is a paradox for an art which, in many ways, comes after history and even turns against history. Alexander Alberro, in the same section, concluded that periodizing contemporary art is “subject to a battlefield of narratives and stories.”³⁰ This conclusion is almost inevitable, since contemporary art is site specific and looks very different when we pass from one local perspective to another. The only consensus was that the term contemporary art no longer merely designates the most recent art, but distinguishes this art from modern art. The term postmodern, however, is not available, as it stood for something inside modernism. Terms like “multiple” or “alternative modernities” are only serviceable to those who want to reclaim a neglected or forgotten modernity of their own.³¹ Global art is not only polycentric as a practice, but also demands a polyphonic discourse. Art history has divided the world, whereas the global age tends to restore its unity on another level. Not only is the game different: it is also open to new participants who speak in many tongues and who differ in how they conceive of art in a local perspective. We are watching a new mapping of art worlds in the plural (see: this volume*, pp. 246–254), which claim geographic and cultural difference.
Art history, as I have insisted myself on various occasions, suddenly appears to have been a rather local game that worked best for art from the Renaissance onwards. I have called it a post-Vasarian narrative that does not even adequately describe medieval art and its religious images.³² To speak of Art History after Modern-ism, as I did in the title of a book³³ which continues the arguments of The End of Art History with reference to the exodus of contemporary art from art history, means art history faces a new challenge after the end of modern-ism. Global art not only accelerates contemporary art’s departure from the guidelines of a linear art history, it also flourishes in parts of the world where art history has never been practiced or where it only followed colonial models. The loss of a central place of art history in art theory and art display may also explain the new role of curatorial studies or visual studies that have replaced art history in the curriculum of art academies such as the Goldsmith College in London. The majority of today’s art curators is trained in political, social, or cultural sciences rather than in art history, and thus tend to emphasize art’s political or cultural agenda as against aesthetics.
However, we need not speak of art history’s crisis unless we are thinking of a necessary crisis. The time has come to rewrite art history in the West as well in order to respond to a new audience that looks at Western art with other premises. I therefore do not share a current trend in US American art history that excludes the rest of the world either by writing “World Art History” on a universal scale and thus restoring an old privilege of the West³⁴ or by denying that art history can ever work outside the West.³⁵ Rather, I feel the need to encourage other, new narratives with a local perspective of art history that abandons obedience to the colonial gaze of former world art studies. World art, in the old sense, tended to support the mainstream art discourse via exclusion. Today, we need a new paradigm and a postcolonial discourse for world art studies that are based on comparative studies which are on equal footing. For example, we take for granted the study of Chinese language and history at Western institutions but shut our eyes to the news that the National University of Beijing has opened a Department of Western Classics (Greco-Roman) and supports a bilateral conference with Durham University. In short, world art history is only justified as a cross-cultural project that also admits looking at Western -culture and art history from the outside. This is the challenge of the global age, in which we have to recover our narratives with new eyes.
Yet Western art history also faces a problem on its own territory. This is the noncontinuity of the story that connects premodern, modern, and current art. The linear story in the genealogy of modern art which Alfred H. Barr, Jr. devised for the MOMA in the 1930s, no longer continues to represent art since the 1960s even in the West, as an unsuccessful attempt to prolong this genealogy demonstrated at the Tate Modern in London.³⁶ And the methods of art history fail to explain the transition from the artwork, with its given place in history and its survival in a collection, to art projects that are ephemeral and badly documented, to give just one example from changing art practice. I am not complain-ing about this turn of events, but I do wonder whether art history needs to look back and discover its own past with fresh eyes. It appears that we have reached a watershed where the West is encountering the same situation as other cultures. Entry into the global age where art production has become general not only marks a beginning but also an end, the end of the old world map of art with its center and periphery scheme.
At the same time, when art production becomes a global condition, the diversity of visual cultures or art histories that appear behind today’s art practice and art theories is something we all have in common. In other words, what at first sight looks like the new homogeneity of a “flat” world, a second glance reveals as a diversity of traditions that demand a similar diversity of local narratives, including that of Western art history. I ventured forth in this direction when, in a recent book, I tried to show that the invention of perspective in Florence in the end turns out to have been a local game and, furthermore, that it responded to an Arab theory of optical perception (called “perspective” in the Latin translation), that, however, represented a different visual culture. It needs a cross-cultural investigation to look at Western art in the new expanded space from the outside.³⁷
Today art history faces a challenge of a different kind. The rise of new art worlds in many parts of the world demand a narrative that also takes into account the growing role of economics and the politics of art in describing art. The documentary part of the exhibition The Global Contemporary in 2011/2012, therefore, turned to descriptions that, in contradistinction to the paradigm of self-referential art history (art as a system apart), emphasized the need for geopolitical and institutional aspects beyond issues of style, innovation, and progress (see: this volume*, pp. 50–59). It was the documentation’s aim to create a space for different and even competing histories instead of a single art history. Art’s complicity with contemporaneous social, religious, and cultural worlds was surely always given, but its complicity goes further since art today “has more to do with clarifying cultural identity than with aesthetic feeling,” as Thomas McEvilley wrote in 1995.³⁸ Art is not only produced “in an atmosphere of global dialog,” as he added, but serves the competition of conflicting politics of representation. The emergence of art spaces, which share the name but not the function of what we called a museum, is part of the game, as also is the spread of art markets to Asia. This new state of things, in retrospect, sharpens the view of what art has been in the past and demands the interaction of different art histories. In other words, the present world leaves most of us in a similar situation in the face of an unwritten history of world art as a joint enterprise.

Translated from the German by Elizabeth Volk.

Wiederabdruck
Dieser Text erschien zuerst in: Hans Belting, Andrea Buddensieg, and Peter Weibel (eds.), The Global Contemporary and the Rise of New Art Worlds, exhib. The Global Contemporary, Art Worlds after 1989, ZKM Center for Art and Media Karlsruhe, Sept. 17, 2011 – Feb. 5, 2012, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2013, pp. 178–185.

* “this volume“ refers to: Hans Belting, Andrea Buddensieg, and Peter Weibel (eds.), The Global Contemporary and the Rise of New Art Worlds, exhib. The Global Contemporary, Art Worlds after 1989, ZKM Center for Art and Media Karlsruhe, Sept. 17, 2011 – Feb. 5, 2012, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2013.

1.) Bruce Mazlish, “Comparing Global History to World History,“ in: Journal of Interdisciplinary History, vol. 28, no. 3, 1998, pp. 385–395.
2.) Kitty Zijlmans and Wilfred van Damme (eds.), World Art Studies: Exploring Concepts and Approaches, Valiz, Amsterdam, 2008.
3.) John Onians, “A New Geography of Art Museums,“ in: Peter Weibel and Andrea Buddensieg (eds.), Contemporary Art and the Museum. A Global Perspec-tive, Hatje Cantz, Ostfildern, 2007, pp. 124–138; John Onians (ed.), Atlas of World Art, Laurence King, London, 2004. The latter is a book with 68 contributors that intends to cover the whole history of human picture production.
4.) Marc Aug., An Anthropology for Contemporaneous Worlds, Stanford University Press, Palo Alto (CA), 1999, pp. 89ff.
5.) See: Hans Belting, “Contemporary Art as Global Art,“ in: Hans Belting and Andrea Buddensieg (eds.), The Global Art World – Audiences, Markets, and Museums, Hatje Cantz, Ostfildern, 2009, pp. 38–73, p. 56, fig. 8.
6.) Sally Price, Primitive Art in Civilized Places, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago (IL), 1985.
7.) Hans Belting, Art History after Modernism, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago (IL), 2003, pp. 153ff.
8.) Ibid.
9.) See: Belting 2007, p. 33.
10.) The First Emperor: China’s Terracotta Army, The British Museum, September 13, 2007 – April 6, 2008.
11.) See: Belting 2009, p. 43, fig. 3.
12.) James Clifford, The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-century Ethnography, Literature, and Art, Harvard University Press, Cambridge (MA), 2002, p. 213.
13.) Thomas McEvilley, Art and Otherness: Crisis in Cultural Identity, McPherson, Kingston (NY), 1992, pp. 164–165.
14.) Arthur C. Danto, “Artifact and Art,“ in: Art/Artifact: African Art in Anthropology Collections, exhib. cat., Center for African Art, New York, et al., The Center for African Art, New York (NY) and Prestel Verlag, Munich, 1988, pp. 18ff.
15.) Gerardo Mosquera, “The Third Bienal de la Habana in its Global and Local Contexts,“ in: Rachel Weiss et al., Making Art Global (Part 1): The Third Havana Biennial 1989, Exhibition Histories, vol. 2, Afterall, London, 2011, pp. 70–79, p. 74.
16.) See: Luis Camnitzer, “The Third Biennial of Havana,“ in: Rachel Weiss et al., Making Art Global (Part 1): The Third Havana Biennial 1989, Exhibition Histories, vol. 2, Afterall, London, 2011, pp. 206–214, p. 207.
17.) Jean-Hubert Martin, “Art in a multi-ethnic society,“ in: Africus: Johannesburg Biennale, exhib. cat., Transnational Metropolitan Council, 1995, p. 49.
18.) Bernard Dupaigne, Le scandale des arts premiers: La véritable histoire du musée du quai Branly, Mille et une nuit, Paris, 2006.
19.) McEvilley 1992, p. 153.
20.) Theodore Levitt, The Marketing Imagination, Free Press, New York (NY), 1983.
21.) “The Global Issue: A Symposium. James Clifford, Boris Groys, Craig Owens, Martha Rosler, Robert Storr, Michele Wallace,“ in: Art in America, vol. 77, no. 7, July 1989, p. 89.
22.) Bruce Mazlish, “The New Global History,“ available online at: www.newglobalhistory.com/docs/mazlich-the-new-global-history.pdf, see: p. 5, accessed 09/04/2012. See also: Bruce Mazlish, “On History Becoming History: World History and New Global History,“ available online at: www.newglobalhistory.com/docs/mazlish-on-history-becoming-history.pdf, accessed 09/04/2012. I thank Sara Giannini for this link.
23.) Paolo Bianchi, “Vorwort,“ in: Bianchi (ed.), “Weltkunst – Globalkultur,“ in: Kunstforum International, vol. 118, 1992, pp. 72–291, p. 73
24.) See: Hans Belting, “Contemporary Art and the Museum in the Global Age,“ in: Peter Weibel and Andrea Buddensieg (eds.), Contemporary Art and the Museum. A Global Perspective, Hatje Cantz, Ostfildern, 2007, pp. 16–38, p. 34.
25.) Rasheed Araeen (ed.), The Other Story: Afro-Asian Artists in Post-war Britain, exhib. cat., Hayward Gallery, London, 1989.
26.) Franco Belgiorno-Nettis, “Chairman’s Preface,“ in: From the Southern Cross: A View of World Art c. 1940–1988,“ exhib. cat., 1988 Australian Biennale, Biennale of Sydney, 1988, p. 7.
27.) Nick Waterlow, “A View of World Art c. 1940–88,“ in: From the Southern Cross: A View of World Art c. 1940–1988,“ exhib. cat., 1988 Australian Biennale, Biennale of Sydney, 1988, p. 9, italics added.
28.) See: Jaynie Anderson (ed.), Crossing Cultures: Conflict, Migration and Convergence. The Proceedings of the 32nd International Congress in the History of Art, The Miegunyah Press, Carlton (Victoria), 2009.
29.) Alexander Alberro, “Periodising Contemporary Art,“ in: ibid., p. 938.
30.) Terry Smith, “Writing the History of Contemporary Art,“ in: ibid., p. 918.
31.) See: Araeen’s Magazine Third Text; and books like Dilip Parameshwar Gaonkar (ed.), Alternative Modernities, Duke University Press, Durham (NC), 2001.
32.) Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image Before the Era of Art, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago (IL), 1994.
33.) Hans Belting, Art History after Modernism, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago (IL), 2002.
34.) For critical reflections on the problems implicated see: David Carrier, A World Art History and its Objects, Penn State University Press, University Park (PA), 2008.
35.) James Elkins (ed.), Is Art History Global?, Routledge, London et al., 2007.
36.) Belting, 2009, p. 46.
37.) Hans Belting, Florence and Bagdad: Renaissance Art and Arab Science, Harvard University Press, Cambridge (MA), 2011.
38.) Thomas McEvilley, “Here comes everybody,“ in: Africus: Johannesburg Biennale, exhib. cat., Transnational Metropolitan Council, 1995, p. 57.