Monday, March 29, 1999

I Am An Other: Existentialism and the Discourse of the Other in Ingmar Bergman's Persona

There can be no denying that films categorized as ‘art cinema’ can to a great extent remain obtuse to most viewers. Those who limit themselves to the traditional narrative-based films of commercial cinema usually find the demands of art cinema to be far too great for either their understanding or enjoyment. It is in fact the demands of the genre that ultimately provide the most pleasure and stimulation for the intelligent critic. Decoding art cinema cannot be accomplished without the proper theoretical tools, however, as some form of critical theory – be it psychoanalysis, semiotics, or Marxist thought – should inform the analysis. Ingmar Bergman’s Persona very definitely exemplifies this conception of art cinema. Upon first screening the film, many viewers will remain undoubtedly confused as to the purpose and meaning of the film. Certainly, an easy understanding of Persona is hindered by Bergman’s use of unorthodox stylistic devices at several points in the film, notably during the opening and middle sequences. Several theoretical models for analysing the film allow the critic points of access to its meaning. While a psychoanalytical approach might initially seem obvious, a deconstructionist / existentialist analysis seems more fitting with the tone of the film. The philosophical backdrop of the film is most obviously existentialist in nature. Realization of the absurdity of life informs the actions of both protagonists; Elizabeth is the first to realize this, although by the middle of the film Alma has acknowledged it as well. The relationship between the two can be most easily understood in terms of the Derrida-Buber discourse of the Other. They are defined by each other and are therefore dependent on each other for identity. When each realizes this interdependency, not long into Persona, the Other loses its rigid boundaries and they become in effect one personality.

The title of the film itself refers to this concept of ‘slippery personality’, and indeed extends to signify the existential undertones of the entire picture. ‘Persona’ can be understood by the various Latin meanings for the word: personality, character, part in a play. Certainly Persona is an observation of, and even an extended meditation on, the two personalities of the protagonists. The camera lingers on their features, both physical and behavioural, and indeed the viewer is directed into an intimate relationship with them. Additionally, in several instances the characters recognize themselves as characters within the film, acknowledging the camera either verbally, as when Alma converses with an off-screen woman almost as though she were being interviewed by the camera / viewer, or visually, occurring most often when one of the characters stares straight at the camera and out toward the viewer. Such stylistic devices are not foreign to art cinema, and indeed self-recognition by films can be seen as part of the definition of the genre. A more significant and appropriate interpretation can be made using alternate meanings for ‘persona’ however. The term can also signify a mask, a fallacy, or a pretense, and in these contexts a deeper insight into the motivations of the characters is gained. By realizing that their personalities are masks and fallacies, and consequently that their lives are not in fact “real”, they begin to understand the ultimately absurd nature of existence. Elizabeth is the first to perceive the situation of her ridiculous existence, and indeed this consciousness is the catalyst for the narrative. During a stage performance she ceases speaking and turns away from the audience; thereafter she ceases to speak altogether. She turns away from all of these assumed personas, and this act is Elizabeth’s attempt at rejecting the falsity of modern existence. Her role in the play is no more or less real than any of the roles she enacts in her personal life; each is equally a mask. Consequently, her escape from domestic life – demonstrated most obviously when she destroys the picture of her son – can be explained as another false identity which must be abandoned.

Furthermore, the chaos and arbitrariness of life as internalized and rejected by Elizabeth are confirmed in several sequences. She is horrified by the Vietnamese scenes of war and the self-immolation of the Buddhist monk that she watches on television, and equally so by the photograph of Jewish persecution under the Nazis. A disbelief in a divine power is never blatantly expressed in Persona, yet such confrontations with reality-as-suffering confirm for Elizabeth the Nietzschian and existentialist maxim of “God is dead”. There is no ultimate truth around which Elizabeth can structure her life, there remain only the personality masks that she once assumed and now rejects. Her artistic life no longer represents anything of reality, as any harmony and order that it champions does not exist in such an arbitrarily violent and chaotic world, as depicted in the scenes from war. She can no longer function by taking on her personas, so consequently she rejects her artistic life and adopts what she believes as a ‘more real’ truth – that of non-functioning, or at least not displaying any vocal communication, the most obvious outward trapping of falsity. Alma similarly comes to realize the artifice of her own personality, most evidently when she relates her involvement in an orgy with another woman and two young boys. Furthermore, her relationship with her fiancé Karl-Henrik is ostentatiously a farce, a social convention to which she must adhere. Elizabeth more dramatically evidences her ‘existentialist’ convictions however, as she frequently rejects the pretense of truth that others have internalized. Early in the film she laughs at a radio broadcast, scoffing at the truths of love, mercy, and forgiveness which it attempts to convey. Ultimately she rejects Alma herself as an actor and a fiction: in her letter to the doctor she states that she enjoys observing Alma’s behaviours, which seem to her almost as a play. In a meaningless world, personas themselves are ultimately meaningless. The absence of God is not stressed in existentialist thought, nor in fact in the film itself, but rather it is the presence of the absence of God that exists. The characters, and especially Elizabeth feel this presence-of-absence quite viscerally; without God there is only the meaningless of an absurd existence. Bergman makes this quite obvious early in the film, when he displays scenes of barren, rocky coastlines while Alma reads from a book: “All the anxiety we carry with us – our blighted dreams, the inexplicable cruelty our anguish at the thought of death, the painful realization of our earthly state – have slowly crystalized our hope of salvation. The cries of our faith and doubt are one of the most terrible proofs of our desolation”. Throughout the film Bergman uses scenes of barren rocks to emphasize personal isolation within an existentialist world. At this point in the film however, only Elizabeth can agree with this statement; Alma remains unconvinced.

Insight into the relationship between the two women can be gained through the application of the discourse of the Other. Described by Derrida, Foucault, and other deconstruction philosophers, an entity is defined by its relation to the entities that it excludes, which become for it a symbolic Other. Despite using the Other as a means of differentiation, an object can not be defined without the existence of the other. Consequently both entities contain elements of the Other within themselves; the definition is both exclusionary and inclusionary. Both Alma and Elizabeth define themselves in relation to each other in this ontological manner. They are initially quite distinct from each other, and play explicit roles: Alma as Nurse and Elizabeth as Patient. Yet as Foucault elucidates, this specified power relationship is not exterior to the means of its own disintegration. By performing her authoritative role as nurse, Alma will cure Elizabeth of her status as patient and consequently disarm her own authority. The realization of this fact comes relatively swiftly to Alma, who soon blurs the distinctions of her authority and furthermore of her personality. During their initial meeting Alma remains methodic and distant, engaging with Elizabeth very formally. She introduces herself in a scientific manner, casually listing off her characteristics: name, marital status, and so forth. This clinical approach does not allow any true communication between the two however.

A greater intimacy is required, a familiarity which becomes manifest as the two women (unconsciously) realize themselves as the Other. Their intimate relationship is in fact an awareness of the importance of the Other and its consequent internalization. Alma initiates the process when she herself becomes patient to Elizabeth, relating her own problems and traumas. They begin to act and look alike: both humming while picking mushrooms; both wearing similar clothes, as Alma adopts Elizabeth’s black attire and smoking habit; Elizabeth becoming the “good listener” that Alma thinks she herself is. Perhaps the most vivid example of the unification of persona through the internalization of the Other occurs when Alma confronts Elizabeth about the rejection of her son. Bergman repeats this scene twice, in the first sequence focussing on Elizabeth’s face as she silently expresses her guilt for spurning the love of her son. Then the sequence is repeated, as Bergman confines the camera to Alma as she speaks. In the second sequence Alma seems to be alluding to her own life and its failed enactment of motherhood when she aborted a child. At several instances elsewhere, Alma implicitly challenges the distinction of their characters: “Can you be one and the same person? I mean... be two people?”, and “I looked into the mirror and thought, why we look alike ... I could change myself into you ... I mean inside ... You could change into me”. They seem to share personalities, or more accurately, share one dominant personality. Bergman himself noted this fact: “There’s something extremely fascinating to me about these people exchanging masks and suddenly sharing one between them.” His choice of framing his subjects strengthens this unification of character, as in several scenes their figures seem to merge into one form. Indeed the director had made their coupled personas clear long before, in the opening sequence and before the actual introduction of either character: in the sequence a youth reaches out toward their projected faces, which alternate and blend together. An extension of this relationship model can be forwarded using the theories of Martin Buber, who defines relationships in terms of the subjective (I-thou) and objective (I-it). The relationship between Alma and Elizabeth begins objectively with both characters acting strictly within their ordained roles. It quickly becomes subjective, at which point the two women “exchang[e] masks and ... [share] one between them”.

More correctly however, if several ambiguous sequences during the second half of Persona can be interpreted as dream-sequences, which is highly likely, it is in fact only Alma who truly internalizes the relationship as I-thou. She begins to incorporate Elizabeth into a fantasy relationship which for Elizabeth remains largely subjective. During one of these dreams, Elizabeth comes into her room at night and they embrace. Despite Elizabeth’s repeated denial that it occurred, this event becomes internalized in Alma as a symbol of the subjectivity of their relationship. Several times thereafter she refers (and simultaneously does Bergman) to this caress. As has been mentioned above, Elizabeth ultimately rejects Alma desire for an I-thou relationship as she began to view Alma herself as a pretense and an actor. This fact becomes apparent, to both the viewer and to Alma, when Alma reads Elizabeth’s letter to her psychiatrist. It is the failure of this intimate relationship which both enrages and anguishes Alma; her desperation is quite palpable when she asks Elizabeth, “Must it be like this?”. It is also at this point that she acknowledges the ontological meaning in the artifice and apparent meaningless of their relationship. After Alma says to Elizabeth, “You don’t need me anymore”, she comments that this statement sounds false; indeed, Alma seems to imply that in a chaotic and meaningless world the concept of “need” itself becomes largely irrelevant. She sets a quasi-trap for Elizabeth, not warning her of the broken glass on the back lawn. When Alma sees Elizabeth’s face upon cutting her foot – an expression establishing Elizabeth’s knowledge of Alma’s intentions – the film stock itself literally disintegrates. There have been numerous critical explanations for Bergman’s effect, yet perhaps the most obviously symbolic is also the most applicable. The film stock disintegrates at the moment when the relationship between Alma and Elizabeth has reverted from a subjective I-thou to an objective I-it. Thereafter their conversation loses its intimacy, first becoming idle talk and then quickly escalating into angry discourse. Alma begins to violently force Elizabeth to speak, which she had not previously attempted. Their confrontations escalate until Elizabeth is compelled to cry out when Alma threatens her with a pot of boiling water. After these instances of violent conflict, Alma appeals to Elizabeth to re-establish their I-thou relationship. This endeavour remains a failure, yet Alma begins to fantasize about a return to intimacy, and indeed these fantasies become effectual on her persona by the end of the film. The (dream) sequence involving Elizabeth’s husband demonstrates Alma’s continuing internalization of Elizabeth-as-Other. She claims Elizabeth’s position quite vividly as lover and as husband, even to the extreme of assuming her role as mother and accepting the child that Elizabeth had rejected.

Despite the deterioration of their relationship into the objective I-it, their previous I-thou relationship continues to inform their personas. By the end of the film each has come to realize Elizabeth’s initial precept of the falsity of role-playing personalities. Alma recognizes that her appropriation of Elizabeth’s character is a pretense, and finding shame in this appropriation she rejects the dream as “nothing but lies and cheating”. Elizabeth comes to the realization that her silence and rejection of false personas is itself a persona. Her psychiatrist had in fact made this quite clear early in the film:

you can refuse to move. Refuse to talk so that you don’t have to lie. You can
shut yourself in. Then you needn’t play any parts or make wrong gestures. Or
so you thought. ... No one asks if it’s true or false, if you’re genuine or just a
sham. Such things matter only in the theatre, and barely there either. I understand
why you don’t speak, why you don’t move, why you’ve created a part for yourself
out of apathy. ... You should go on with this part until it is played out, until it
loses interest for you. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts
one by one.

The ending to the film is quite sudden, yet it is not unsatisfactory. Both women resume their previous roles, they can in fact embrace their existence within these roles informed by their experiences with each (O)ther. Through their relationship they have come to re-assume their individual and separate personas. Elizabeth fixes the torn picture of her son and returns to acting; likewise, Alma again dons her nurse uniform. They share one truth that lets them return to functionality, a truth which is spoken by both Alma and Elizabeth: “nothing”. Indeed this word is the first utterance that can be positively ascribed to Elizabeth. “Nothing” is of course an ambiguous answer, yet most likely refers to the aforementioned existentialist maxim of “God is dead”. Bergman further obscures the meaning of the ending by showing the boy from the opening sequence reaching out towards the empty space which previously pictured the face of Alma / Elizabeth. The viewer is left to ponder whether the director intended this scene to counter the ‘narrative’ ending, implying that the reintegration of Alma and Elizabeth into their distinct personas by means of “nothing” is itself a false role.

Bergman chose a difficult subject to portray in Persona, yet the relative simplicity of the plot may confuse viewers not well informed by critical theory. It may well be argued however that most art films such as Persona were never intended for general consumption, but instead for critical study. Indeed, such elitist limitations are unavoidable, as critical discourse is itself largely the discourse of the intellectual elite. Persona can be enjoyed for more than ideological reasons, however, as it does present a fascinating and sensuous relationship between two women who themselves have thoughts and opinions. Any even moderately intelligent individual could not avoid the pleasure of voyeurism in this context.

Bibliography

Cowie, Peter. Ingmar Bergman: A critical biography. London: Secker & Warburg, 1982.

Livingston, Paisley. Ingmar Bergman and the Rituals of Art. London: Cornell University
Press, 1982.

Manns, Torsten, and Stig Björkman and Jonas Sima. Bergman on Bergman. Trans. Paul
Britten Austin. London: Secker & Warburg, 1973.

Friday, March 26, 1999

Rrrrromanticism: A No-Act Play

Dramatis Personae

Apuleius, a Romantic.
Lord D–, another Romantic. They might be lovers.
William De G–, who knows? Apparently a third Romantic, but that mysterious cape covers much of his identity.
Randomly Created Just For the Sake of an Ending and Therefore Ultimately Pointless Musician, a musician.
Various Musicians, filler roles for bad actors between food service jobs.

SCENE 1

On top of a hill, early morning. Birds sing from a tree, a dog rests at the base. Apuleius sits opposite, writing in a folio. From the other side of the hill Lord D– enters carrying a cane.

LORD D: You have picked a very beautiful tree under which to write. What are you composing?

APULEIUS: Words, words, words.

LORD D: You know, I think that’s been done before. Your readers would appreciate something a little more original. You do have to think about them, you know.

APULEIUS: I’m not going to worry about them now. I don’t care what they think. What the hell do they know anyway? I’m the artist, not them. If they were so smart, they would be the ones publishing.

LORD D: True enough, vicious rabble. You know, my last book only made it into its seventeenth edition.

APULEIUS: They didn’t understand you. My Notes From Salisbury was stopped after its twelfth. But I think this one here is genius. I’m reflecting on the hedgerows – natural barriers, they are!

LORD D: Nice premise.

APULEIUS: It is impossible that this one is going to fail with the publisher.

LORD D: Your father didn’t particularly like your last book, Ode to Childhood. Except for the scene where he and you were boxing in the servants’ quarters.

APULEIUS: Well, he is the person who made me deaf in one ear. And anyway, I hardly touched the girl.

LORD D: She did produce a child for you. By and by, where is he now?

APULEIUS: Last I heard he had gone to join a war or something. Byron took many of my household with him the day he came by the manor.

LORD D: That bastard was a born leader. His pilgrimage took four of my servants with him as well. (Feeling around, he leans against the tree and listens) So, do you not hear the glorious song coming from this tree?

APULEIUS: Aye I do, but it sounds faint. When I look to my left at the sunset, I can hear it. When the sun is out of view, there is no song. The faintness of the song does allow me a more unique inspiration does it not?

LORD D: ‘Tis a shame, the birds in this tree are magnificent.

APULEIUS: There is only one bird in the tree.

LORD D: Nay, three. The others are to your right.

APULEIUS: (Looking up into the tree) Damn it all! That decimates my aesthetics after the third verse! (Scratching out the remaining verses)

LORD D: So much for inspiration.

APULEIUS: Don’t you talk to me of inspiration! I seem to remember during one of your trips to Prussia that you got lost in the forest for three days chasing a butterfly.

LORD D: It had the most beautiful of patterns on its wings. Reminded me of the mists of Avalon.

APULEIUS: There never was an Avalon.

LORD D: Herectic!

APULEIUS: You were still lost in Mallory and de Troyers, I think. And what the hell do you know anyhow? You are as blind as a fucking mole at the best of times.

LORD D: Well yes, but I could feel the creature’s beauty. Some things go beyond the sense.

APULEIUS: True enough. Weren’t you receiving a spiritual aid, however?

LORD D: Actually, I did have a copious amount of mushrooms in my belly. I think that it was Percy’s hashish that really helped me to navigate the forest.

APULEIUS: I find that my soul is best served when I have my Virgil beside me. One time after I read about the underworld, I went out into my garden and saw spirits in my perennials. My creative potency returned to full strength after staring at one of my roses for six hours.

LORD D: Isn’t that always the case with roses? How Freudian. (sits beside Apuleius)

APULEIUS: What are you talking about?

LORD D: I don’t know. I was just babbling and it came out.

APULEIUS: It sounds as though you are well ahead of your time.

LORD D: Do you know what else has let my quill flow? (dramatic pause) Absinthe!

APULEIUS: Once again, you a re a few years too early, I think.

LORD D: (picking up a sheet of Apuleius’s folio) It has yellowed. Are you striving for the aged look. Oh precious antiquity! Perhaps a lost manuscript? A newly-found Boethius? A (pause) Homer?

APULEIUS: Nay. My dog felt that he needed to express himself.

LORD D: I always feel as though I were from another age. As if my destiny were entwined with that of another from years past, perhaps even Odysseus himself. (jumps up quickly) Wait! (pause) I’m feeling the deepest of inspirations! (runs off into the forest, colliding with several trees in the process)

APULEIUS: Finally I am rid of him. A corrupting influence, he is. Now I may return to my work. (stares at a small flower by his feet as several minutes pass)

SCENE 2

A library. Several books are scattered about the floor. Apuleius sits reading. Lord D– enters followed by De G–, who is wearing a long cape. The narrator is forced to smirk with contempt.

LORD D: My Lord Apuleius. How goes your study?

APULEIUS: (starting) D–! I didn’t hear your admittance.

LORD D: Well then allow me to further introduce to you one of the most eminent man of letters of this generation or any other, a genius beyond measure, and a man for all seasons! William De G–, here in your very presence! (De G– bows slightly) I have brought him here to read your new work.

APULEIUS: Very kind of you, and Monsieur De G–, I am honoured. I was moved to tears by your Fall of Encolpius. What pain! What suffering. What need for lubrication!

LORD D: Indeed a watershed and a glorious triumph of the English language.

APULEIUS: Here is my folio. Please do not hesitate to critique it as you will.

LORD D: I am positive that you will only benefit from De G–‘s opinions. It was from him that I learned how to transcend mere description and use words to touch the face of God.

(De G– reads through the folio, nodding at various times)

APULEIUS: See, I knew this work would have a mark! It was a glorious month for me, as I felt prodigiously creative.

LORD D: Hold your thoughts for a second and let De G– finish. (After a few pauses during which he continues to nod ever more violently, De G– hands the folio to Apuleius. He ponders for a few moments, steadying his chin between his thumb and forefinger, then grabs a large pendant from around his neck and opens it. He pulls out a piece of paper and begins to write, while nodding to himself)

APULEIUS: Ha! Look! He is himself inspired to write! I think that my present work shall be my masterpiece, and a hallmark for future generations of under...um...graduates.

LORD D: Future what? Do you predict radical social change? A utopia run by these under...graduates, whose language and beauty shall enlighten all of humanity? Keep this future to yourself for the time being. In truth, De G– is writing his own opinions to you. (De G– hands the paper to Apuleius)

APULEIUS: What is this?

LORD D: Did you not know De G– is a mute?

APULEIUS: No I did not! (begins to read) And what is the meaning of this writing? Is this man truly touched by the gods?

LORD D: (examining the paper) Ah, well you must understand that in addition to being mute, De G– also suffers from spiritual possession which inspires all of his life’s work.

APULEIUS: This note looks as though it had been written by a constipated donkey.

LORD D: The spirits touch De G– by means of chronic, uncontrollably violent muscle spasms. Well, every true artist must develop his own unique style. I think that his spasmodic contractions add a great primitivism to his work, like a noble savage.

(De G– continues to nod uncontrollably)

SCENE 3

Feeling an almost total revulsion at the presumption and futility of the previous scene, the narrator ends it. Presently, Apuleius and Lord D– sit by the side of a lake observing the mists rising. De G– stands over them, the nodding of his head providing what, for our two protagonists, is a pleasing contrapuntal element to the scene in front of them.

LORD D: Beauty is everywhere, is it not?

APULEIUS: Aye. But despite the lucidity of the scene before me, my mind is elsewhere.

LORD D: Oh, another love? Christ, who is it this time?

APULEIUS: Lady Hamilton. She has captivated my heart. I do not think that I can continue without her.

LORD D: Nor should you.

APULEIUS: Those graceful hands that I need to clasp. Her luscious lips that I wish to kiss that ehy may provide me with such a delightful fever. Her cascading hair! And those breasts!

LORD D: Yes, much will be written about Lady Hamilton’s breasts.

APULEIUS: I wrote to her several Odes, encased in a velvet sleeve with pressed roses on its cover.

LORD D: She didn’t buy your ruse, did she?

APULEIUS: Nay. She told me that she thought I just wanted to fuck her.

LORD D: Women just do not have the capacity to understand true love.

APULEIUS: Well, she did allow me a quick lay.

LORD D: Quick?

(quick??)

APULEIUS: Well, I certainly cannot control the outpouring of my emotions! You really can’t restrain yourself, can you? That’s not very creative.

LORD D: I am sure that she appreciated your artistic integrity. (pause)

APULEIUS: I am a man in love as much as Ovid.

LORD D: You know, I don’t think that the poor can ever trule fall in love. How can they when they cannot even afford books? (long pause) Sometimes I think that God does not really know where it is going with all of this. (waves his hand in an extravagant gesture)

APULEIUS: What do you mean?

LORD D: It all seems so random, doesn’t it? So arbitrary. As though there really was no master plan. That God was really just writing what it felt like writing without thinking things though a little further.

APULEIUS: I agree.

(De G– hands Lord D– a note)

LORD D: So does De G–. He says that there really isn’t a God after all, that life is purely chance. God would provide proof if it really exis–

SCENE 4

Lightning strikes a tree, which then falls onto Lord D–, killing him instantly. It is a magnificent scene.

SCENE 5

Apuleius sitting opposite De G– by the lake.

APULEIUS: What the hell was the point of that? I guess that you are right, De G–.

(De G– nods, perhaps in accordance. They stare at each other for several minutes. Growing increasingly bored, the audience decides to vacate the theatre)

APULEIUS: Well, do you think that’s our cue?

(De G– nods)

APULEIUS: Alright, how do you want to do this, then?

(De G– begins drawing on a sheet of paper from his pendant, then hands it to Apuleius)

APULEIUS: Well, that should work. Do you have any rope?

(The narrator, having blown his cover with the whole lightning incident in the fourth scene, spontaneously creates two lengths of rope and places them beside De G–. The two climb up a tree and begin to tie the ropes to one of the tree branches, and then around their necks)

APULEIUS: This is not in vain, my friend. Our deaths will be studied for years to come. THIS is art! (Apuleius hurls himself from the tree and hangs himself. De G– follows, but their combined weight snaps the tree branch. He remains prostrate on the ground, shaking uncontrollably. After a few seconds he sits up and writes a note, leaves it on the ground, stands up nodding his head, and slowly exits)

...

(The note: well, there isn’t an audience anymore, so what the fuck. A troupe of travelling musicians enters into the scene. One of them finds the note beside Apuleius’s body and reads it)

RANDOMLY CREATED JUST FOR THE SAKE OF AN ENDING AND THEREFORE ULTIMATELY POINTLESS MUSICIAN: It just says: “I couldn’t even do this properly!” Poor soul. Must have been one of those Romantics. (Exit. The narrator can no longer withstand the blunt satire of his narrative, so...)

END

Tuesday, March 09, 1999

Gender Issues

After the women’s movement became more or less institutionalized in the late 1970s and early 1980s, new discourses arose over the concerns that feminism had failed to address. Chief among these was an evaluation of homosexuality within the newly created sphere of gender issues. Foucault establishes the groundwork for future criticism in this field by discussing the nature of sexuality within power structures. His ideologies are taken up by Judith Butler, who applies them to her specific situation as an “out of the closet” lesbian.

In The History of Sexuality, Foucault advances the notion that homosexuality is not a set of behavioural patterns but instead as a discourse between itself and heterosexuality. The two are not mutually exclusive binaries, but are part of the same power structure. He argues that any power or authority exists simultaneously with its forms of repression and resistance. They do not operate as an exteriority to power, but are instead multiple points of rebellion within the power structure. Thus he argues that both discourse and silence are simultaneously supportive and subversive of power. Neither is this authority a centralized figure, but in a sense a spread of influence acting omnidirectionally: it is “exercised from innumerable points” (p. 184). Foucault consequently argues that repression has always existed, that the era of Victorian prudish sexuality is not an anomaly situated between periods of liberation. Forms of repression change with the times, with the changing technological structure, and with changing definitions of power-knowledge. He ends this extract by defining sexuality not as a force in and of itself, but as a historical construct determined by power-knowledge. In terms of relationships, a deployment of alliance and a deployment of sexuality have been merged in the form of the family in the modern West. The family unit was itself created as an economic entity, but sexuality emerged in the family which served to disrupt the alliance. It is at this point that “the young homosexual who rejects marriage or neglects his wife” (p. 192) emerges and joins the discourse of sexuality.

Set as a backdrop to Butler’s essay is her belief that gender is an ideological construction which is assumed; it is not a matter of genes, but of impersonation. Gender is merely a continuum which is the superstructure for the binaries of male and female. In this regard she refers somewhat to the Lacanian-Derridian concept of slippery signification. The signifier ‘Female’ does not strictly adhere to a signified feminine heterosexual identity, but indeed can refer to any pattern of sexuality along the continuum. She posits drag to exemplify this principle: “Drag is not ... an act of expropriation or appropriation that assumes that gender is the rightful property of sex, that ‘masculine’ belongs to ‘male’ and ‘feminine’ belongs to ‘female’” (p. 332). Alternately, she proposes that “gender is a kind of imitation for which there is no original” (p. 333). One slips from one imitation to another as easily as from one signifier to another. Heterosexuality is an infinite repetition of imitation: it desires to be like the original. Yet by defining itself as the original, heterosexuality immediately describes homosexuality as a necessary. But the inclusion of homosexuality within heterosexuality (and of course, vice versa) does not suppose the derivation of the former from the latter. Butler remains very aware of the Derridian interplay between the binaries. It forces her to examine what it means to be ‘out of the closet’, as both out and in require each other for their own definition. Additionally, she refers to a Foucault’s notion of the mulitvalency of discourse: by coming out of the closet she alters the locus of what the closet symbolizes. Similarly, she describes gay and straight defining each other and even in some instances constituting each other: “the self from the start is radically implicated in the ‘Other’” (p. 336). This ‘Other’ derives from a sense of loss, and is the capacity for the self to realize its identity. She states that this sense of self-identity, specifically of sexual self-identity, emerges as a repetition of psychic compulsions; it is the performance which realizes this illusion of ‘sex’, but fails in its expression of a ‘natural sex’.

Monday, March 08, 1999

Negative Art Never Exists

There came a time during a repeated viewing of the movie Armageddon in which I began to ask myself why it is that movies such as this enter into production. Pop-art remains the most beautiful and profound of artistic enigmas. Certainly such vacuity cannot echo any great aspect of the human experience. Yet only a misanthrope could argue for its uselessness and invalidity. A purely monetary explanation remains superficial and elliptical; similarly limiting is an escapist analysis.

By altering the definitions of “What constitutes Art?” and “What makes Art engaging?”, a more satisfying solution can be reached. A materialistic approach is generally taken to answer such questions. For an object or image to be recognized as artistically valid it must contain within its conception a certain quality which appeals to the observer. Greek proportions, harmony, balance, structure; the totem of artistic cannon in this regard casts a grand shadow over any who wishes to probe its abstruseness. Even in the writing of the most able art critics, however, a haze of ambiguity obscures any attempts to truly define aesthetic appeal. Dadaism has proven the disunity between Art as institution and any ‘true’ aesthetic values. Similarly, many amateur and lesser poets can be quite adept at utilising the forms and structures traditionally held sacred to their art. Yet, their work frequently lacks that transcendent emotional quality which allows a work to be more universally praised.

Refocusing can in some instances yield clarity. Materialism is limiting. Positing a theory of Art-as-interaction allows a more universal application. Art is not the quality of an object, nor of its various constituent parts. Instead it can be seen as the interaction between the object and the observer. It can be likened to human relationships: it is the space between the two which defines both. Art cannot exist without the observer; the concept of the “lost work of art” is a fallacy and an oxymoron: until they are rediscovered, the lost works of Aeschylus will remain merely interesting facts. Art never exists merely for its own sake. Art is inspiration looking for a lover; the drive is a purely organic one. This interaction may be extremely profound and enduring. It may also be superficial and of only minor interest. Neither is more valid while the observer is in the immediacy of experiencing the interaction however; Dionysus blinds as frequently as he liberates.
Furthermore, art cannot be held responsible for being an influence on society. Believing this allows one to escape one’s own responsibilities. In this regard it is interesting to note that in condemning the pop-artist Marilyn Manson, the American christian coalition uses more graphic language describing his supposedly perverse acts than Manson himself does. How could the works such ‘perverse’ artists such as Manson or Joel-Peter Witkin corrupt society while their critics remain uncorrupted by their exposure to it? By arguing they negate their own argument. Is art a mirror of society, or is society a mirror of art? That is perhaps the wrong question to ask. Is it not more true that art is the act of society looking in the mirror? Such a question allows both the christian coalition and Marilyn Manson to be equally valid answers.

Such a definition allows for the great variety observed in the personal tastes of individuals, as well as the ascent or atrophy of the appeal of an individual work. In this capacity a Lysippian statue or a concerto by Mozart will affect many for centuries. Likewise, a work such as Armageddon will affect many for a much more limited time, which for myself was a few minutes at most. That was, of course, its entire purpose.