The Sphinx Contemplating Napoleon: Global Perspectives on Contemporary Art and Difference 9781788314091, 9781501363337, 9781501353482, 9781501353475

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The Sphinx Contemplating Napoleon

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The Sphinx Contemplating Napoleon Global Perspectives on Contemporary Art and Difference Gilane Tawadros

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BLOOMSBURY VISUAL ARTS Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY VISUAL ARTS and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2020 Copyright © Gilane Tawadros, 2020 Gilane Tawadros has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xiv constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Ben Anslow Cover image: Yto Barrada, Couronne d’Oxalis (Oxalis Crown), 2006. Chromogenic print, 125 × 125 cm. Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Polaris, Pace Gallery and Sfeir-Semler Gallery. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: PB: ePDF: eBook:

978-1-7883-1409-1 978-1-5013-6333-7 978-1-5013-5347-5 978-1-5013-5346-8

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For Malcolm

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vi

Contents

List of illustrations x Acknowledgements xiv

Introduction

1

Part One The leftovers of translation

5

1

But what is the question? Art, research and the production of knowledge 7

2

Extra-Extra: Interview with Raul Ortega Ayala

3

Dissonant chorus

4

Shen Yuan: The leftovers of translation

25

5

Voices off: Interview with Susan Hiller

39

Part Two The banality of difference

53

14

20

6

‘We are the Martians . . .’

7

Van Leo: Self-portraits

8

Shirana Shahbazi: The banality of difference

9

A case of mistaken identity: Notes from the scene of the crime

10 Electrifying Eve

55

74

83

93

Part Three Re-siting the city 11 The real me

81

99

101

12 Vladimir and Estragon are still waiting

111

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viii

Contents

13 Alfred’s favourite tree 14 The leopard

119

126

15 Maps of desire

130

Part Four Studies in a postcolonial body 16 The revolution stripped bare

139

141

17 Studies in a postcolonial body

176

18 Veil: Veiling, representation and contemporary art

181

Part Five Relocating the remains: History and representation 19 Strangers and barbarians: Representing ourselves and others 20 Telling tales: Keith Piper’s Relocating the Remains 21 Sweet oblivion

201

203

229

232

22 Godville: Interview with Omer Fast

Part Six Going global

240

247

23 Going global: 4th International Istanbul Biennial

249

24 Detonations: Jonathan Hernández and the Rongwrong series 25 Modern Europeans

254

257

26 Slipping away (or uncompliant cartographies)

Part Seven Transmission interrupted

261

271

27 Interruption in four acts, or disappearing irises, broken-down buses and ceramic Citroens 273 28 Egypt at the Venice Biennale: 1967 and the year that changed everything 291 29 From zero to infinity: The work of Adel Abdessemed 30 Reading (and curating) from right to left

306

299

ix

Contents

31 Dissonant divas: Sonia Boyce, sound and collaboration 32 A thousand and one Endnotes 320 Index 325

317

309

Illustrations

Intro.1. Jean-Léon Gérôme, Bonaparte Before the Sphinx, 1867–8.

xvi

1.1.

Uriel Orlow, The Benin Project, 2007.

8

1.2.

Uriel Orlow, The Visitor, 2007.

9

1.3.

Hamad Butt, Transmission, 1990.

11

1.4.

Hamad Butt, Transmission, 1990 (detail).

12

2.1.

Raul Ortega Ayala, An Ethnography on Gardening Series, Exegesis Florilegium VII (After Emanuel Sweerts, Florilegium, 1612), 2007.

2.2.

16

Raul Ortega Ayala, From the Food for Thought Series, Untitled (Eyelashes), 2010.

17

3.1.

Sonia Boyce, Tongues, 1997.

21

4.1.

Shen Yuan, Perdre sa salive [Waste your breath], 1994.

26

4.2.

Shen Yuan, Perdre sa salive [Waste your breath], 1994.

27

4.3.

Shen Yuan, Diverged Tongue, 1999.

31

4.4.

Shen Yuan, Un Matin du Monde, 2000.

33

4.5.

Shen Yuan, Un Matin du Monde, (detail) 2000.

34

4.6.

Shen Yuan, The Dinosaur’s Egg, 2001.

36

5.1.

Susan Hiller, The J-Street Project, 2002–5.

41

5.2.

Susan Hiller, Witness, 2000.

47

6.1.

Laylah Ali, Untitled (from Types), 2004.

61

6.2.

Hamad Butt, The Triffid (Part II of the Transmission installation), 1990.

62

6.3.

David Huffman, Get Up and Get Down, 2006.

64

6.4.

Yinka Shonibare CBE, Dysfunctional Family, 1999.

66

6.5.

Ellen Gallagher and Edgar Cleijne, Monster (Murmur), 2003–4.

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6.6.

Ellen Gallagher and Edgar Cleijne, Monster (Murmur), 2003–4.

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6.7.

Henna Nadeem, Orange/Trees, 2006.

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6.8.

Hew Locke, Golden Horde, 2006.

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7.1.

Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1944.

78

7.2.

Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1942.

78

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Illustrations

xi

7.3.

Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1945.

78

7.4.

Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1945.

78

7.5.

Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1942.

79

7.6.

Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1942.

79

9.1.

Yinka Shonibare CBE, Diary of a Victorian Dandy: 03:00 hours, 1998.

86

9.2.

Mark Wallinger, Half-Brother (Exit to Nowhere – Machiavellian), 1994–5.

87

9.3.

Gillian Wearing, ‘I’m desperate’, 1992–3.

88

9.4.

Isaac Julien, Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, 1996.

90

10.1.

Mona Hatoum, La grande broyeuse (Mouli-Julienne x 21), 2000.

95

10.2.

Sutapa Biswas, Birdsong, 2004.

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10.3.

Anne Tallentire, Drift: diagram vii, Void Gallery, Derry 2005.

97

11.1.

Robert Mapplethorpe, Pictures/Self Portrait, 1977.

104

11.2.

Barbara Kruger, Untitled (You Thrive on Mistaken Identity), 1981.

105

11.3.

Sonia Boyce, Talking Presence, 1987.

106

11.4.

Rasheed Araeen, Ethnic Drawings, 1982.

107

11.5.

Mona Hatoum, Roadworks, 1985.

108

11.6.

Black Audio Film Collective, Twilight City, 1987.

109

12.1.

Steve McQueen, Drumroll, 1998.

116

13.1.

Jo Stockham, If Not Now, When? 1999.

121

15.1.

Glenn Ligon, No. 291 (Language), 1988.

135

15.2.

Alistair Raphael, Invasive Procedures, 1992.

136

15.3.

Sutapa Biswas, Synapse III, 1987–92.

137

16.1.

Hassan Fathy, Stoppelaëre House, Luxor, Egypt, 1950.

145

16.2.

Hassan Fathy, Gourna, Plan and Elevation with Hathor, 1948.

146

16.3.

Hassan Fathy, New Gourna, 1945–7.

147

16.4.

Hassan Fathy, Development of the Northern Shore at Sidi Krier, Egypt, 1971.

147

16.5.

Hassan Fathy, Development of the Northern Shore at Sidi Krier, Egypt, 1971.

148

16.6.

Frank Bowling, Marcia H Travels, 1970.

151

16.7.

Clifford Charles, Rhythm and Blues, 2001.

152

16.8.

Zarina Bhimji, How Like Dogs, I Swallowed Air, 1998–2003.

154

16.9.

Samta Benyahia, Le Polygone et le Dédale (The Polygon and the Maze), 2003.

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16.10.

Rotimi Fani-Kayode, Untitled, 1987–8.

159

16.11.

Laylah Ali, Untitled, 2003.

161

16.12.

Sabah Naim, City People, 2003.

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16.13.

Sabah Naim, City People, 2003 (detail).

163

16.14.

Kader Attia, La Piste d’Atterissage (The Landing Strip), 2000/2002.

164

16.15.

Wael Shawky, Asphalt Quarter, 2003.

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16.16.

Wael Shawky, Asphalt Quarter, 2003.

170

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Illustrations

16.17.

Moataz Nasr, The Tabla, 2003.

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16.18.

Moshekwa Langa, Where do I begin? 2001.

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18.1.

Zineb Sedira, Self Portraits or The Virgin Mary, 2000.

182

18.2.

AES art group, New Freedom 2006, AES – The Witnesses of the Future, 1996.

189

18.3.

Fasial Abdu’Allah, The Last Supper, 1995.

190

18.4.

Elin Strand Ruin, Speaking Bernina, October 2000.

193

18.5.

Shirin Neshat, Rapture, 1999.

195

18.6.

Jananne Al-Ani, Untitled I & II, 1996.

196

18.7.

Marc Garanger, Femmes Algériennes (Algerian Women), 1960.

198

19.1.

Glenn Ligon, Warm Broad Glow, 2005.

206

19.2.

Paul Fusco, RFK Funeral Train, 1968.

207

19.3.

Richard Avedon, The Generals of the Daughters of the American Revolution, DAR Convention, Mayflower Hotel, Washington D.C. October 15, 1963.

19.4.

Richard Avedon, Malcolm X, black nationalist leader, New York City, March 27, 1963.

19.5.

210

Richard Avedon, Major Claude Eatherly, pilot at Hiroshima, Galveston, Texas, April 3, 1963.

19.6.

209

211

Richard Avedon, Mental Institution, East Louisiana State Mental Hospital, Jackson, Louisiana, February 15, 1963.

213

19.7.

Richard Misrach, Dead Animals #001, 1987.

215

19.8.

Andy Warhol, The Electric Chair, 1971.

216

19.9.

Fiona Tan, A Lapse of Memory, 2006.

222

19.10.

Gabriel Kuri, As Selected for the Design Centre, London, 2006.

225

19.11.

Alfredo Jaar, The Sound of Silence, 2006.

226

20.1.

Keith Piper, Stills from Relocating the Remains CD-ROM (from the project Caught Like a Nigger in Cyberspace), 1997.

231

21.1.

Edwina Fitzpatrick, Terra, 1992.

235

21.2.

Donald Rodney, Doublethink, 1992.

236

22.1.

Omer Fast, Godville, 2005.

242

22.2.

Omer Fast, Godville, 2005.

243

23.1.

Huang Yong Ping, Reptiles, 1989.

251

23.2.

Mona Hatoum Prayer Mat, 1995.

252

24.1.

Jonathan Hernández, Rongwrong IV, 2005.

255

26.1.

Mona Hatoum, Map, 1999.

262

27.1.

Jimmie Durham, Various elements from the actual world, 2009.

275

27.2.

Yto Barrada, Couronne d’Oxalis (Oxalis Crown), 2006.

276

27.3.

Michael Rakowitz, The invisible enemy should not exist (recovered, missing, stolen series), 2007.

278

Illustrations

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27.4.

Jem Cohen, NYC Weights and Measures, 2006.

280

27.5.

Lia Perjovschi, Romanian Culture Timeline Research, 1997–today.

282

27.6.

Simryn Gill, May 2006, 2006.

283

27.7.

Simryn Gill, May 2006, 2006 (detail).

284

27.8.

Sislej Xhafa, Elegant Sick Bus, 2001.

285

27.9.

Pilar Albarracín, Viva España (Long Live Spain), 2004.

286

27.10.

Adel Abdessemed, Practice Zero Tolerance, 2006.

288

27.11.

Yara El-Sherbini, A Carpet Bomb [as seen in A Demonstration], 2005.

289

28.1.

Effat Nagi, The High Dam, 1966.

294

28.2.

Ragheb Ayad, Assouan (Aswan), 1964.

295

28.3.

Inji Efflatoun, Mathbahat Dinshawi (The Dinshaway Massacre), c. 1950s.

296

29.1.

Adel Abdessemed, Habibi, 2003.

300

29.2.

Adel Abdessemed, Pressoir, fais-le, 2002.

301

29.3.

Adel Abdessemed, Exit, 1996–2009.

302

31.1.

Sonia Boyce, For you, only you, 2007.

310

31.2.

Sonia Boyce in collaboration with Ain Bailey, Oh Adelaide, 2010.

314

32.1.

Eduardo Padilha, Abstinence Conundrum, 1997.

317

Acknowledgements

This book is the culmination of very many conversations, collaborations and partnerships, without which this publication would not have been possible. Through their artworks, writings and curatorial projects, there are a number of important individuals and collectives in Britain who were pioneers, introducing to the mainstream significant cultural perspectives, ideas and experiences which had previously been ignored or marginalized, amongst them: John Akomfrah, David A. Bailey, Black Audio Film Collective, Sonia Boyce, Rasheed Araeen, Eddie Chambers, Rotimi Fani-Kayode, Joy Gregory, Sunil Gupta, Lubaina Himid, Gavin Jantjes, Claudette Johnson, Isaac Julien, David Medalla, Shaheen Merali, Horace Ove, Keith Piper, Sankofa, Mark Sealy, Zineb Sedira, Marlene Smith and Maud Sulter. They paved the way for many others. It was a privilege to be the founding Director of the Institute of International Visual Arts (Iniva), London, and to have the opportunity to work with such a brilliant and talented board and team. Stuart Hall agreed tentatively to become Chair of Iniva on a temporary basis. Over the twelve years we worked together, he became my mentor, teacher and dear friend. I treasure and value the friendship and collaboration with Stuart which precipitated so many ideas, projects and possibilities. I continue to miss his inspiring presence. Alongside Stuart, I am deeply indebted to Sarat Maharaj, whose groundbreaking work has influenced me greatly and whose friendship and encouragement has been so very important to me. My colleagues at Iniva, including Mai Abu El Dahab, Natasha Anderson, Maria Amidu, Paola Barbarino, Sarah Campbell, Antonia Carver, David Chandler, Cathy Ching, Victoria Clarke, Bruce Haines, John Jackson, Melanie Keen, Rohini Malik, Ariede Migliavacca, Steve Ouditt, Alistair Raphael, Cylena Simonds, Gary Stewart and Anya Ziegler, who, together with a succession of brilliant Board Trustees, built a unique organization, whose legacy and impact continues into the present. It has been hugely rewarding to have had the opportunity to know and work with a number of talented curators and intellectuals who have introduced me to artworks and ideas as well as ways of thinking and working which have been personally enriching, including David A. Bailey, Bryan Biggs, Guy Brett, Judith Brodsky, Caroline Collier, Suzanne Cotter, Clare Cumberlidge, Jean Fisher, Hou Hanru, Paul Hobson, Jens Hoffmann, David Elliott, Okwui Enwezor, Coco Fusco, Geeta Kapur, Deborah Levy, Stephen Foster, John Gill, Thelma Golden, Suman Gopinath, xiv

Acknowledgements

xv

Salah Hassan, Kellie Jones, Omar Kholeif, Jenni Lomax, Courtney Martin, Kobena Mercer, Lynda Morris, Gerardo Mosquera, Virginia Nimarkoh, Hans Ulrich Obrist, Ferris Olin, Jack Persekian, Richard Powell, Niru Ratnam, Guillermo Santamarina, Mark Sealy, Zoe Shearman, Gary Stewart, Tom Trevor, Grant Watson and Mark Waugh. In my early days as a fledgling art historian at the University of Sussex, Norbert Lynton and David Allan Mellor were inspirational teachers whose passion for art and artists and whose beautifully curated exhibitions taught me the critical importance of contemporary and modern art as a unique form of communication. Sue Davies, Director of the Photographers’ Gallery, London, and Joanna Drew, Director of the Hayward Gallery, London, put enormous trust in me and my second ‘informal’ education took place in those institutions where the many artists and photographers with whom I worked taught me ways of seeing which were at once curious, generous and profound. Much to my regret, I never had the opportunity to meet or work with Edward Said but my intellectual debt to him is profound. I have had the great pleasure of knowing and working with many brilliant artists, from whom I have learnt so much about art and life, and many of whom have, over time, become good friends. I am hugely grateful to them for opening up a rich seam of visual knowledge and experience which has transformed my life. I would like to thank all the artists who have allowed me to feature their works so extensively in this book and to the artists, galleries, museums, collections and organizations that have supplied images and granted permission for them to be reproduced. My thanks to Elizabeth Whalley at the Design and Copyright Society (DACS), London, for her patience and support in clearing permissions on my behalf. My deep thanks to Russell Martin for his invaluable support and friendship. I am very grateful to Bryan Biggs at Bluecoat, Liverpool, and Jagit Chuhan at Liverpool John Moores University, Paul Hobson at Modern Art Oxford and Linzi Stauvers at the Ikon Gallery, Birmingham, for making possible a programme of talks to accompany this book and to the wonderful artists who participated in the ongoing conversation: Claudette Johnson, Trevor Matthieson, Keith Piper, Zineb Sedira, Jo Stockham and Gary Stewart. My thanks to Ian Farr, who helped me in the early stages of preparing a proposal for this book, Lisa Goodrum, my editor at I.B. Tauris, who helped steer this book in the early stages of its development. I am immensely grateful to Frances Arnold, Editorial Director, Bloomsbury Visual Arts, and Yvonne Thouroude, Assistant Editor, Bloomsbury Visual Arts, who have helped me bring it to fruition. This book would not have been possible without the generous support of the Grants for the Arts programme of the Arts Council of England, funded by the National Lottery. Last, I extend my heartfelt thanks to my close family and friends and, in particular, Malcom Bacon and Karim Ethan Bacon, and my sister Tammy Tawadros: your love, encouragement and support have sustained me.

Fig. Intro.1 Jean-Léon Gérôme, Bonaparte Before the Sphinx, 1867–8. © Hearst Castle ®/CA State Parks. Courtesy of Hearst Castle®/CA State Parks.

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Introduction

The French Orientalist artist Jean-Léon Gérôme produced a number of paintings of Napoleon Bonaparte in Egypt, commemorating Napoleon’s invasion and occupation of the country in the late eighteenth century. His favourite of these paintings, and the one which he kept for himself and his children, was a picture which he presented for the first time at the Salon1 of 1886 under the title Bonaparte Before the Sphinx (1867–8, Fig. Intro.1). In the Egyptian desert, the solitary figure of Napoleon, astride his horse, faces the magnificent Sphinx. Although dwarfed in size by the colossal monument, Napoleon appears as the unchallenged victor who, through a combination of superior military power and intellectual knowledge, has conquered Egypt. There seems little doubt that in Gérôme’s mind – he had painted Napoleon in various poses and in different locations in Egypt – it is Napoleon, alone, who is surveying the Sphinx. The title of this book imagines an alternative scenario. The Sphinx Contemplating Napoleon is a collection of essays on contemporary art which proposes different perspectives to the ones which continue to dominate the fields of contemporary art and art history. This viewpoint draws unapologetically on my formation in the shadow of the colonial and postcolonial, hinged between the two as Stuart Hall would say; in my case, between post-independence Egypt and post-war Britain. Observing the world through bifocal lenses has nurtured a double consciousness or double vision; a way of seeing the world from here and there at one and the same time. This bifurcated vision is one shared with many artists, writers and intellectuals, many of whom have sought to interrupt and reorientate cultural discourse by introducing ideas, experiences and approaches unfamiliar to the mainstream. In spite of the increased visibility, in recent years, of artists, curators and critics from different backgrounds and different parts of the world, both the art world and the critical apparatus which surrounds it – curatorial frameworks, art criticism and academic discourse – have proved remarkably resistant to the incursions and interventions of consecutive generations who have attempted to disrupt its trajectories. Amoeba-like, the shape-shifting contours of the art world effortlessly absorb and ingest multiple manifestations of difference – gender, sexuality, race and class – enabling it to expand a growing inventory of artists and artworks which can then be 1

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The Sphinx Contemplating Napoleon

made available in the marketplace. In the process, many of the nuances and subtleties of difference as well as their subversive and profound implications are frequently suppressed and disavowed. The Sphinx Contemplating Napoleon draws difference to the surface, recuperating it as a potentially radical frame through which to understand contemporary art and the everyday world. It explores questions of cultural difference in relation to a wide variety of contemporary art practices. Many of the artists discussed here – Adel Abdessemed, Sonia Boyce, Zarina Bhimji, Sutapa Biswas, Clifford Charles, Jimmie Durham, Mona Hatoum, Susan Hiller, Alfredo Jaar, Isaac Julien, Glenn Ligon, Uriel Orlow, Zineb Sedira, Anne Tallentire amongst others – are ones with whom I have had long-standing relationships and conversations over extended periods of time. The development of their artistic practice and ideas has been productive in shaping my own ideas and perspectives. In many respects, it is artistic practice – more than academic discourse and art criticism – which has provided me with the critical tools and intellectual framework for writing about art. This is not to say that these writings are anti-academic but rather that they recognize artistic practice as a discrete field for the production of knowledge which is just as important and effective as others. Contemporary art resists language. It can be very difficult to fix the meaning of a contemporary artwork with words. You can describe what it looks like, how it behaves, how it is made and even how you feel about it, but these rarely explain why the artist has made the work or its singular meaning. Artworks are formed in fundamentally different ways to written texts and obey a different set of rules. Writing about contemporary art in a way which recognizes and respects its difference from other forms of expression and, in particular from written language, presents certain challenges. Playing with forms of writing – from more traditional critical writing to fictional narratives – the texts in this volume experiment with different ways to put into words the ideas and effects produced by contemporary artworks which often prove elusive and hard to pin down. Some of the texts move between creative and critical analyses in ways which blur the false distinctions sometimes drawn between these different registers and hopefully frustrates them. Contemporary artworks often invite us to enter unfamiliar, at times, unsettling territory. Similarly, navigating the domains of difference in the everyday world – whether cultural, sexual or political – is equally challenging: fissures open up between the myths of cities and their fastchanging reality; between interpretations of a single image in radically alternate ways by different viewers; between words, images and memories lost in translation from one cultural frame to another. Investigating ideas of cultural identity and representation through the prism of modern and recent art, this book invites readers on a journey through contemporary art and ideas from different parts of the world, examining their wider historical and cultural contexts in lived experience.

Introduction

3

The book brings together over thirty essays and writings produced over two decades and published in different contexts from journals to exhibition catalogues which investigate the shifting terrains of contemporary art, difference and everyday experience in an increasingly globalized world. Covering a period from the early 1990s to recent years, the texts span wideranging historical, political and cultural changes which are frequently referred to directly and which provide a critical context for certain artworks and exhibitions as well as the writing about them. The Endnotes provide additional historical and contextual information which may be helpful to the reader and whilst some of the events referred to in the texts happened some time ago – the attacks on the World Trade Center in 2001, now referred to in abbreviated form as 9/11, the London terrorist attacks in 2005 and France’s World Cup victory in 1998 – the political and cultural reverberations of these events continue into the present. Most of the texts from the 1990s through to the mid-2000s were written in the period when I was Director of the Institute of International Visual Arts (Iniva) in London. Iniva was launched with a conference at Tate Britain in April 1998 as a new organization on the British arts scene and was propelled into existence by the efforts of a group of culturally diverse British artists, curators and critics. Wholly funded from public funds by the Arts Council of Great Britain,2 Iniva’s brief at its inception was to promote the work of visual artists from diverse cultural backgrounds from the UK and abroad and to establish a framework for dialogue and exchange between artists across all four continents. The conference – conceived by the artist Gavin Jantjes who campaigned tirelessly for the founding of Iniva – assembled artists, art historians and art critics from across the globe, including the artists Rasheed Araeen, Gordon Bennett, Jimmie Durham, Gavin Jantjes, Evelyn Nicodemus, Olu Oguibe and Fred Wilson, curators Hou Hanru, Raiji Kuroda, Gerardo Mosquera, Guillermo Santamarina and Elisabeth Sussman, and art historians Hal Foster, Geeta Kapur, Sarat Maharaj, Judith Wilson and myself. The nascent organization had originally been called the ‘Institute of New International Visual Arts’ and the conference had been convened to address the question of how a ‘new internationalism’ could be articulated and, specifically, to explore how this newly established organization could define a new paradigm for the visual arts under the rubric of a ‘new internationalism’ which would expand the narrow focus of the current contemporary art discourse. The conference participants (myself included) had no easy answers but we tussled with the agenda proposed by the conference organizers and the proposition for this fledgling organization to set new parameters for what constituted the international beyond the borders of Europe and North America and to establish a ‘global vision’, which would encompass the ideas, practices and experience not only of artists and thinkers from Africa, Asia, South America and the Middle East but also those of the populations of Europe and North America whose origins and cultural backgrounds lay beyond its geographical limits.

4

The Sphinx Contemplating Napoleon

Concluding my presentation to the conference, this is what I said: We have, in recent years, become accustomed to using a kind of critical shorthand which has led us to talk about the ‘margins’ and ‘the periphery’ as a position diametrically opposed to ‘the centre’; we talk about ‘blackness’ in antithesis to ‘whiteness’. We do this at the same time as we reject the dichotomies and binaries which inform Western culture. In the process, we risk falling headlong into what is perhaps the greatest pitfall of all, that of constructing from the politics of difference yet another unassailable fortress which will be absorbed into the canon of Western art and art history . . . If we really mean to refute fixed positions and absolute categories in our thinking, if we are really serious about giving up the search for a complete, all-embracing answer, then we have to take on board the dynamic of change (as distinct from progress or evolution) as an intrinsic part of our critical armour, accepting that what we say at this particular moment in time from this particular place is provisional – not fixed, unalterable or exclusive. And, most importantly, that it is the work of art itself and its aesthetic, cultural and epistemological frame which should mould our critical language.3 Twenty-five years later, this remains a concise articulation of the artistic and intellectual project with which I have been engaged throughout the intervening years: in my work at Iniva, through my writings and in my curatorial practice. The Sphinx Contemplating Napoleon is the first volume to bring together my writings from that period to the present day, written in a context which has been continuously changing.

Notes 1 The Salon was the official exhibition of the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. 2 Iniva was incubated by the Arts Council of Great Britain but was launched under the auspices of the newly established Arts Council of England. 3 Gilane Tawadros, ‘The Case of the Missing Body’, in Jean Fisher (ed.), Global Visions: Towards a New Internationalism in the Visual Arts, London: Kala Press/Iniva, 1994, p. 111.

Part One

The leftovers of translation

5

6

1 But what is the question? Art, research and the production of knowledge

I he reasoned that the fact that he had spent six months researching the history and culture of Benin and that he went there for work rather than leisure, set him apart from ordinary tourists. But did it really? He wondered whether the fact that the focus of his journey was research would justify the term field-trip used by anthropologists or archaeologists? If it was a field trip he was embarking on – his destination being a different culture to his own and his interest lying in the traces of history in contemporary Benin and its organisation of the past – didn’t this mean that he also had to adopt anthropological or archaeological research methods and aims? He was trained in neither discipline nor did he share their systematic approach or scientific objectives. But then what were his methods? What was he after? What did he hope to find? Or was the point that he didn’t actually want to find anything? That he would only try to experience the place and observe it without finding any answers? Would it be enough if he (or his work) might be able, as a result of his trip, to formulate some questions more precisely? FROM URIEL ORLOW’S THE VISITOR , PART OF THE BENIN PROJECT , 2007.

In The Visitor, the artist Uriel Orlow regards himself, the practice of being an artist and the research that precedes the making of new work as a dispassionate, third-party observer (Figs  1.1–2). He reflects on the role and function of the artist as researcher, setting out on an enquiry that may not afford any answers but rather result in the formulation of more questions. How is the research of an artist different from that of an anthropologist or archaeologist? How does the approach and objectives of an artist differ from those of a scientist embarking on a systematic enquiry? Orlow’s questions to himself and to his audience probe the very nature of the artistic process and its similarity with and difference from other forms of knowledge production. 7

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Fig. 1.1 Uriel Orlow, The Benin Project, 2007. Installation view at CAC Bordeaux. © Uriel Orlow. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019. Photo: Arthur Pelquin.

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Fig. 1.2 Uriel Orlow, The Visitor, 2007. Single-channel video, 16’. © Uriel Orlow. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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To Orlow’s questions, we can bring additional questions about the specific nature of visual art and the making of artworks as a distinct practice and means of producing knowledge. What exactly do we mean when we talk about visual art as a form of knowledge production? And how does this differ from text-based forms of research and knowledge production? What new insights or investigations are made possible by the processes of making artworks (or, indeed, of making exhibitions)? What are the implications of this for the ways in which we have traditionally understood and validated knowledge produced in these ways? Finally, is it possible to develop a shared vocabulary and language for talking about the unique non-verbal insights that the visual arts offer as a primary process of research and investigation, rather than as secondary objects which have long been used to validate and exemplify written discourses across a variety of academic subject areas?

II Orlow’s Benin Project also raises questions about the relationship between visual and linguistic forms of articulation, suggesting that the visual is a more open-ended and fluid domain than that of the linguistic which tends to frame and define the visual like a butterfly caught by a collector and fixed, frozen and immobile, on the end of a pin. But how then can we understand or describe this space which is beyond text. Where is this non-textual space located and what exists in this apparent no-man’s land of the unwritten, the non-verbal and the unspoken? Perhaps one way into this space is to think about it in terms of translation – translation from one culture to another, or from one language to another. In most cases, the process of translation involves moving from the familiar, the homely, the comfortable to the unfamiliar, the unhomely, the uncomfortable. And in the process of moving from one to another, occasionally something may get lost but equally something may get added. For Sarat Maharaj, works like James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake (1939) and Marcel Duchamp’s The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Batchelors, Even (The Large Glass) (1915–23) and The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Batchelors, Even (The Green Box) (1934) provide tools for thinking about the difficulties of translation and the limits of language: What does it mean to be in the experience of the untranslatable? . . . [My] reflections through Joyce and Duchamp strengthened the idea that although certain things can be translated in the domain of the linguistic, culture is far more than simply language and words. This produced in me a deep sense of the limits of words and language as the exclusive model through which we might think about cultural life and the translation of our everyday experience. With Joyce and Duchamp, there emerged, it seems to me, a notion of translation which activates both the visual and the sonic. Beyond the sense of the word and image are sounds which cannot entirely be decoded or deciphered as meaning this, that or the other . . .

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the penumbra of the untranslatable that shadow and smudge language and for which we have to venture beyond language – became an increasingly important area of interest in my thinking about cultural translation.1

III The illuminated books of the artist Hamad Butt are books without words. The circle of books that make up a part of his installation Transmission (1990) are drenched in a violet light that floods the space, while each individual tome, made from glass, carries its own electric charge (Figs 1.3 and 1.4). It is, as Sarat Maharaj describes it, ‘a whirling, wordless, circuit’. What is striking about Hamad Butt’s works in this context is the process of translation and movement between what is solid, concrete and material, and that which is not solid, immediately visible or able to be grasped and held. This is the space of difference but also the space of the artwork. It is

Fig. 1.3 Hamad Butt, Transmission, 1990. Mixed media and ultra-violet light installation. Goldsmiths, University of London. © Hamad Butt. Courtesy of Jamal Butt.

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Fig. 1.4 Hamad Butt, Transmission, 1990 (detail). Mixed media and ultra-violet light installation. Goldsmiths, University of London. © Hamad Butt. Courtesy of Jamal Butt.

the space that needs to be negotiated but is never entirely translatable. It is a space in which the subtle shifts and changes of a culture and society may be registered but not always tangibly or concretely.

IV The cultural critic Stuart Hall has eloquently described the dynamic relationship between an artwork and the world: Despite the sophistication of our scholarly and critical apparatus in art criticism, history and theory, we are still not that far advanced in finding ways of thinking about the relationship

But What is the Question?

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between the [art]work and the world. We either make the connection too brutal and abrupt, destroying that necessary displacement in which the work of making art takes place. Or we protect the work from what Edward Said calls its necessary ‘worldliness’, projecting it into either a pure political space where conviction—political will—is all, or into an inviolate aesthetic space, where only critics, curators, dealers, and connoisseurs are permitted to play. The problem is rather like that of thinking the relationship between the dream and its materials in waking life. We know there is a connection there. But we also know that the two continents cannot be lined up and their correspondences read off directly against one another.2

V In Douglas Adams’ comic science fiction novel The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (1979), mice – the super-intelligent, pan-dimensional species of the Universe – set out to find the answer to the ultimate question: What is the meaning of life, the universe and everything? They construct a gigantic computer, as big as a city, which begins to calculate the answer. It takes seven-and-ahalf million years. Finally, the computer, called Deep Thought, delivers the ultimate answer to the ultimate question: The meaning of life, the universe and everything is 42. Baffled and disappointed by the computer’s response, the mice interrogate Deep Thought, which responds that the mice had not sufficiently considered the question. Only by thoroughly understanding the question can they find the answer they so desperately desire. Rather than offering up answers, the process of making contemporary art involves asking questions; these can often be unexpected, difficult and uncomfortable questions. Unlike the established linear trajectory of Western scientific enquiry on which so many of our research models are based, the processes of making artworks and curatorial projects presents a radically different model centred on the proposition that, unlike science, religion, politics and many other fields of our intellectual and social lives, contemporary artistic practice is concerned with posing questions about the world around us, rather than offering up answers or solutions. Until we fully understand the questions that we are asking – in a profound, critical and self-reflexive way – we are unlikely to find the right answers.

Notes 1 Sarat Maharaj, ‘Modernity and Difference’, in conversation with Stuart Hall, reprinted in Gilane Tawadros (ed.), Changing States: Contemporary Art and Ideas in an Era of Globalisation, London: Iniva, 2004, p. 193. 2 Stuart Hall, ‘Assembling the 1980s: The Deluge – and After’, in David A. Bailey, Ian Baucom and Sonia Boyce (eds), Shades of Black: Assembling Black Arts in 1980s Britain, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, in collaboration with Iniva and the African and Asian Visual Artists’ Archive (Aavaa), 2005, p. 19.

2 Extra-Extra Interview with Raul Ortega Ayala

Gilane Tawadros (GT)

The starting point for many of your works is the research you carry

out as a participant observer of ordinary, everyday activities such as gardening, cooking and office work. Why have you chosen to investigate the banal and everyday as the focus of your artistic practice? Raul Ortega Ayala (ROA)

I don’t think it was a conscious choice per se. When I finished my

undergraduate degree in art and had to go ‘back to real life’ and find a job in a place like Mexico City, where there wasn’t much work available for recent art graduates, I ended up, like many, in a job in an office that wasn’t linked to what I had studied. Once there, I began to wonder how I could link my ‘subsisting life’ with my artistic practice. During this period, I also started learning about many artists (writers, painters, composers) who in the past had had ‘two lives’ that somehow never merged, and met several people who also lead these ‘two different lives’. So I looked for a way to bridge the two and thus slowly started shifting my perception from passive bystander to participant observer, and with time this became my focus and my working method for three series. GT One of the works in your series entitled ‘Bureaucratic Sonatas’ which is based on your research into office work, is a small work on paper which seems to bridge these two worlds of being an artist and having to subsist. Using an old typewriter, you have typed out on A4 paper the story of the woman who invented ‘liquid paper’, using the product every time you make a mistake. Bette Nesmith Graham, the inventor of Liquid Paper, had intended to be an artist but ended up working as a secretary. Drawing on her experience of artists painting over their mistakes on canvas, she invented liquid paper as a way to correct her own typing errors, ultimately creating a multimillion-dollar business. This work, and others in the series, suggest that the work of being an artist is about transforming ordinary life into something that is extraordinary? 14

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ROA Whilst doing research into the history of offices, I started looking at the people who had invented the tools used in everyday bureaucratic tasks (typewriters, pencils, erasers, etc.) and came across the story of Bette Nesmith Graham. I found it quite compelling as it was doing the opposite of what I was trying to do in the beginning, i.e. bring these materials into the ‘art realm’, as she had taken her experience from the ‘art world’ and applied it into the office world. This made me realize that I should consider the possibility of working both ways: turning the ordinary into something extraordinary and the extraordinary into something ordinary. This piece and one I made in the gardening series where I turned a tree into paper, charcoal and wood to draw the same tree, explores this cycle. GT

In the process of transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary and vice versa, a great

deal of effort and physical labour is expended: in the case of ‘Calf Roping’, for example, where you ‘restrain’ an office chair with rubber bands or the envelope which you have created by shredding an envelope and letter and then meticulously weaving them together to create a new envelope. This contradicts many people’s perception of contemporary art as an endeavour which is cerebral and intellectual rather than physical and labour-intensive. Is this intentional on your part? ROA

I think of my work as conceptual but inextricably linked to an experience. Every

occupation I’ve been immersed in has had a specific ‘skill’ that I have brought into each series. For example, in the case of the Bureaucratic Sonatas series: labour-intensive and nonsensical-repetitive activities were proper to my involvement with that environment; in the Gardening series: grafting, cutting, ordering; in the Food series: cooking, socializing and so on (Figs 2.1–2). GT

The series on gardening is called An Ethnography of Gardening and you have described

your role in these various fields as that of a ‘participant observer’; observing, researching and collecting materials on your chosen subject which then provide the basis for a series of works that you call ‘souvenirs’ which accompany ‘field-notes’. In this way, the role of the artist has become that of a detective-cum-tourist investigating the world of gardening or food or office work as though it were a foreign terrain. Does this enforced distance from your subject-matter make it possible for you to see the world in new ways and to invent new creations like the imaginary flower you fabricated called ‘Vermiellion Spinnaker’? ROA

I trained as a painter in art school and with time realized that what I’d learnt was a sort

of methodology, which I would carry everywhere and use it as my ‘a priori filter’ to relate to the world, i.e. I’m a painter, therefore I relate creatively to the world through painting. And I wasn’t at all comfortable with this ‘restrictive’ approach, so when I shifted and started working with the

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Fig. 2.1 Raul Ortega Ayala. From An Ethnography on Gardening Series, Exegesis Florilegium VII (After Emanuel Sweerts, Florilegium, 1612), 2007. Collage on paper. 28.3 x 38.3 cm. © Raul Oretga Ayala. Courtesy of the artist.

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Fig. 2.2 Raul Ortega Ayala. From the Food for Thought Series, Untitled (Eyelashes), 2010. Film still, dimensions variable. © Raul Oretga Ayala. Courtesy of the artist.

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participant observer method, I stopped entering a world with this preconceived gaze and went into each ‘new world’ with as little predetermination as possible. Unlike scientific disciplines, where lengthy processes with strict methods are needed, artists have the possibility to change methods and techniques as they please since they are not in the business of proving anything with scientific rigour. This freedom allowed me to see and relate to any ‘world’ I encountered in new creative ways. GT

I’m very interested in the distinction you draw between research carried out within a

scientific context and research as an activity undertaken by artists which does not obey the same rules. There has been a great deal of debate in Britain about what constitutes ‘research’, especially when this applies to work carried out by artists. Academic institutions have struggled to adapt their concept of research (based upon scientific methods) to artists’ research activity. The main problem seems to be that whereas scientists start the research process with a particular question which the research is intended to answer, artists may not have a clear question at the beginning of the process and frequently may not find any solutions but, in fact, come up with more unanswered questions at the end of their research. Has this been your experience? ROA Absolutely. I never know what the outcome of a series is going to be and how I will react to a particular context or which materials I’ll end up using. The premise is the only thing that is clear: I will immerse myself in a particular milieu, train as I go in its specific metier and work with whatever material I come across, that is distinct to that context. And also, unlike scientists, I’m not trained in any of the fields I’m immersing myself in until I’m taking part in it. In that sense, my practice and my research are dependent on the circumstances and I like this uncertainty, I like the fact that there will be more questions than answers resulting from it, because, since we are not in the business of proving anything, we can work with most knowledge and be in constant flux. By constantly changing my methods and the contexts and continuously learning new metiers, I end up questioning my own craftsmanship. GT There is a self-reflexive, even self-critical aspect to your practice which makes you question the validity of your own research and also your role as an artist. This emerges in a witty and humorous way in your ongoing project Extra-Extra where you have taken on roles as an extra in films, soap operas, shows, advertisements and so on as if your existence as an artist was completely contingent on other people and the contexts which they create and into which you insert yourself. Do you see your position as an artist as something which is contingent and even precarious? ROA Yes, in a sense. In 1985, there was a really strong earthquake in Mexico City that tore down many buildings in the urban area. On that day, my father, who was a journalist, took me to

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school after the shock. On the way, we saw a collapsed building and he parked the car and said, ‘You aren’t going to school today, you are coming with me,’ and he grabbed his pencil and notebook and off we went to try and access the wrecked area to interview people. What I found most remarkable about that experience was how his profession allowed him (a total stranger) access to a then restricted site and to the very personal stories of people by just uttering four words: ‘I am a journalist.’ That stayed with me and at some point, provoked a question: ‘Can I do that as an artist?’ In time, my work began accessing areas that might seem restricted and this, in turn, allowed me to encounter different people and wove my practice intricately to the Other. Of course, when something depends on someone or something else, there is always uncertainty as you can’t control it. I’m sure if I’m put on a desert island I would end up doing very different work because I can’t help relating to the world through art, but since I live (and will continue living) in a society composed of parallel coexisting worlds, my work will continue to depend on this relationship with the Other. Martin Heidegger suggested that each person’s being included ‘being-with’, an innate capacity to being-with-the-other. Exercising this principle and experiencing its potentials and limitations has been a constant in my work. GT And if you were not an artist, what would you be? ROA An extra, an office worker, a gardener, a chef . . .

3 Dissonant chorus

I Tongue (tung) n. 1. fleshy muscular organ in the mouth, serving purposes of tasting, licking, swallowing, and (in man) of speech. Tongue-tied; Tongue-twister; Fluent tongue; Sharp tongue; Tongue-in-cheek; Hold your tongue; Cat got your tongue; Gift of tongues. Four massive photographs of tongues. Are they four different mouths or one mouth freezefrozen as the tongue curls up to touch the roof of its mouth, grazing gently on its lower teeth (Fig.  3.1)? The mouth opens wider and the tongue disappears inside its familiar dark cavity. Opening wider still, it emerges from its cave like a predatory animal, perhaps trying to escape. But no sound escapes from these freeze-frozen tonguescapes. A picture is worth a thousand words. Mute pictures tongue-tied to their black-and-white surface. ‘What’s your name? Where are you from?’ No answer. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ she says, a sarcastic twang inflecting her question. No answer. ‘I said – cat got your tongue?’ her voice rising the second time. She tried to put some words together in her head, to rehearse an answer that she could speak out loud effortlessly but she couldn’t get the words to come out. She swallowed hard and pursed 20

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Fig. 3.1 Sonia Boyce, Tongues, 1997. Four black-and-white photographs, each 100 × 100 cm. © Sonia Boyce. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

her lips together. It was so easy to put the words in fluent order in her mind but when the time came to give voice to them, they stubbornly refused to spill out of her mouth. Silence. The woman kissed her teeth and walked away. Singing or screaming? Not singing but screaming. When I walked into the room, I was sure she was screaming now I’m not so sure. I thought she was screaming helplessly with no sound coming out of her vocal cords but maybe she’s just singing to herself. Not screaming but singing. From Nipple to the Bottle Never Satisfied Won’t Give In and I Won’t Feel Guilty

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Rant and Rave till My Nipple Ache Me From the Nipple to the Bottle Never Satisfied He licked his lips at the thought of licking her all over. Does black skin taste any different from white skin, he asked himself? Standing at the passport control at Havana Airport, he felt himself get hot under the collar. Beads of sweat rolled down from his thick neck, seeping into his shirt that gradually became wetter and wetter. Venide usted de vacaciones o esta usted aqui de negocios? He was now at the head of the line. He looked blankly at the policeman at the passport control. Sitting on the airplane with his ‘Get by in Spanish’ book, he’d been practicing how to say, ‘I don’t speak Spanish,’ but now the only phrase that he could remember was, Quiero hacer el amor.

II Yo no se hablar Espanol. Yo no se hablar Espanol. Yo no se hablar Espanol. I spreek geen Spaans. I spreek geen Spaans. I spreek geen Spaans. I don’t speak Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish. Min no ta papia Spano. Min no ta papia Spano. Min no ta papia Spano. She said it again: ‘I don’t speak Spanish.’ He fired a stream of Spanish words at her. ‘I-don’t-speak-Spanish,’ her voice rose higher as she tried to make him understand. He filled the door of the hotel elevator, jamming it open. He fired out Spanish words at her in rapid succession like a machine gun. What did he want? Who was he? What was he saying? ‘For the hundredth time, I don’t speak Spanish. How many times do you want me to repeat it?’ He wasn’t listening to her. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t understand her. He hadn’t recognized that she was speaking English and not Spanish. A black-skinned, English rose, whose language had shattered his assumptions into smithereens. Yo no se hablar Espanol. Yo no se hablar Espanol. Yo no se hablar Espanol. I spreek geen Spaans. I spreek geen Spaans. I spreek geen Spaans. I don’t speak Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish. Min no ta papia Spano. Min no ta papia Spano. Min no ta papia Spano. An archipelago of different languages, tied together by slavery and colonialism. One island among many. Cuba, Trinidad, Aruba, Barbados, Martinique, Jamaica, St Lucia, to name just six.

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Language ties them back to Spain, Britain, the Netherlands, not to mention France. But that’s another story that Fanon and Chamoiseau can tell better than I. Are we forever bound by language or can we fabricate our own nets out of words and cast them to catch the past and the future like Walcott’s fishermen? Can we stitch together our creole narratives from African, Spanish, French and English yarns? This island of St Lucia , quittez moin die z’autres! let me tell you is heading for unqualified disaster, ces mamailles-là, pas blague, I am not joking. Every vote is your ticket, your free ride on the Titanic: a cruise back to slavery in liners like hotels you cannot sit inside except as waiters, maids. This chicanery! this fried chicanery! Tell me if I lying. Like that man hopping there, St Lucia look healthy With bananas and tourists, but her soul is crying ‘tends ça moin dire z’autres’, tell me if I lying.1 Your travel writer has dispensed with images, perhaps deciding that a picture is not worth a thousand words after all. How do you picture difference? How do you picture sameness? It must be time to shake off this epidermal schema. I want to ask the travel writer if words conjure images. Or perhaps it’s the other way around and it is images that trigger language. Can you imagine a world without words? Where would that leave you and me? I don’t speak Spanish. I don’t speak. I don’t. I.

III Arthur was photographed endlessly for more than ten years, but whatever held the face together held, changing all the time, yet never changing; and insofar as Arthur, eventually, was forced to suspect this, he was made mightily uneasy. Time could not attack the song. Time was allied with the song, amen’d in the amen corner with the song, inconceivably filled Arthur as Arthur sang, bringing Arthur, and many thousands, over.2 The artist walks around the group as they rehearse. They are a rag-bag bunch – different ages, heights, sizes, races. They share one thing in common: they can’t sing. Can’t Sing Choir. ‘What

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kind of choir is it that that can’t sing?’ you’re asking. Well, they can sing, in a way. They push the sounds out of their bodies through their vocal chords. The sounds are out of key, a little too sharp or a touch too flat. It doesn’t seem to matter. The artist walks around the group again, slipping effortlessly through their midst to capture their image. They pull out all the stops. Getting the sound out is all that matters: My brother, turning sixteen then, was alone, and in torment, and in love. He sang, he had to sing, as though music could really accomplish the miracle of making the walls come tumbling down. He sang: as Julia abandoned her ministry, Arthur began to discover his. But the song which transformed others failed to transform him.3 The artist walks around the group as they rehearse. Each voice is an instrument of God, coming together in blessed harmony. Each one stands in place. The artist finds no gaps. The Morley Gospel Choir arranges itself in perfect pitch and position. The artist’s movement is a distraction. She moves away into the corner of the space and sets up an impromptu studio. Those who want their ‘portrait’ taken volunteer to come and be photographed, subjected to her gaze: Perhaps history is not to be found in our mirrors, but in our repudiations: perhaps, the other is ourselves . . . Our history is each other. That is our only guide. One thing is absolutely certain: one can repudiate, or despise, no-one’s history without repudiating and despising one’s own. Perhaps that is what the gospel singer is singing.4 Silence. Their mouths are open and they are pushing the sound out of their bodies but the photographs stay silent. The sound has gone. The moment has gone. All that’s left is this silent photographic trace. A memory of the sound lingers like a ghost. Is silence the absence of sound or a space to recall its memory? Like a silent film without titles, you have to try and imagine the sounds. Their pitch, volume and texture escapes me leaving a blank, cavernous, empty space. Silence. I ache to hear some sound, to hear what Sarat Maharaj calls it ‘xenosonics’. I ache to hear the deafening, discordant noise of difference, drowning out the controlled, hushed tones of ‘multicultural managerialism’. I want to hear a chorus of dissonant voices.

Notes 1 Derek Walcott, Omeros, London: Faber and Faber, 1990, p. 107. 2 James Baldwin, Just Above My Head, London: Penguin, 1994 [1979], p. 23. 3 Ibid., p. 229. 4 Ibid., p. 512.

4 Shen Yuan The leftovers of translation

How [. . .] to recode translation taking on board ideas about its limits and dead-ends, its impossibility, the notion of the untranslatable, what we might call ‘the untranslatability of the term other?’ [. . .] the idea is to ask if the hybrid might not be seen as the product of translation’s failure, as something that falls short of the dream-ideal of translation as a ‘transparent’ passage from one idiom to another, from self to other . . . To recode it in more circumspect key involves defining it as a concept that unceasingly plumbs the depths of the untranslatable and that is continually being shaped by that process. It is to reinscribe it with a double-movement that cuts across ‘optimism and pessimism, the opaque and the crystalclear’ – to activate it as a play-off between the poles. It amounts to reindexing hybridity as an unfinished, self-unthreading force, even as a concept against itself. At any rate, as an openended one that is shot through with memories and intimations of the untranslatable.1 A frozen, wine-coloured tongue carved from ice hangs down over a metal spittoon. The tongue is suspended, like a sheet of glass, frost-bound and hard. As warm currents of air circle around it, the frigid organ softens and yields, melting, drop by drop, into the metal spittoon. Drop by drop, the melting ice drips into the waiting spittoon until the glint of metal, reflecting through the water hits your eye. In time, the frosty tongue thaws only to reveal the blade of a kitchen knife, sharp and pointed. Perdre sa salive [Waste your breath] (1994), an installation piece composed of frozen tongues, kitchen knives and metal spittoons, like many of Shen Yuan’s works, is concerned with the transformation of images and objects from one state to another (Figs  4.1 and 4.2). Like the Chinese expression of ‘finding reincarnation in another’s corpse’, Shen Yuan takes everyday objects and materials and invests them with new lives and meanings, translating the mundane into the extraordinary. In Perdre sa salive, objects and materials are transformed into something other than themselves but, like the spittoons that gather the melted ice, the residue of the original material remains. Here, the role of the artist is not that of a magician conjuring new forms 25

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Fig. 4.1 Shen Yuan, Perdre sa salive [Waste your breath], 1994. Installation view. © Shen Yuan. All rights reserved, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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Fig. 4.2 Shen Yuan, Perdre sa salive [Waste your breath], 1994. Installation view. © Shen Yuan. All rights reserved, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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from old, nor that of an alchemist transforming base metal into gold. Rather, the artist acts as translator, reinterpreting elements of the physical world into new visual metaphors that often refer back to the previous condition of these materials and back also to spoken language and, in particular, to colloquial proverbs and sayings. ‘To lose one’s spittle’ in Chinese is to be excessively modest or submissive but here the unassuming image of drooling tongues dissolves itself into the spectacle of sharpened knives. In a subtle inversion of the original meaning, Shen Yuan’s icy tongues ‘lose their spittle’ only to acquire the trappings of imminent violence. But Perdre sa salive is also concerned with the limits of language: the cul-de-sac of clichéd proverbial sayings; the inability of words to approximate to the visual image; and the inadequacy of translations from one language or culture to another. At one moment, these tongues are as solid as ice; at another moment, they have melted and metamorphosed into another state. Perhaps, they might be seen as the ‘leftovers of translation’, all the things that are left unsaid or nuances of language that inevitably remain untranslated. Invoking the untranslatable should not be seen as a melancholy exercise. On the contrary, it offers the possibility of a dynamic exchange between artwork and viewer that leaves the work open to continuous interpretation and reinterpretation. Shen Yuan’s works articulate what Sarat Maharaj calls the ‘leftover inexpressibles of translation’, demonstrating ‘an attentiveness that opens onto an erotics and ethics of the other beyond its untranslatability’.2 The French title of the work, Perdre sa salive introduces another colloquial meaning to the work, ‘wasting one’s breath’, that becomes knitted into the increasingly complex fabric of the piece and its multiple meanings, translations and interpretations. The artist herself talks about the work in terms of the excess of language, of when words spill over to such an extent that they become meaningless and language loses its ability to communicate. In this respect, this and other works by Shen Yuan reflect on the relationship between the visual and the linguistic, elegantly and succinctly problematized by René Magritte’s painting of a painted pipe, accompanied by the words: ‘This is not a pipe.’ Created in what Walter Benjamin christened as ‘the age of mechanical reproduction’ and in the face of the challenge presented to painting by the photographic image, Magritte’s painting underlines the gap between the ‘real’ world and its representation by the artist. Shen Yuan’s work, made in an age of increasingly rapid communication technologies and the mass migration of peoples across the globe, points to the limits of language to describe and translate lived experience in a new global economy. Shen Yuan’s preoccupation with spoken language and its limited ability to articulate contemporary experience is undoubtedly informed by her own migration from China to Paris and the consequently painful negotiation of an alien culture and language, familiar to many migrants. Uprooted from a familiar environment to an utterly different cultural space, language which once acted as an anchor rooting you in a particular place and culture, is abruptly weighed,

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leaving you adrift and lost. Linguistic and communication skills honed over decades become defunct overnight, crudely underlining the fallibility of language. Paris, the first foreign destination after leaving my country of birth. 16-hour flight, arriving finally in the imagined paradise of the West. First walk, with my husband and friend, in the hills of Montmartre. We passed huge refuse bins that were inscribed ‘Property of Paris’. Suddenly, we jumped inside them in the name of the ready-made, following in the artistic footsteps of Duchamp. 16 hours later, my mother tongue becomes useless. This language was nothing more than a noise. My brain collapsed into a sponge-like state. I feel that I have a mouth without knowing how to open it; ears without being able to hear anything. The first thing to do is to buy a small notebook, to write down all my friends’ telephone numbers, their addresses. But faced with these blank pages, what am I to do? 16 hours, it isn’t long but everything has changed. The first thought: how do you start your life over again at the age of 31?3 The migrant experience of daily alienation and discomfort is explored once again in a new installation piece made specifically for the Arnolfini, Bristol. Feel Just Like a Fish in Water (2001) is an elaborate piece that stages an old rowing boat, washed up on a bed of coarse sea salt. Echoing the skeletal frame of the boat are a number of fish skeletons, delicately cast out of Bristol blue glass and beached on the sea of salt. Live fish swim backwards and forwards in the bottom of the boat. In this, as in other of Shen Yuan’s works, there is a persistent tension between the elements of the work that are solid, structural and suggest fixity or permanence and other elements that are fluid, moving but also vulnerable and impermanent. In this way, Shen Yuan builds the element of time as well as space into her work. Time, becomes the fourth material or constituent part of the work (after the artist, the materials, the viewer) which is invoked and resides latently in the work and whose gradual effect will inevitably unfold in the course of an hour, a day, a week or a month.

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In 1999, Shen Yuan made another work involving tongues. Diverged Tongue (a project made originally for the Centre for Contemporary Arts, CCA, Kitakyushu, Japan) consists of a huge, inflatable, forked tongue, reminiscent of a children’s toy whistle, which is suspended from the wall and blows itself up at three- to four-minute intervals along the length of the gallery floor (Fig. 4.3). Once again, the work takes as its reference point a Chinese saying, in this case, one that defines an extended and forked tongue as the mark of a person with a distinctive (regional) accent, a person from another place who attempts (and fails) to speak two languages with one tongue. Diverged Tongue reflects on the failure of language to straddle, at one time, two distinct linguistic systems and, by extension, two different, cultural spaces. Extravagant claims are made for this twenty-first-century globalized world, in which we can bridge vast geographical distances in a matter of hours, communicate in a matter of seconds, and yet, Shen Yuan implies, we trip up at the first hurdle of linguistic difference. At the same time, the ‘forked tongue’ denotes a different register, accent or idiom. Variously termed as broken English, lingua franca, patois, creole, this new ‘tongue’ unfurls, creating something new, something other than its constituent parts from the residues of half-remembered speech and almost-forgotten expressions. Deflated and curled up in the corner of the gallery space, Shen Yuan’s Diverged Tongue is an absent presence, barely registered by the visitor entering the space. As it inflates and expands across the gallery floor, however, Diverged Tongue takes on an altogether different persona as a menacing and overwhelming presence in the space that is impossible to overlook. In the context of a European continent which has been transformed and continues to be transformed by the influx of migrants from all parts of the world, Diverged Tongue could be seen as a metaphor for the ambivalent status of Europe’s migrant communities, deracinated and transposed to the continent’s urban spaces, they are perceived as a latent threat at one moment barely visible or acknowledged and at another moment, caricatured as hordes on the brink of ‘swamping’ Europe’s indigenous cultures. Shen Yuan cites the literary and linguistic as significant references in her work over and above the sociological or philosophical; hence her repeated use of colloquial proverbs and sayings as a starting point for the making of works. Her visual and linguistic punning owes much to Marcel Duchamp’s ready-mades, not least in her fascination with the transformation of images, the possibility of plural meanings and the migration of the readymade object into the gallery space. But, unlike Duchamp’s ready-mades that are transformed by their movement from the world outside into the space of the gallery that bestows them with the status of art objects, Shen Yuan’s objects and materials are continually in the process of transformation; becoming something else that cannot easily be fixed or held. They are migrating objects, moving from one space to another and are altered in the process. Shen Yuan’s ready-mades are deeply personal and intimate reflections on the experience of identity as a continuously shifting and allusive entity. Smaller works like Untitled (1996) comprises a slipper, lying on the lid of an open shoe box filled with the artist’s cut fingernails, the natural waste product and residue of the human body and the

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Fig. 4.3 Shen Yuan, Diverged Tongue, 1999. Installation view at CCA Kitakyushu. Fabric and plastic. © Shen Yuan. All rights reserved, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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trace of the body’s own dynamic growth and movement which will, nevertheless, gradually deteriorate and disappear. Or, Fingerprint (1999), in which a slice of raw ham, laid out on a plate like a slice of human skin, is delicately embroidered with minute gold thread to create the configuration of the artist’s fingerprint, the body’s unique identification system, in such a way as to reinforce its fragility and impermanence rather than to fix identity once and for all. The human body as a measure and departure point for readjusting physical scale is a recurring motif in Shen Yuan’s work. In a series of works using hemp to create gigantic plaits of hair, the artist reconstructs the human head on an enlarged scale. Three Armchairs (1995) consists of three traditional armchairs whose backs have been opened up, drawing out the hemp that is then plaited into braids. Shaped to accommodate the seated human figure, the chairs are remoulded to assume the image of a human head or rather three human heads that are then bound together and intertwined. In Threes and Fives (1997), Shen Yuan used the architecture of the gallery space in Camden Arts Centre, London as the framework for imaginary heads that looked out of the gallery with their hemp braids trailing and interwoven across the floor of the space. The installation presents an ambivalent image since it is impossible to tell whether these metonymic human beings are coming together of their own freewill or whether they have been forcibly shackled together by the braids of their head. The human body and its senses, are for Shen Yuan, both the gauge and the barometer by which the individual calibrates their relationship to the external world but she remains equivocal about the nature of that relationship. Absorbed into the physical architecture of the building, her gigantic heads (implicitly female and Chinese) gaze out of the gallery windows like a permeable human skin mediating between the inside and the outside of the gallery which is either a jail or a haven, depending on your interpretation.4 In a later installation piece – Un Matin du Monde (2000) – the explicit references to the human body have disappeared, remaining now only as an implicit physical presence in the work (Figs 4.4 and 4.5). Recreating the rooftop of a traditional Chinese house, the installation gives you the illusion of standing on a rooftop in China, peppered with the sounds of everyday life and the smell of spices and prepared duck that has been put out to dry. The viewer’s physical presence activates the work by introducing a human scale to the installation and by bringing the viewer’s imaginary and sensory responses into play. Smell and sound are added here to the trilogy of senses (taste, sight, touch) invoked in Shen Yuan’s earlier installations. This piece, perhaps more than any other, accentuates the sensuality of her works that stretch out to engage you physically with all your senses and emotions. ‘Art for me,’ writes Shen Yuan, ‘is a way to find “reincarnation in another’s corpse”. To reveal the latent language of the material, to breathe life into inanimate things, make useless things useful and make useful things useless, that is what I wish to do.’5 It is this transformation of objects from their literal meaning and function in the world to a poetic and often disturbing translation into something different that lies at the heart of Shen Yuan’s practice as an artist. Her work challenges the literal nature of some contemporary

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Fig. 4.4 Shen Yuan, Un Matin du Monde, 2000. Installation view. Tiles, wood, mixed media. 8 × 5.9 × 1.5 m. © Shen Yuan. All rights reserved, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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Fig. 4.5 Shen Yuan, Un Matin du Monde, 2000. Installation view (detail). Tiles, wood, mixed media. 8 × 5.9 × 1.5 m. © Shen Yuan. All rights reserved, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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artworks where real objects are preserved or moulded and re-exhibited in the gallery space as figurative metaphors for the human condition. Perched on Shen Yuan’s reconstructed rooftop, your view is restricted to what lies on the roof and above it. In visual terms, you have a bird’s eye view restricted to the skyline without the benefit of seeing what lies beneath or around you. You are in a real space but at the same time removed from reality. Un Matin du Monde transposes you to a space of limitless imagination but also to the realm of flawed and incomplete memories. The Dinosaur’s Egg (2001) provides a different kind of bird’s eye view. A map of China and its neighbouring countries covers the gallery floor (Fig. 4.5). A large fibre-glass egg has hatched and given birth to an army of fibre-glass figures, caricatures of ‘traditional’ Chinese characters that are reminiscent of children’s toys. Half a metre in height, over fifty of these fibre glass characters are dotted across the map like a gigantic children’s chess game. Like Diverged Tongue, this work is inspired by children’s toys. The inflation of children’s toys like Claes Oldenburg’s giant sculptures of everyday objects (hamburgers, typewriters, ice cream cones and so on), assigns them a monumentalism and scale that seems inappropriate to their significance in the culture as a whole. But the resonance of children’s toys for Shen Yuan lies in their function as a kind of creative unconscious of a culture. Toys and games are the fabrications of adults, the products of their unbridled imagination and hence a cipher or barometer of a society’s imaginary. These figures are also translations or mistranslations of Chinese culture. They are the failed attempts to translate another culture, giving birth to these bizarre, oversized caricatures whose somewhat sinister presence populates the entire gallery space. The work speaks to the contradictions of globalization where the movement of people, criss-crossing the world, has not been mirrored by a parallel movement of ideas. The speed and exchange of communication worldwide has not resulted in an equally fast exchange of cultural understanding. Shen Yuan’s most witty and playful installation is also the most pessimistic appraisal of the failure of cross-cultural translation and more specifically, of the West’s failure to engage in any depth with other cultures and ideas that are different from it. Shen Yuan’s work always stops short of proffering any solutions or answers to these issues. The role of the artist, in her view, is to provoke questions, never to provide fixed answers. But, at the same time, her work poses one of the most troubling political questions of our time: how can the individual and the individual’s viewpoint and experience inform the direction of society and social change when there are so many competing individual agendas and ideologies? Are there too many people and are there too many inhabitants? Or are there too many visitors? Are there too many good-for-nothings and are there too many policemen? Are there too may buildings and are the buildings of the poor too high, or are the buildings of the rich too extended?

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Fig. 4.6 Shen Yuan, The Dinosaur’s Egg, 2001. Installation view. © Shen Yuan. All rights reserved, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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Are there too many lowered prices and are there too many commodities or are there too many merchants? Are there too many intellectuals and are there too many students or are there too many politicians? Is there too much garbage and is there too much dog shit or are there too many eggs? So, nothing is a little? No, there is too little money, there are too few good people.6 The text above was written to accompany Street Battle (1999) which is probably Shen Yuan’s most explicitly political work. Commissioned from the artist as part of Hou Hanru and Hans Ulrich Obrist’s travelling exhibition Cities on the Move,7 the installation was made up of archive film footage of street riots, filmed in different locations and various historical moments and projected onto a wall in the gallery space. In front of the projection, bicycles armed with projectile missiles and basketfuls of raw eggs invite the visitor to shift their position in the contemporary art museum from that of spectator to that of activist, even rioter. The work comments on the volatility of the urban space which, in marked contrast to the quiet and stable environment of the museum, threatens to erupt at any moment ‘like a volcano’ as Shen Yuan puts it. The image of a volcano which lies dormant for many years with only the occasional rumble, only to explode suddenly without warning refers in this work to the imminence of popular unrest but reflects a recurring theme in Shen Yuan’s work. A state of impermanence or volatility is present in almost every work as if, inherent in the latent language of the materials she deploys, is the continual possibility of violent metamorphosis. Thus, ice tongues transform themselves into sharpened kitchen knives; a giant toy whistle puffs up into an all-consuming presence; a fibre glass egg hatches into an army of sinister toy characters; a precarious bridge is stretched across two sides of a riverbank. This latter work, Demolishing the Bridge after Crossing the River (1997), was a site-specific project in Leerdam in the Netherlands, where the artist constructed a floating emerald green bridge out of hundreds of empty beer bottles between the banks of a river in Asperen. The piers of the bridge were made out of three recycling containers for glass, connected together with returnable bottles that were tied with rope. The work is concerned with the movement of people between two points but also with the movement (and hence the transformation) of materials; the cycling and recycling of materials from sand to glass to bottle; from material to product, from product to waste to product once again. Operating between the twin poles of ‘optimism and pessimism’, this piece at once celebrates the continuous cycle of making and remaking (a reference perhaps to the artistic process and the transformation of materials into artworks and back to their raw material state once again) but also carries inherently the threat of imminent collapse, of the string unravelling and the bottles collapsing into the river below. Shen Yuan’s artistic practice is perhaps best characterized as one that uses the gallery (and its exterior) as a performative space to which she brings materials and props in order to stage works

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that address the conditions of modernity in the twenty-first century. Invariably, the viewer is implicated in some way in this elaborate staging for which the individual and their negotiation of the world is key. Inherent to the materials she employs and the artworks she fabricates out of those materials are the transformation of images and objects; the limits of language and the translatability of cultures; the sense of possibility of connection with the rest of the world and, at the same time, the imminence of disconnection; and, above all, the continuous and cyclical movement and migration of things.

Notes 1 Sarat Maharaj, ‘ “Perfidious Fidelity”: The Untranslatability of the Other’, in Fisher (ed.), Global Visions, pp. 28–30. 2 Ibid. 3 Shen Yuan, quoted in the exhibition catalogue Paris pour escale, Paris: Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, Paris musées, 2000, p. 87. 4 Shen Yuan, Artist’s Statement, unpublished, 2000. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. 7 Cities on the Move was a major travelling exhibition curated by Hans Ulrich Obrist and Hou Hanru. It toured various locations from 1997 to 1999, presenting the cultural impact of East Asia’s rapid urban development in the late twentieth century, through a mix of visual art, architecture and film, and involved more than 150 architects, artists, film-makers and designers.

5 Voices off Interview with Susan Hiller

Gilane Tawadros (GT)

I visited you in Berlin in 2002–3, when you were staying there on a

1

DAAD residency and I came to your apartment and you were watching a very strange film called Incubus from 1966 and starring William Shatner, who is better known for his role as Captain Kirk in Star Trek. Susan Hiller (SH) Oh, the one that’s in Esperanto – I loved that film, yes. Were you startled? GT

I was rather startled, I’d never seen William Shatner quite like that before and it was

curious to be watching him in a film with subtitles. Curiously, I found a quote from Antonio Gramsci recently, written in 1920 in Turin where he talks about the popularity of Esperanto among Italian workers.2 I thought that was really interesting and I wanted to ask you about what drew you to the film Incubus and your interest in Esperanto? SH

Gramsci is speaking from the position of a highly educated man who clearly was taught

and learned various languages throughout his schooling. Working-class people didn’t have that advantage. Esperanto was a proposal for a new universal language that could serve the same function everywhere without privileging any existing language as a lingua franca. A desire for a kind of efficiency as well as a desire for worldwide ease of communication were the ideas behind Esperanto. I went to a lecture about Esperanto a few years ago in London and was touched by the utopian origins of the movement and the fact that many people in parts of the world outside Europe still consider Esperanto to be the key to a kind of sophistication, the ability to learn and travel – both physical travel and intellectual travel – through books and discussions with people from other countries using this one language.

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GT

That’s interesting because I think there is a connection here with Gramsci’s roots in

Sardinia, coming from a minority culture and speaking dialect. He had a passion for education and understood that people were constrained by the fact that they couldn’t speak Italian. SH Yes, but he doesn’t seem to be saying that, instead of saying what we’ve just said, which seems very obvious to me, he sounds dismissive and sceptical about the Esperanto movement. It was in essence a very political idea, but perhaps not the kind of politics he thought would be effective. Another interest of mine happens to be the history of spiritualism. I’ve been reading about the working-class origins of Spiritualism. The famous bourgeois intellectuals who got involved are well known, but really, it was primarily a working-class movement and made important contributions to the development of socialism in this country. These ideas generated movements that were widespread at the beginning of the twentieth century and continue until World War II as working-class developments. I’m speaking of Esperanto and Spiritualism – they don’t go together, they’ve no relationship except in my mind as attempts to transcend the limitations of poor education and a repressive religion. So that’s it, I’m interested in, mildly interested in, Esperanto. GT

To return to Germany, one of the works which came out of your DAAD residency was

The J Street Project (2002–5, Fig. 5.1). SH

Most of the artists invited to Berlin on the DAAD Fellowship seem to feel impelled to

confront some of the traumas of German history, and very unlikely artists have done all sorts of projects about difficult subjects. So much so, that the man who was then the Director of the DAAD visual art programme was not supportive of my project at first, particularly the book which he was very late to support – only after an institution in this country wanted to do it and he jumped in suddenly and wanted to co-publish it. He actually shouted at me in his office one day, ‘The Jews, the Jews,’ he said, ‘That’s all anyone knows about Germany!’ It was a project I felt I had to do, once I had accidentally discovered the existence of the street signs. I was walking around Berlin when I first arrived and looking up from my map to find out where I was, saw a street sign that said ‘Jüdenstrasse’. I thought, ‘That’s shocking – what does it mean?’ And, of course, the fact that a street sign is literally a sign of what is absent gave it a double weight. I couldn’t evade the gaps it opened up, so circled around it and made it into a piece of work. GT

I am interested in the relationship between language and loss and between presence and

absence. It’s such a powerful project because the names of streets and places act as residues of past lives and histories. When we’re tourists and travelling places, we come across names and we

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Fig. 5.1 Susan Hiller, The J-Street Project, 2002–5. 303 glicee prints, list of locations, map; 20-minute film; book. © Susan Hiller. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019. Photo: Todd-White Art Photography.

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speculate what the name carries and whether that relates to any actuality. Can you talk about that relationship between naming and place. SH Years and years and years before this, before I was an artist, but shortly after I’d left anthropology, I worked a bit on place names. One of my criticisms of anthropology was the lack of affect and the way that anthropologists worked to a supposedly non-partisan, objective agenda which I didn’t feel that I, personally, as a human being, could do or would want to do. Friends of mine were running a very radical alternative newspaper in New Orleans called Nola Express. I did a piece for them on place names in Florida where I grew up, which use Native American names. It was always strange for me when young that no one paid attention to the names: Indian Creek Drive – what Indians? Miami – it’s a name of a tribe. Tallahassee – the state capital, the site of a former native Apalachee village of that name. And so on. This took the form of a newspaper piece with a map. I had more or less forgotten about it but when I saw the street names in Germany, I felt I was in familiar territory to a certain extent because it was something I had been very wrought up about previously in the United States and no one would discuss it with me. GT

Why do you think that was?

SH

Because the topic of Native American History in the United States is like the Jews in

Germany. I mean, it’s buried. It’s there, it’s in your face but it’s not there. These are two different histories, completely different histories, but it’s a similar genre of erasure through naming. In The Myth of Primitivism, the book that I put together in the 1980s, I did talk about place names in America, and the names of cars and native food that we ate at Thanksgiving. It’s a way of allowing a certain kind of visibility through naming which actually hides everything. GT

It is a paradox that a very explicit presence can also be an absence.

SH

That’s why I call them ghosts. All the things that interest me seem to be ghosts. They’re

certainly there but not everyone can see them. You know what happens when you’re taking a photograph of something, other people turn around to look at the subject – as in my Monument piece. People sit underneath this memorial every day, eating sandwiches for their lunch, coming out of the office and sitting on the bench underneath it, and they don’t see it. I was taking pictures with my camera, suddenly they all turned around to look at it – they didn’t see it before, or they saw it but they didn’t know that they saw it. Possibly this blindness comes about because if everybody noticed everything, they would be paralyzed.

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I’d been walking around Berlin and had seen a lot of historical names on streets. I didn’t really stop to think about any of them, except possibly if it was Bismarkstrasse or something else well known. But this encounter with the Jüdenstrasse was such – I keep saying ‘shock’ because I don’t have another good word, I mean, it was startling, it captured me, it upset me, it caught my attention. GT

One of the things that struck me was just how many street names there were. I remember

talking to you about it, that first of all you noticed one, then two and three, and then suddenly there was an accumulation of names. SH We did map research and found 303. Obviously, there had once been more. These were old streets and if located in the centre of a town which may have been renovated or destroyed in the war, they no longer exist. And, of course, the Nazis got rid of all of the Jewish names and replaced them with other names. Not all the places that had had them wanted to put them back after the war. At the time I was living in Berlin the Green Party’s programme included the restoration of the Jewish street names, but certain neighbourhoods were objecting strongly to the name change. In my film, you can see some street signs where the old name has been crossed out and a temporary new sign put underneath. The transition is ongoing because although it was part of the official de-Nazification policy to replace the old street names, it still hasn’t happened everywhere. But in some places, it was quite the opposite. For example, in one of the tiny villages – because many of these places are rural – a man told us that his village had been assimilated into a new administrative district, and they wanted to make all the street signs in all the villages in the new district the same style. And so they had come round to his village and while they were talking about how they were going to replace the street signs with this new style of sign, they said, ‘Well, we can change the name of your Jüdenstrasse if you like because it’s not a very nice name.’ And he and his neighbours said,‘No, it’s our street, we like it, keep the name.’ That happens as well. GT

When you named the work, you named it The J Street Project and absented the word Jew.

Why did you do that? SH

The word ‘Jude’ had been a generic term of abuse in Germany for a long time. I didn’t want

to use it because it comes with so many built-in associations and almost announces in advance a set of reactions. The ‘J’ by itself is a way of signifying something which isn’t named and I feel resists definition to an extent, so people have to come to terms with the subject matter of the work before deciding what they think and feel about it. GT

It becomes a question, doesn’t it? You ask the question ‘What does the “J” stand for,’ what’s

missing, what does that letter represent?

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SH

Exactly, what does it represent?

GT

Let’s move on to another work, The Last Silent Movie (2007–8), which moved me hugely

when I saw it at the Berlin Biennale in 2007. I sat in front of it and I couldn’t leave it. Words are projected across a black screen and you hear several voices speaking in different languages which are completely unrecognizable. There is a huge sense of loss because these are all languages that are either extinct or becoming extinct. The people speaking in the film talk about language not just as a tool of communication but as the articulation of a culture. They make clear how the specificity of a culture is embedded in language; how it’s only possible to express certain things conceptually in particular languages. SH

What we call reality is totally provisional; it’s structured by language. First of all, it’s

structured by our hardwiring as humans which is universal, and the sounds that infants make are universal. Once our sound-making becomes linguistic and the world begins to be defined and broken up, that’s what we think of as the real. Every language has its own world and that’s one of the truisms of anthropology that I still respect. I believe that every language narrates its own world, its own sense of time and space. Its reality is defined differently, experienced differently, and that’s exciting. When we lose a language, we lose all of that and then the languages are lost in a secondary sense which is one of the reasons I made that work. The archives of languages are collected assiduously by linguists and anthropologists, and then closed to the public. You can’t get permission to listen to the languages because it’s somebody’s scholarly academic territory. I thought that sense of possession was extraordinary. The voice is the most important empathetic communication between humans because when we’re listening to someone talking, we feel the other’s vibration in our ears – that is a physical sensation. That is the key to my interest in language and why I wanted to use the voices of people without pictures because the visual representation is always at a distance. Intimacy is a blur. Pictures of people from different societies in their differences can be more off-putting than attractive but the voice is different. The way people can use their vocal apparatus, is sometimes extraordinary. We could never make some of those sounds, you know? I love that. GT

The absence of the visual meant that people were only representing themselves through

sound and through voice. SH

And what they were actually saying . . .

GT

And so what you attend to in the absence of any visual distraction is the content and

inflections of the voice and the emphasis that people put on certain words, the weighting

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and meaning. It’s the way we make sense of language when we don’t really know a language. You have to listen for any clues – when you see somebody, you get clues from their body language and their gestures, but when you don’t have that, you’re entirely dependent on the auditory experience. SH Yes, that’s why I made the piece the way I made it I wanted to make a situation that would lead to empathy. Recently I showed it in New York and I got a letter afterwards from one of the young, junior curators who said she wanted to tell me that people were crying and the invigilators told her this often happened. So, I thought, ‘OK, it’s worked.’ Because I started the piece knowing there was a great deal of interest in this idea that languages are being lost and there’s often something in the newspaper or even quite a good radio programme about the subject, but public interest is intellectual, not based on experience. The Last Silent Movie offers a small physical engagement, an experience of others whose voices vibrate in our ears, speaking for themselves. And also, no one ever says why the languages are dying or disappearing, they don’t talk about the politics, the economics and the histories that create language loss. It’s so superficial, this constant reminder that languages are disappearing and ‘So what?’ people think to themselves, ‘Better that we should all speak English.’ Whereas Esperanto wouldn’t replace any of the small languages with one dominant one like English – as Gramsci points out – English would become a dialect but we’d all speak Esperanto. That’s an interesting goal. GT You spoke earlier about how language creates reality, or reality is created through language, and I saw a piece of yours called Enquiries/Inquiries (1973 and 1975) for the first time recently at the Lisson Gallery. It emerged from your engagement with two different dictionaries, an English dictionary and an American dictionary. And I was reading something you said about it: you were talking about how we come to agree about facts and come to a consensus about a shared reality through language. This installation juxtaposes facts which are undermined by the contradictions that you provoke through the juxtapositions. It struck me how very timely this piece is to the moment we find ourselves when there is such a political debate about where fact and reality is located. SH

Are you thinking about the post-truth notion?

GT

I am and I’m also thinking about how people are disillusioned with the sources of authority

and truth. Their lack of confidence is provoking two apparently contradictory responses: on the one hand, non-truths are being proliferated as truth, and, on the other hand, people are becoming researchers of their own truths and are trying to validate things for themselves. SH Yes, and some of them are dangerously stupid whereas others are optimistically encouraging about a more widespread criticality. In relationship to that, I was thinking that possibly I went to

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primary school in the United States at a good period because we were encouraged to read newspapers critically. I remember in third grade, that’s nine or ten years old, the teacher passed out different newspapers and pointed out news stories supposedly about the same event in different versions, and as kids we were talking about all of this. Access to that kind of criticality is available to anyone, but I guess somebody has to tell people it’s possible or that such a thing exists. The other side of it which you’ve talked about is a kind of grasping at belief in a scary way because the ground is shifting and you’re actually not sure so you get a system of belief that makes you feel better about everything. I guess it’s very hard for human beings, I include myself in this, to live in constant doubt of all your sources. It’s a scary thing, I don’t think we can, so we’re always trying to find something that we think is true. Enquiries/Inquiries – started off from a slight difference of inflection between the spelling in two closely related cultures who supposedly speak the same language or versions of the same language. What interested me was the catechistic format and, coincidentally, that there was only one so-called fact that appears in both groups – did you notice it? It’s the one that asks in different ways, ‘Can you see the stars in the daytime from the bottom of a well?’ Now, that is in itself a very odd fact, it happens to be true, you can do this, but you would have to go down to the bottom of the well to verify it, and like all these ‘facts’ you need to take it on faith. Nowadays, we’re so inundated with everything. When I’m working online doing some research, suddenly, my attention is grabbed by something asking me, ‘Who is this famous person 10 years later – she now weighs 800 lbs.’ My attention is momentarily drawn to that. I’m superficially attracted to some strange fact that’s intruding and I can understand that people would be drawn to statements, let’s say in politics, that seem at first unbelievable and then it’s like a fairy tale, ‘No, it’s true, it’s really true’ – ‘Yes it’s true, Donald Trump is President’ – do you know what I mean?! Many people find a great pleasure in overturning certain authorities which may be from our point of view quite correct authorities; they feel they gain personal strength by being able to deny some other people’s view of reality. We are in an era of rebellion against the experts. GT

The word ‘Witness’ hangs here above the entrance to your studio reminding me about the

work entitled Witness (2000), commissioned by Artangel and which I remember seeing installed in a slightly darkened space, it was like a chapel . . . (Fig. 5.2). SH

It was upstairs in the chapel of an abandoned Non-Conformist church.

GT

I didn’t know it was a Non-Conformist church, that’s significant.

SH Yes, it is.

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Fig. 5.2 Susan Hiller, Witness, 2000. Commissioned and produced by Artangel. © Susan Hiller. All rights reserved, DACS, 2019. Photo: Parisa Tagwizadin. Courtesy of Artangel.

GT

Hundreds of earpieces hung down from the ceiling and I started to listen to the voices

emerging from the earpieces. The first one I picked up, I couldn’t understand, It was in Spanish or another language I didn’t understand. I picked up another one and then I realised that these were voices in lots of different languages. I gravitated to the ones that I could understand, and inevitably I wanted to find some connection or understand what the narrative was – if there was a narrative to these different stories that I was hearing in my ear. They started to unfold and I realized that these were all witness statements. People were describing to me something they had seen which is a recurring theme in your work. I had to imagine, in my mind’s eye, what was being

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described to me. I had to bring to bear all my powers of imagination to conjure up the images that the stories were evoking. The stories were all different. The voices were different: different ages, genders and languages, but people were describing similar things: they were all witnesses to alien encounters. When you just listen to one or two narratives, you might think, this is a crazy person who perhaps has had too much to drink, or has mistaken a light source or a plane for a UFO, but then you start to question your own assessment. You start to wonder whether, if so many different people in so many different locations have seen remarkably similar things, maybe your assumptions are wrong. SH

I can tell this has been unnerving for you to realise the world is a very strange place! I am

very interested in what I call ‘contemporary visionary experience’ because these experiences are visionary and they are visual, and that’s why when you hear somebody telling you about it, you begin to picture it for yourself no matter how unwilling you may be. That’s another human experience that I like to allow people to explore. I like to provide situations where you can feel something that perhaps you don’t want to know about but you can have a brief encounter with it of a certain kind, and that’s really what that piece is about. Witness was the beginning of a project which is quite long-term and ongoing in other ways. I am very interested in the inadequacy of language to really explain what these intense unexplained experiences are: unless you have a religious framework, where you can say, ‘I saw an angel.’ When you try to describe something intense and ineffable and you say a Martian or a fairy or an elf spoke to me, it’s human, it’s completely human. Or if you have an experience with ghosts or with dying and coming back to life, as in Channels my work about NearDeathExperiences. Jung said something like, ‘Every culture in the world believes we can communicate with the dead and that means it’s normal and so the rest of us are not normal if we don’t believe the dead speak to us.’ These stories I’ve been collecting in various works problematize one’s secular modernist world view. It isn’t a question of whether they are true or false, the point is they are widespread and therefore they exist as social facts, as appropriate for an artist as apples or bus tickets. GT

And why is that important?

SH

It’s because it’s a human capacity to use imagination and to try desperately to describe

things which may be psychological experiences or paranormal experiences somehow outside language and potentially subject to ridicule. Paranormal may, in fact, be normal, operating between dream and waking life. People have liminal experiences all the time, we call it intuition or creativity. We have lots of ways of trying to define this area but possibly we’re just very uptight in our society and rigid in a certain way. Each culture is but ours is rigid about this sort of thing

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and therefore in denial; we have people trying desperately to tell us something and they’re doing the best they can. In Witness we have a narrative beginning, middle and end, full of doubt, full of confusion often. People say, ‘I don’t remember what happened next but it was sort of like this’; or ‘I don’t know how to explain it, then it seemed to get very large.’ But one thing that is unified throughout is that there is usually experience of light which is the classic religious announcement of something. There’s something there but I’m not attempting to define it. There’s something there that I trust and believe happens. I’m not saying I accept machines flying around in the sky although interestingly enough governments are now disclosing all their UFO stuff and it does seem as though something’s been going on for a very long time. No one knows what it is, and they’re not trying to attack us. That’s what the American government report says, ‘Don’t worry, they’re not trying to attack us.’ I am not a person who really is a debunker in that sense and nor am I paranoid or a true believer. I’m interested in the universality, that’s what puzzled me initially; I was very curious and then when I looked into it more and more, I saw that there was something going on. I made Witness seventeen years ago. Now I’m working on a new piece which is related but on a different topic. People online aren’t talking so much anymore about alien encounters and they’re not talking about sightings of craft. They’re talking more about the light, incidents and encounters with light phenomena. Unfortunately, the way these are being contextualised or defined is in the discourse around what are called ‘orbs’, which is already an area where religious ideology has taken over. Orbs are round globes of light and they’re suddenly appearing everywhere and all sorts of people are experiencing them. If you’re religious, you think they are either – depending on which ideology you adopt – spirits of the dead talking to us, or unborn children talking to us, or God talking to us. Other folks think they are life forms from outer space visiting us, an apparatus of some kind operated by beings who are smarter than we are and who just use them to get involved in our world, to spy on us in some way or communicate with us. I especially like these stories because they’re more abstract. A ball of light to me is more interesting than a little green alien but there may be many of these experiences of different sorts. The important thing is to allow them to be talked about; the people who are witnessing them are not making it up for the most part. There are possibly some people who do it to get attention but mostly the witnesses are struggling to find a way to talk about it. They’re not poets. They’re not magicians with language. They’re doing the best they can using what’s available in our society to explain something. GT

It seems to me that in a lot of your work, you are interested in exploring what knowledge

and culture is, and who has the authority to define where knowledge and culture resides? SH

I said a long time ago that my work was epistemological. I was trying to explain what

interested me: how we know and what do we know; and how does the way we know affect what

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we think we know and so forth. And the way to think about that is to find out what other people think and the only way you can look at that is to collect all of those instances together. If you just have one or two, these are extraordinary. But when it becomes ordinary, and the stories can seem boring sometimes because of their similarities, then you know that there’s something that people are experiencing that they can’t really do a very good job of telling us about. That’s why I’m interested in the idea of the individual witness rather than taking any of these different aspects into academic discourse where the individuality of each instance is eradicated to make a generalisation. That really doesn’t interest me. I want to do the first job which is really to collect and present the instances in their singularity to see in what ways they are similar. GT

Why is that important to you?

SH

I like to work with materials in a material way. The form each of these works takes is

always based on the material itself without making that into something else. For example, in Witness, because I had all those reports, each had to have an individual place within the work so that although you can stand back from it and hear a kind of babble of voices all talking at once in different languages, when you get closer, then you hear the individual voices and something may occur to you, as it did to you, that actually they’re all saying the same thing in different ways and isn’t this incredibly weird – how can there be so many people saying all this? Well, that’s the point. GT

Guy Brett has written about the materials you use in your work and how you relocate

them. He talks about how each of your works involves a process where an already existing artefact or artefacts are brought in from the outside and reconstituted in the gallery and translated to the gallery space. SH

Just moving them into the gallery translates them, doesn’t it? It takes them out of their

original context and gives them a different kind of context in relationship to other instances that I think are similar in some way instead of their isolated existence in the world. But you could just as well say that a painter takes different colours and juxtaposes and mixes them and dabs them in different locations. It’s the same kind of thing. It’s an art project and so different in my mind from an academic project. I’m interested in these kinds of things because I think they are very interesting for an artist. Behind some of the questions that you’re asking me, you want to ask, ‘Do you believe in flying saucers?’ This the kind of thing that people want to know about me and my work, and I always say to them, possibly evading their probing, is that nobody asked Cezanne about his apples: ‘What kind of apple are they, Golden Delicious? How much did they cost and where did they come from?’ They’re just material for the art work.

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I feel that some people make it seem as though my work is very difficult. It’s really not difficult. I’m not deliberately posing any puzzles for people and I’m dealing with everyday materials – street signs, liminal experiences some people have, science fiction views of the world. This is out there. It’s not esoteric. It’s not resolved in the world but the artwork is resolved. That’s where discussion can begin. GT

Perhaps their dissatisfaction comes from the desire for an answer?

SH

A simple answer. My works does give answers, the answers that art can give. I’m just

representing aspects of our world. People ask questions like, ‘Oh, come on, people are making it all up,’ and I say, ‘No, I think they’re actually being truthful in so far as their experience is difficult to describe.’ How do you describe a dream? I think it was Lacan who said that, ‘it is impossible to convey to another person the interest of a dream and yet all art is based on this attempt?’ Well, I accept that’s what my attempt is and if it’s unsatisfying, I’m doing the best I can – that’s all I can say. He said: ‘This is what art is – a struggle to translate into whatever language, music, visual, whatever, this thing that we have in our brain, our potential.’ William Blake said that art acts as a trigger of the imagination of people, to open them up a little bit. Blake was very angry, I think, when he said: ‘Imagination isn’t a cloudy nothing.’

Notes 1 German Academic Exchange Residency 2 He says: ‘workers are strongly interested in [Esperanto] and manage to waste their time over it [but] there is a desire for and a historical push towards the formation of verbal complexes that transcend national limits and in relation to which current national languages will have the same role as dialects now have’. Antonio Gramsci, ‘Questions of Culture’, in David Forgacs (ed.), The Antonio Gramsci Reader: Selected Writings 1916–1935, London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1988, p. 72.

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Part Two

The banality of difference

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6 ‘We are the Martians . . .’

In Kurt Vonnegut’s book, A Man Without a Country, a memoir of life in George W. Bush’s America, the writer confesses: ‘I . . . feel that our country, for whose Constitution I fought in a just war, might as well have been invaded by Martians and body snatchers. Sometimes I wish it had been.’1 Not exactly from another planet, Vonnegut’s aliens chiefly take the form of right-wing journalists and politicians in the United States. The trope of the alien and the alien invasion is not a new one. Vonnegut himself first used the genre of science fiction in Slaughterhouse Five as a way to talk about the horrors of the Second World War and his experience of the bombing of Dresden. It recurs repeatedly in novels, films and artworks spanning a period of a hundred years from H. G. Wells’ nineteenth-century novel The War of the Worlds (1898) to Ridley Scott’s more recent film Blade Runner (1982). Articulating deep-seated fears about a rapidly changing world over which we exert little control, science fiction’s narratives confront the apparent perils of the present seen through the prism of an imaginary future. Much has been written about the connection between science-fiction cinema of the 1950s and 1960s and the Cold War, where fears of invasion, communism and nuclear war were played out in fictional films that reflected contemporary anxieties. More recently, a number of contemporary artists have similarly used science fiction and the trope of the alien as a way of exploring the fear of difference and as a potent metaphor for the perceived threat of the outsider. Alien Nation presents the work of twelve international artists, all of whom explore themes of otherness and difference through the language and iconography of science fiction juxtaposed with original films and film posters from the 1950s and 1960s. The artworks encompass film, sculpture, photography, multimedia installation and 3-D painting – and expose a disturbing contemporary narrative, in which the media perpetuate a terror of invasion from immigrants, asylum seekers (indeed, any racial, cultural or ethnic other) and position such outsiders as the dominant threat to both family and national stability. Often witty and irreverent, these artists have adopted the figure of the extraterrestrial and the alien(ated) landscape in order to comment upon the fantasies, fears and desires that lie, barely suppressed, beneath the surface of contemporary culture and society. The storylines of 1950s and 1960s science-fiction films were restricted, for the most part, to a small number of narratives that were played out over and over again in stories that rehearse the 55

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dangers of infiltration and attack by alien invaders. Scenarios often involve the ‘invisible’ duplication and transformation of friends, family and associates into emotionless aliens (Invasion of the Body Snatchers; It Came from Outer Space); the breeding of life-threatening alien-life forms that threaten to overwhelm and wipe out human life (Invasion of the Body Snatchers; The Thing; Day of the Triffids); the fear of annihilation (The Day the Earth Stood Still; The War of the Worlds; Forbidden Planet); the threat of brainwashing and mind control (Village of the Damned; Quatermass and the Pit); and anxieties about miscegenation and racial impurity (The Day the Earth Stood Still; Village of the Damned). In the aftermath of 9/11 and the bombings in Madrid and London in 2004 and 2005, these narratives have been replayed once again, this time in both documentary and fictional media representations, emerging from a society which has displaced its fears and paranoias onto the figure of the migrant, the asylum seeker and the Islamic other. Images of the asylum seeker who poses a criminal threat to the wider society, or the terrorist whose outward appearance does not betray his/her loyalties to an ‘alien’ ideological cause; the brainwashing and radicalization of young men, converting them to militant Islam; and the fear of attack from long-range chemical weapons or terrorist devices closer to home, have become the subject of our collective nightmares, frequently stoked and fired up by politicians and the media so that it becomes almost impossible to distinguish reality from nightmare.

I ‘No reason for alarm’: UFOs, communism and the media According to BBC radio news, reports were coming in from across the empire and from across the world of a massive unidentified flying object. Suspected at first of being a buzz bomb, the UFO was definitively identified on the US WMAL radio broadcast as an alien spacecraft that had landed in Washington, DC, at 3.47 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. Government and Defense Department officials were concerned, however, about reports of panic in several large Eastern cities. ‘I am authorised to assure you,’ said the news reporter, ‘that so far there is no reasonable cause for alarm and that rumours of invading armies and mass destruction are based on hysteria and are absolutely false. I repeat these rumours are absolutely false.’ Released in 1951, The Day the Earth Stood Still (directed by Robert Wise and based on a book, Farewell to the Master, by Harry Bates and a screenplay by Edmund H. North) was perhaps one of the most articulate of the science fiction film ripostes to the waves of fear and repression in the late 1940s and early 1950s which had culminated in the relentless anti-Communist campaign waged by the Republican senator from Wisconsin, Joseph R. McCarthy. The spacecraft in The Day the Earth Stood Still brings the peaceful alien Klaatu (played by actor Michael Rennie) to earth from a ‘neighbouring’ planet 250 million miles away to warn humankind of its impending doom: unless mankind ceases its experiments with new, more

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powerful weaponry with which it cannot be trusted, it will be destroyed by alien life forms who have successfully developed the means to curb violence and conflict. But the arrival of Klaatu (who subsequently assumes the Christian messianic alias ‘Carpenter’) provokes hysteria and violence, stoked by an omnipresent media whose continuous commentary via radio and television broadcasts stirs up the populace’s prejudices and fears of alien outsiders. ‘You must be afraid,’ a journalist asks Klaatu/Carpenter, not realizing that he is the alien whom the army is hunting down. ‘I am afraid,’ replies Klaatu/Carpenter, ‘when people replace reason with fear.’ In October 1938, Orson Welles’ adaptation for radio of Wells’ The War of the Worlds exploited the ubiquitous and authoritative voice of radio news coverage. Transferring Wells’ story to the eastern seaboard of the contemporary United States, Welles created the illusion of a real-time radio news broadcast which interrupted regular programming to bring listeners the news of a Martian invasion, provoking as a result widespread panic and hysteria amongst his radio audience. In the same year as Welles’ broadcast, the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) was established to protect the United States from Nazi penetration. Just as science fiction provided Wells with a vehicle for anticipating the epic conflict that came fourteen years later with the First World War, so Welles’ radio play was a harbinger of the Second World War. By the late 1940s, however, the threat of alien invasion had merged with a fear of sentiments and loyalties alien to the United States. As the Cold War froze relationships between the Soviet Union and the United States in the immediate post-war years, fears of Communism and Communist infiltration gripped America. In an effort to get to know and understand humankind, Klaatu/Carpenter in The Day the Earth Stood Still decides to live amongst ordinary Americans and goes to stay in a small boarding-house. Over breakfast, with the radio on in the background, one of his fellow boarders, Mrs Harley (Francis Bavier), looks up from her newspaper to contest the belief that this alien has come from another planet: ‘If you want my opinion,’ she asserts, ‘he comes from right here on earth and you know what I mean.’ Klaatu was not an extraterrestrial after all but rather an alien of an altogether different kind, although equally threatening to the American way of life. A series of events had raised the temperature of fear and paranoia in the United States: the deepening of the Cold War and the Berlin crisis in June 1948; the victory of the Communists in China the following year; insecurity about American atomic monopoly (in September 1949, the Soviet Union exploded an atomic device a year earlier than American scientists had predicted); the confession in 1950 of the British scientist Dr Klaus Fuchs, who admitted to having systematically turned over atomic secrets to the Soviets; the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950; and a series of spy scandals, including the trial of Alger Hiss, a high-ranking State Department official found guilty of being a Soviet spy in the 1930s. These events set the scene for the passing of the Internal Security (or McCarran) Bill in September 1950 and the subsequent Communist witch hunts which stalked political and cultural life in the United States for several years. The Act ‘required the registration of Communist and Communist-front organizations, forbade the

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employment of Communists in defence plants, and barred anyone who had belonged to totalitarian organizations from entering the United States. An even more draconian provision authorized the establishment of concentration camps for Communists in time of national emergency.’2 In the months and years leading up to the passing of the McCarran Bill, a tide of public opinion was turned to associate Communism with un-Americanism, clearing the way for the right-wing political backlash that was to follow: It was not especially easy to link communism with un-Americanism and thus make it the issue in the country . . . The keystone to the reformation of opinion was . . . the linking of all expressions of liberalism and radicalism to communism. Here the right wing relied upon Americans’ characteristic nationalism. Communism was ‘un-American’ because it was atheistic, collectivistic, and international. This linking of Americanism to a highly specific set of values – organized religion, private property, and nationalism – made it un-American, hence Communistic, to be critical of, or to wish to change or challenge, those values and the institutions and policies which reflected them. Right-wing spokespeople hammered away at the theme that reformist activists and critics weakened America; they therefore had to be Communistic in identity or sympathy, and, in the national interest, had to be exposed and quarantined.3 Although President Truman had vetoed the McCarran Bill on the grounds that it infringed civil liberties, his consistently anti-Communist foreign policy was echoed by the State Department’s attitude towards the American film industry. Inquiring about ‘American Motion Pictures in the Post-War World’, the Department stated its desire to ‘co-operate fully in the protection of American motion pictures abroad’, in return for the industry’s cooperation in ‘insuring that the pictures distributed abroad will reflect credit on the good name and reputation of this country and its institutions’. Two years later, on 21 September 1947, the HUAC issued subpoenas to forty-three members of the Hollywood film industry, requiring that they appear as witnesses before the Committee during its October hearings in Washington. The subsequent prosecution and imprisonment of the ‘Hollywood Ten’ as they became known was only a foretaste of what was to come three years later when the HUAC returned to Hollywood with devastating results. In its Annual Report for 1953, the Committee wrote of the successful outcome of its witch-hunts in the film industry between 1951 and 1953: ‘it can be stated on considerable authority that perhaps no major industry in the world today employs fewer members of the Communist Party than does the motion-picture industry’.4 The media were an abiding presence during the Communist witch-hunts of the McCarthy era, bringing live coverage into the homes of ordinary Americans as John Frankenheimer brilliantly portrayed in his 1962 film The Manchurian Candidate, in which the figure of Senator John Iselin (James Gregory) is a thinly disguised Senator Joe McCarthy. In one scene, where Iselin launches an attack on card-carrying Communists in the Defense Department on the floor of the Senate, the action is refracted through a television screen that disseminates the events

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happening in the background. Set during and immediately after the Korean War, The Manchurian Candidate revolves around the brainwashing by Communists of a US soldier, Staff Sergeant Raymond Shaw (Laurence Harvey), who is programmed to become a robotic assassin. Back home, having been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, Shaw is ‘activated’ into killing by his American operator (who turns out to be his Communist-baiting mother and wife of Senator Iselin, played by Angela Lansbury). ‘I served them. I fought for them. I’m on the point of winning for them the greatest foothold they will ever have in this country,’ says Lansbury. ‘They paid me back by taking your soul away from you.’ Representatives of the media – whether radio or television broadcasters or newspaper journalists – are commentators in many 1950s science fiction movies. The Day the Earth Stood Still opens with radio news broadcasts from around the world and journalists provide a running commentary to events as they unfold throughout the film, even interviewing Klaatu/Carpenter at one point. In The Thing from Another World (1951), the journalist Scotty (Douglas Spencer) is waiting for a story and invokes the US Constitution when he thinks he may be prevented from covering the discovery of a spaceship and its inhabitants: ‘This is the biggest story since the parting of the Red Sea.’ At the end of the film, it is Scotty who issues the paranoid warning: ‘Watch the skies everywhere . . . keep looking . . . keep watching the skies.’ Welles’ radio broadcast uses the conceit of interrupting a number of times a performance by Ramon Racello and his orchestra in the aptly named Meridien Room of the Park Plaza in New York City, to bring his listeners news updates of the alien invasion on the West Coast of America. Two decades earlier, prior to the Second World War and at the height of American isolationist sentiment, the United States had been cut off from developments beyond its borders. The Second World War had changed all that. Newspapers and radio broadcasts became an important conduit for news beyond America’s shores and a wider world. Media coverage lent further authenticity to science fiction stories that frequently relied on its depiction of ordinary, everyday America taken over and transformed by creatures from another planet.

II Robots and aliens: The good, the bad and the ugly The aliens and robots that populate science fiction films of the 1950s are an assortment of the good, the bad and the ugly. The Frankenstein-like ‘Thing’ (James Arness) in The Thing from Another World is closer to the monsters dreamt up by Mary Shelley’s nineteenth-century gothic imagination than any futuristic, advanced life form; while Klaatu’s human appearance in The Day the Earth Stood Still belies his superhuman capacity to resist disease and ageing. Other aliens are more distant from human form. The aliens in It Came from Outer Space (1953) are forced to take on human appearance while they repair their damaged spaceship because their true alien form is too hideous and terrifying

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for human beings to behold and, by implication, to accept. These are peaceful aliens who simply want to be left alone to fix their ship and return home but they are well aware (as Klaatu is) of man’s instinctively violent response not only to those who are different but also to their own race. The robot Gort (Lock Martin), who eventually descends from the spaceship in The Day the Earth Stood Still (after soldiers have shot at Klaatu, having mistaken his gift for a weapon), is a massive metallic humanoid figure from a race of intergalactic policemen whose job it is to enforce peace and avert violence and conflict in the rest of the universe. Gort’s immense destructive powers are triggered by the assaults on Klaatu in the same way that the visit to earth by these alien/robot visitors has been provoked by the threat of mankind’s military expansionism. In Forbidden Plant (1956), the sophisticated robot Robby has been programmed by his creator, the scientist Dr Morbius (a space-age Prospero played by actor Walter Pidgeon), in such a way as to make it impossible for him to kill or destroy human life. The mysterious and invisible alien life form that inhabits the planet Altair 4 and destroys the lives of innocent crew members turns out at the end of the film to be not an alien life form but rather the ‘monstrous Id’ of the scientist Dr Morbius, a horrific alter-ego which acts out his murderous and suppressed desires. Like Quatermass, which originated as a television series on BBC in 1953, Forbidden Planet presented as the greatest threat to mankind its inner destructive nature rather than any extraterrestrial bent on the annihilation of the earth. As the scientist Quatermass pronounces at the conclusion of the television version of Quatermass and the Pit (1958–9): ‘Every war, crisis, witch-hunt, race riot and purge, is a reminder and warning. We are the Martians. If we cannot control the inheritance within us, this will be the second dead planet.’ Aliens and robots feature in the works of many of the artists in the Alien Nation exhibition, although what is striking is how ambiguous and indeterminate these characters of contemporary art are both in appearance and morality. A reflection of the more equivocal times in which we live and also of the more open-ended structure of contemporary art by comparison with film narrative (which has a beginning, middle and end, and moves invariably towards a resolution of some kind), there are no clear-cut goodies and baddies, no positively good aliens or downright evil ones. Laylah Ali’s bizarre humanoid figures are indeterminate beings that look alternately like children in extravagant dressing-up costumes or freakish genetic mutations, part-animal and part-human (Fig. 6.1). In earlier works populated by Ali’s ‘Greenheads’ and ‘Blueheads’, the physical indeterminacy of Ali’s figures – alien/human, male/female, black/white – reflected their ambiguous morality. In one work, Greenheads wearing white surgical masks lift up small babies for inspection. It is impossible to discern whether their actions are murderous or humane, and the artist herself offers no comforting answers or explanations but rather leaves them, as she puts it, ‘to act as a question mark’.5 In these recent colour drawings, the identities of Ali’s creations are obscured by masks, balaclavas and headdresses. Some are malformed, either lacking limbs or with additional protruding limbs and growths that sprout from their hips and heads. One

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Fig. 6.1 Laylah Ali, Untitled (from Types), 2004. Mixed media on paper. 9 × 5.5 in. © Laylah Ali. Courtesy of the artist.

creature enveloped in fabric appears gagged and straitjacketed. Another goggle-eyed alien wears an elaborate feather headdress: a peculiar flightless animal that is part-human and part-bird. These strange creatures might be figments of a surreal imagination or discarded mutations of some terrible scientific experiment. The source for Hamad Butt’s early video work The Triffid (part II of the Transmission installation) made in 1990 was a drawing of a triffid on an early Penguin edition of John Wyndham’s The Day of the Triffids, first published in 1951 (Fig 6.2). Possibly the ‘outcome of a series of ingenious biological meddlings’6 and cultivated on an industrial scale in order to extract its valuable oil, the triffids were tall, large-rooted plants whose venomous sting could blind their victims and feed on their decomposing human flesh. When the majority of people on earth are blinded as a result of witnessing an extraordinary comet display, the triffids are in a position to take over the planet. For Butt, the triffid was a metaphor for a contemporary and equally deadly

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Fig 6.2 Hamad Butt, The Triffid (Part II of the Transmission installation), 1990. Film stills from the U-matic video transferred to DVD, 17 mins 8 sec. © Hamad Butt.

epidemic that was capable of generating as much fear as Wyndham’s toxic, walking plants. He was interested in exploring what he described as the ‘apprehension of the Triffids of the day’ and the response to its present-day equivalent: To remain protected from the danger of the Triffids might mean life on human reservations, a sort of reversal of the usual contaminated concentration camp. We have suspicions of scientific meddling that erupts with blindness to the threats of the origins of the accompanying plague. The Triffids blind their victims, the ‘comet’ blinds the populace, light in excess blinds the viewer, ‘what bursts in the bewilderment of the summit, moreover, as soon as life begins to go astray. The need for an attraction – the necessity, found in the autonomy of human beings, of imposing one’s value upon the universe – introduces from the outset a disordered state in all of life.’7 Butt’s video isolates the outline of the triffid and animates it through a spectrum of shifting colours, electrifying and magnifying its movements. Seen like this, the triffid mutates into an object of beauty as well as an object of fear. The triffid embodied many of Butt’s preoccupations as an artist – the intersection of art and science, the arcane (alchemy) and the popular (science fiction), sexuality and death. These themes permeate Butt’s works, invoking the precariousness of human existence and the settled sense of security which is shattered so abruptly by the coming of the triffids in Wyndham’s fiction and by AIDS in the contemporary world: On the cover of the book (of the film, of the television programme) an image of the creature that is not anything as distant as the castrated male genitalia, yet it creeps closer to that dreaded desire as it takes the power of mobilization to itself. And we see the ejaculating approach of blindness, there is the deflation of the ‘phallic gaze’ with the castration of the ‘father-less’ which is to say the leader-less masses. Thus they lend themselves to the rule of fear that is generated by pudenda.8

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In most of the science fiction narratives of the 1950s, the tension arises from the fear of the apocalypse that is yet to happen and the action takes place on the brink of this apocalyptic event. The Day of the Triffids, written at the height of the Cold War, imagines the aftermath of the apocalypse in a post-war world where the complete annihilation of the human race was seen as a distinct possibility. As Michael Beadley tells the sighted survivors in Triffids: ‘From 6 August 1945, the margin of survival has narrowed appallingly. Indeed, two days ago it was narrower than it is at this moment . . . In any single moment of the years since then the fatal slip might have been made. It is a miracle that it was not.’9 In the world of David Huffman’s paintings, the trauma has already taken place many years earlier. Huffman creates an alternative universe that still bears the trauma of the past and present, carrying it forward into the future. In earlier paintings, from the late 1990s, Huffman conceived the Traumasmiles: black-faced minstrels that wear a perpetual grin, fixed in place permanently by the trauma of slavery and its repercussions through time. As Huffman explains: trauma was the subverted awareness of the trauma of slavery itself – the horrific holocaust that wasn’t digested or dealt with in a mature way. So, to me it was very traumatic to create characters with big smiles when that had actually occurred for so long. The smile was false, not a simple expression of joy or happiness, but a disguise that covered an internal anguish. Pain was subverted through that smiling face.10 Alongside the race of Traumasmiles are their powerful robotic creations, the Traumabots, which are animated and powered by the Traumasmiles, ‘who get inside and become physically connected to them . . . it is a neurological connection in that they can feel everything that happens to the robots. They become one.’11 In a reversal of the classic science fiction storyline where aliens occupy the bodies of human beings, here the Traumabots are inhabited by the Traumasmiles, endowing them both with a body and power. For Huffman, who grew up in the United States on a diet of science fiction television programmes like Astroboy, Shogun Warriors, Transformers and Star Trek, science fiction provided both intellectual and aesthetic source material whose storylines frequently dealt with the fear of difference: ‘I’ve always been interested in the way ’50s science fiction came out of McCarthyism and the idea that the Reds are here. The whole alien and UFO thing was mostly about other people, other cultures.’12 In It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue (2006) – Huffman’s new three-panel screen work – the artist creates a world where extraterrestrial protagonists collide with recent events. References to conflicts (from Vietnam to Iraq), in which indigenous populations are overpowered by military might, are intermingled in Huffman’s narrative paintings with references to the science fiction movie Beneath the Planet of the Apes, with its inverted evolutionary narrative in which apes evolve from humans: ‘the Traumasmiles are shaped by contemporary socio-political minefields that are played out in my parallel universe of Traumanauts’ (Fig. 6.3).13 Outer space provides an other-worldly place where earthly conflicts and tensions can be resolved and where new alliances can be forged. The crew of the Starship Enterprise in Star Trek

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Fig. 6.3 David Huffman, Get Up and Get Down, 2006. Mixed media on paper. 127 × 247 cm. © David Huffman. Collection of the de Young Museum, San Francisco, California. Courtesy of the artist.

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(first aired in the early 1960s at the height of the Civil Rights Movement) presented an idealized interplanetary and ethnic alliance, while the first interracial kiss on television, between Captain Kirk (William Shatner) and Lieutenant Uhura (Nichelle Nichols, whose character’s name was inspired by uhuru, the Swahili word for freedom) in the 1968 episode ‘Plato’s Children’, played out mixed race relationships in the furthest reaches of the universe, that were still capable of inflaming violent racist passions and reprisals on our own planet. Mario Ybarra Jnr’s mural, Brown and Proud (2006), imagines a very different alliance between rebels not only from different spaces/places but also from different planets. Ybarra, who himself combines a variety of roles including artist, educator, gallerist, social anthropologist and archivist, creates artworks and interventions that frequently involve constructing a platform for the meeting of different worlds that blend and cross-pollinate in contemporary Chicano art culture: North American/Mexican; popular culture/Hollywood; science fiction/political reality. In this new work, Ybarra pictures a meeting between the hairy alien rebel Chewbacca (a giant fur-covered Wookie) and the Mexican revolutionary Zapata, both rebels engaged in battling against an awesome empire, whether galactic or earthly. In Ybarra’s universe, the partnership between Chewbacca and Zapata also represents the coalition of political revolt and popular culture as a strategy for resistance against more conventional (and potentially alienating) political structures. A different kind of displacement occurs in Yinka Shonibare’s Dysfunctional Family (1999, see (Fig. 6.4)). A typical family group – mother, father and two kids – Shonibare’s nuclear family are remarkable only in the sense that they obviously belong to another species from another planet and, perhaps, even from another universe. With their short bodies and disproportionately large heads, Shonibare’s Dysfunctional Family is a witty and acerbic play on the fear of difference. Based on popular images of aliens, Shonibare’s extraterrestrials are fashioned out of the batik cloth that has become the signature of many of the artist’s works with its indeterminate status (Indonesian fabric exported to Africa that has come to be seen as traditional African fabric). This alien family is equally indeterminate. Conventional in every respect, other than its questionable outer space origin, Shonibare’s Dysfunctional Family is a playful spin on the legal and social designation of the alien as a marker of difference and the fears and fantasies that it ignites. The term ‘alien’ was still being employed by the British government as late as 1970 to designate foreigners entering the country who were also obliged to register their presence at a police station. The Alien Act of 1793 had been enacted in Britain after the French Revolution had turned to terror and was designed to monitor and register all foreigners entering Britain, the information being sent to a central index at the Home Office. By 1800, the Alien Office had become ‘the centre of Britain’s spy network, watching subversives through the apprehending and copying of letters sent through the Post Office’.14 Fifteen years later, the Federalists in the United States passed the Alien and Seditions Acts (1798) as a response to the recent influx of political refugees – French Jacobins, Irish rebels, English and Welsh radicals – who had become outspoken supporters of the

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Fig. 6.4 Yinka Shonibare CBE, Dysfunctional Family, 1999. Dutch wax-printed cotton, plastic, polyester fibrefill on plastic and metal armatures. Dimensions: 52 × 148 × 37 cm (father), 40 × 150 × 36 cm (mother), 54 × 89 × 46 cm (boy), 36 × 69 × 30 cm (girl). © Yinka Shonibare CBE. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

Republican party.15 To some radical screenwriters in the United States in the late 1940s, the mounting anti-Communist crusade bore a striking resemblance to the events that had taken place 150 years earlier. As the writer Philip Dunne wrote: ‘Attempts to force conformity of opinion are nothing new in the United States. The Alien and Seditions Act of the first Adams administration, directed against the Jeffersonians who were thought to be too sympathetic to the French revolutionaries, afford what is almost a direct parallel to the anti-Communist proposals of today.’16 Alongside Shonibare’s Dysfunctional Family, the floor of the gallery space is littered with strange metallic objects that could be extraterrestrial constructions or exquisite space debris, reclaimed as ornamental sculptures or oversized Christmas decorations. There is a kind of alchemy to the practice of the artist Marepe whose works frequently transform found, everyday

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objects into poetic and evocative artworks that invite both physical and social interactions. In earlier installations such as The Itinerant Merchants (1996) or Cafezinho Pushcart (1996), Marepe reproduces or else imports into the gallery space the mobile carts, suitcases and tables used by street vendors in the markets of Salvador da Bahia in Brazil; or, as in Embutido RenconcavoRenconcavo embutido (2003), reconstructs the simple, wooden dwellings of Bahia’s poorer inhabitants in the contemporary art space. The process by which Marepe replicates and transforms the everyday into something which merits our care and attention is echoed in countless science fiction narratives in which the familiar and commonplace are disrupted or suspended by the arrival of aliens in our domestic landscape.

III Alien landscapes: Deserts, cities and suburbia No-one would have believed, in the last years of the nineteenth century, that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter.17 Alien spaceships can land just about anywhere: the Arizona desert, Antarctica, small-town America, Washington, DC. New Jersey is the site of the Martian invasion in the Mercury Theatre’s 1938 production of Welles’ War of the Worlds. Sand Rock, Arizona is the setting for the 1953 movie It Came from Out of Space. The empty, uninhabited desert plains that stretch for miles around the small community of Sand Rock are reminiscent of the site where the testing of the atom bomb took place in the 1940s. Amateur astronomer John Putnam (Richard Carlson) has abandoned city living to relocate to Arizona and is watching the night sky through his telescope when he sees a spacecraft crash land in the desert. The spaceship has been damaged in its collision with the ground and needs urgent repair. The aliens then kidnap some of Sand Rock’s inhabitants and assume their physical appearance so they can go about their repairs undisturbed. Driving through the desert, Putnam and his fiancée Ellen (Barbara Rush) come across Frank and George (Joe Sawyer and Russell Johnson), two of the town’s residents (significantly, their work involves repairing the telegraph/telephone communication lines) behaving strangely, very unlike their true selves. It is here that the aliens reveal what they are doing: ‘Don’t be afraid. It is within our power to look like you or anyone. For a time, it will be necessary to do this.’ This is the moment that artists Ellen Gallagher and Edgar Cleijne elect to rework in one of the 16 mm projections that make up the film installation Murmur (2003–4, see Figs 6.5–6.). Scratching directly into the film emulsion, the artists create a parallel narrative that moves along and hijacks the

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Fig. 6.5 Ellen Gallagher and Edgar Cleijne, Monster (Murmur), 2003–4. 16 mm animation-film projection. © Ellen Gallagher and Edgar Cleijne. Courtesy of the artists and Hauser & Wirth.

already existing one. Set in the desert, a sheriff ’s office, an empty stretch of road at night, Monster takes place in an elastic in-between space, where the aliens – the others – all appear monstrously white with blond hair and sightless eyes that could not so easily ‘pass’ as human. While deep space offers alien life forms that can replicate human likeness, the deep sea is home to bizarre and unfamiliar species that skulk in the depths of the ocean. These antediluvian life forms are the inspiration for Gallagher’s series of drawings Watery Ecstatic (2001–ongoing), which subsequently gave rise to the stop action film of the same name that also forms part of the Murmur installation. In Blizzard of White, a ‘shoal of spiky white plasticine creatures . . . sink slowly toward the ocean floor against a backdrop of underwater volcanoes’;18 while Kabuki features a 3-D animation of a fractal, fragmented ‘wiglady’ slowly looping down into the ocean’s unfathomable depths. It is small-town America that is conjured up by Kori Newkirk’s beaded landscapes. Newkirk’s images of suburban America are constructed from beaded curtains that visualize fragments of small-town America that you might see speeding along a US highway: a telegraph pole (Echo, 2001) or one-storey houses viewed from a distance (The World and the Way Things Are, 2001). Newkirk’s works fracture these icons of everyday American life, breaking up its seamless appearance. The world envisaged by Newkirk recalls the small Californian town of Santa Mira,

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Fig. 6.6 Ellen Gallagher and Edgar Cleijne, Monster (Murmur), 2003–4. 16 mm animation-film projection. © Ellen Gallagher and Edgar Cleijne. Courtesy of the artists and Hauser & Wirth.

the setting for Don Siegel’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), which is irrevocably changed by the alien invasion that engulfs it. Nothing seems the same when Dr Miles Bennell (Kevin McCarthy) and his girlfriend Becky (Dana Wynter) return to Santa Mira: ‘Everything looked the same but it wasn’t. Something evil had taken possession of the town.’ According to the local psychiatrist Dan Kauffman, ‘an epidemic of mass hysteria’ had taken over Santa Mira. Huge seed-pods are deposited at the homes of Santa Mira’s residents, eventually bursting open to reveal the exact likenesses of their hosts. From the town centre, trucks are loaded up with pods to travel out through the whole country like ‘a malignant disease’. The alien replicants hold out the promise of an untroubled, simple world where everyone is the same and where desire, ambition and faith have been eradicated. The film’s penultimate scene pictures Bennell escaping from Santa Mira and trying desperately to get the attention of truck and car drivers on the freeway as trucks roll out of Santa Mira, loaded with hundreds of giant, alien pods: ‘Listen to me . . . We’re in danger . . . Help! Help! We’re in danger. Listen to me. You fools, you’re in danger. Listen to me. They’re after you. They’re after all of us. They’re here already . . .’ Henna Nadeem’s exquisite collages, saturated in colour, picture the serene, idyllic English countryside through a lens of abstract patterns that obscure the landscape (Fig. 6.7). The source

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Fig. 6.7 Henna Nadeem, Orange/Trees, 2006. Montage. © Henna Nadeem. Courtesy of the artist and Photoworks.

material for her digitally manipulated images are photographs of Britain, originally published by Country Life magazine from the 1930s to the 1970s in a series of popular publications entitled The Picture Books of Britain, which from 1957 turned to super-real colour reproduction. Overlain with elaborate, abstract designs, the familiar English landscape appears alien and strange, almost as if it were being seen for the first time by extraterrestrial visitors. Just as in It Came from Outer Space, where we see the planet from the perspective of the one-eyed, stout

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Fig. 6.8 Hew Locke, Golden Horde, 2006. Mixed media (plastic, wood, metal and fabric), dimensions variable. © Hew Locke. All rights reserved, DACS, 2019. Photo: Marcus Leith. Courtesy of Marcus Leith.

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bubble-shaped creatures that arrive from another world, Nadeem’s photographs present us with a familiar landscape that has been irreversibly altered. Hew Locke’s installation Golden Horde (2006) is fabricated from familiar objects and broken toys that have been assembled and reconfigured by the artist to create a strange fleet of shimmering gold and silver vessels that invade the gallery space (Fig. 6.8). It is difficult to work out the origins of this arresting but eerie flotilla. Locke’s assemblage appears as a contemporary reworking of a baroque altarpiece, populated by gun-toting, menacing anatomical dolls. With their gold and silver swords and shields, their guns and bullet belts, Locke’s sinister cherubs have lost all trace of innocence and offer up a dystopian vision of the future – conjured up from the past and the present – with its hints of colonial invasion and indiscriminate violence. For Locke, science fiction works in parallel to his own creative practice, opening up ‘a doorway into a different reality . . . that speaks to this reality’.19 Like Nadeem and Locke, many of the artists in Alien Nation envision a world in which the familiar has been rendered strange, or vice versa, with the alien depicted as ordinary and everyday. The fears and paranoias that might have been projected onto an apocalyptic future or onto aliens from elsewhere have been accommodated into the present whose trajectory remains equivocal and open-ended. Perhaps, after all, the future has arrived and the aliens are already here.

Notes 1 Kurt Vonnegut, A Man without a Country, London: Bloomsbury, 2006, pp. 98–9. 2 Maldwyn A. Jones, The Limits of Liberty: American History 1607–1992, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1995, p. 530. 3 Larry Ceplair and Steven Englund, The Inquisition in Hollywood: Politics in the Film Community, 1930–60, Urbana and Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2003, pp. 202–3. 4 Ibid., p. 361. 5 Rebecca Walker, ‘Interview’, in Jessica Morgan, Rebecca Walker and Susan Wise, Laylah Ali, Boston, MA: Institute of Contemporary Art (Boston), 2001, p. 23. 6 John Wyndham, The Day of the Triffids, London: Penguin, 2000 [1951], p. 18. 7 Hamad Butt, in Hamad Butt: Familiars, London: Iniva, in association with John Hansard Gallery, 1996, p. 50. 8 Ibid., pp. 50–1. 9 Wyndham, The Day of the Triffids, p. 96. 10 Interview with Patricia Sweetow, 30 May 1999. 11 Ibid. 12 David Huffman, quoted by Kenneth Baker, San Francisco Chronicle, 5 September 2001.

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13 David Huffman, interviewed by Jens Hoffmann and quoted in Jens Hoffman, ‘The Truth is Out There’, in John Gill, Jens Hoffmann and Gilane Tawadros (eds), Alien Nation, London: Institute of Contemporary Arts (ICA) and Iniva, and Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz Verlag, 2006, p. 36. 14 Clive Bloom, Violent London: 2,000 Years of Riots, Rebels and Revolts, London: Pan Book, 2004, p. 183. 15 Jones, The Limits of Liberty, p. 87. 16 Ceplair and Englund, The Inquisition in Hollywood, p. 245. 17 H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds, London: Penguin Books, 2005 [1898], p. 7. 18 Caoimhín Mac Giolla Léith, Ellen Gallagher: Orbus, Edinburgh: Fruitmarket Gallery and Zurich: Hauser & Wirth, 2005. 19 Hew Locke, interviewed by Jens Hoffmann and Hoffman, in Gill, Hoffmann and Tawadros (eds), Alien Nation, p. 37.

7 Van Leo: Self-portraits

Growing up as a young man in Cairo, at the heart of the largest film industry in the Middle East, the Armenian-Egyptian photographer Van Leo was obsessed with cinema, and particularly with Hollywood and its screen icons. From an early age, he collected cinema magazines and photographs of Hollywood stars, storing up a mental archive of images of glamour and celebrity. He collected Hollywood film star cards which he bought for five piasters for a pack of ten that he studied intently in order to learn how light and shadow could be deployed to create glamorous photographic portraits of famous movie stars. Van Leo would eventually establish his own photographic studio and create portraits of singers, actors, dancers and socialites that evoke the elegant and cosmopolitan lifestyle of Egyptian high society in the mid-twentieth century and its unruffled pursuit of leisure. But in the early 1940s, in the midst of the Second World War, when he had set up a makeshift studio in his parents’ apartment, Van Leo’s primary subject was himself. During this time, he made hundreds of self-portraits which depict the photographer variously as prisoner, bohemian, air-force pilot, Cossack prince, or in different film roles from femme fatale to gangster, from Sam Spade to Zorro, allowing Van Leo to indulge his fascination with fantasy, games and make-believe. Born Levon Alexander Boyadijian in the Turkish town of Jihane in 1921, Van Leo left Turkey with his immediate family in 1924, part of a massive exodus of Armenians fleeing persecution in Turkey. When they arrived in Egypt, Van Leo’s family initially stayed in the rural town of Zagazig before moving to Cairo, where Van Leo lived until his death in 2002. After studying at two prestigious foreign-language schools in Cairo, first at the College de la Salle, 1930–1 and then at the British Mission College 1932–9, Van Leo went to the American University in Cairo (AUC) but abandoned his studies in 1940 to take up an apprenticeship as a photographer at Studio Venus in Qasr el Nil Street in downtown Cairo: At that time, Armenians held a virtual monopoly on the profession, following in the footsteps of G. Lekegian, who had arrived from Istanbul – like Van Leo’s family – around 1880. The situation of Lekegian’s studio near the legendary Shepheard’s Hotel gradually turned the area between Qasr el Nil Street and Opera Square into a golden triangle of photography. The 74

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dominance of Armenians in this field no longer appears strange when seen in the context of an Egypt where a quasi-guild system still existed and certain professions were the exclusive domain of specific communities. The Greeks ran the cafés and grocery stores; the Italians had engineering and print shops; the Maltese were lawyers or journalists.1 The studios of some of the most celebrated Armenian-Egyptian photographers of the 1930s and 1940s – Armand, Archak, Vartan and Alban – were all situated in this ‘golden triangle of photography’. Although not exclusively portrait photographers (the proprietor of Studio Venus specialized in photographs of petrol stations for Shell), portrait photography was in the ascendancy and would become almost exclusively the field of Armenian studio photographers in Egypt. In 1941, Van Leo left Studio Venus and together with his brother Angelo used part of their family apartment as a studio, converting the bathroom into an improvised darkroom. In 1940, in the midst of the Second World War, Cairo was full of soldiers from the British Empire and allied countries (by 1941, there were 140,000 Commonwealth soldiers stationed in Cairo), and they, in turn, attracted theatre troupes, music-hall artists and dancers who came to entertain them. Van Leo and his brother launched their new business by offering to photograph local and foreign entertainers free of charge in exchange for advertising space in theatre programmes. Their newly established photography business, Studio Metro of Van Leo and Angelo, flourished and within a few years Van Leo had left the partnership with his brother to set up his own studio in 1947 on Avenue Fouad (now renamed 26th July Street): Blackouts, restrictions and shortages of every kind provided constant irritation to Europe. In contrast, Cairo was the simultaneous stage for polo, parties, espionage and war plans. The years 1939 to 1945 enmeshed the city with mystery and turned it into a cosmopolitan watering hole, filled with those actively pursuing the war and those avoiding it. For Van Leo business boomed. The city was filled with everyone from the old stagers – Vivien Leigh, Noel Coward, Miriam Voigt, Olivia Manning, Lawrence Durrell, Cecil Beaton – to thousands of British Army officers and soldiers, many of whom were cabaret dancers, actors, and writers who had joined the army to ‘see the world’.2 For a young man in his early twenties, preoccupied with cinema and celebrity, Cairo provided the perfect setting. Not only was it a buzzing, cosmopolitan metropolis but it was also the heart of a burgeoning film industry. The first Egyptian feature film In the Land of Tutankhamun was screened in 1923. The first talkie was produced in Cairo in 1932, by which time the city had an established film industry, complete with its own studio system and film stars, including Bahiga Hafez, Layla Murad, Naguib al-Rihani and Mohamed Abdel Wahab, many of whom Van Leo would later photograph. The influential Studio Misr, the first modern film studio in the Middle East and Africa, was established in 1935 and played a decisive role in making the Egyptian film industry the largest in the Arab world:3

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Egyptian production and export of feature films grew dramatically in the latter half of the 1930s and 1940s, with Cairo emerging as a self-styled ‘Hollywood of the Arab East’, quickly overshadowing Alexandria as the industry’s centre of gravity. Entrepreneurs, some of whom were resident foreign nationals, constructed four more studios by 1947, and the number of independent production companies quintupled from twenty-four to 120 by 1950. Investment capital was most readily available during and just after World War II, when investors sought the quick profits of expanded production and diminished foreign competition. This was the Egyptian industry’s first Golden Age, at least financially, when moviegoing became the most popular form of urban entertainment in Egypt and much of the region.4 In addition to the home-grown talent, Van Leo was also exposed to Hollywood movies, which dominated Egyptian cinema houses in the 1930s and 1940s. As Andrew Flibbert notes, ‘the country’s geographical position at the crossroads of Africa and Asia magnified its significance in the film trade, since American distributors shipped films from the United States to Europe and then on to other markets via branch offices in Egypt’.5 In his newly founded photography studio, Van Leo experimented not only with the formal tools of photography of light, shadow, pose and exposure setting, but also with a multitude of personas and personalities that could have been screen shots or publicity photographs for any number of films, all starring the versatile Van Leo, who was star, director and producer, all rolled into one. Van Leo made over 400 self-portraits and the majority of these were made between 1942 and 1948 (Figs 7.1–6). He assumes, among other personas, those of: bohemian, convict, femme fatale, pilot, socialite, recluse, explorer, gangster, sailor and officer. A number of the selfportraits are sexually ambiguous or indeterminate. While many photographs evoke generic ‘types’, others seem to be explicit references to Hollywood movies and personalities. Van Leo himself fostered a life-long ambition to live and work in Hollywood but ended up continuing to live and work in Cairo for over half a century. Van Leo appears as the masked, heroic figure of Zorro in one sequence of images, inspired, no doubt, by The Mark of Zorro (1940) which featured Tyrone Power in the starring role, and in another as a Humphrey Bogart-inspired character that might have sprung from the publicity shots either of The Maltese Falcon (1941) or The Big Sleep (1946). It is likely that the Raymond Chandler story The Big Sleep, in particular, would have provided a rich seam of artistic inspiration for the young Van Leo since it was replete with references to false identity, disguise and illusion. Van Leo’s work reflected more than a fascination with film and popular culture, however, and expresses his deep concern with the language of photography and his desire to experiment creatively with the medium in ways which were both innovative and distinctive. His selfportraits reveal an intense awareness of the means of representation: several photographs portray Van Leo variously against the backdrop of his own photographs; touching up one of his self-portraits with a sign behind him that reads, ‘Let us pack & mail your enlargements’; or,

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portray Van Leo ‘framed’, his head and shoulders bordered by a wooden picture frame and his hands clutching the edges of the frame. In some, the photographer is pictured surrounded by the tools of his trade: studio, camera, lighting equipment and props; in others, Van Leo is represented with other apparatus associated, again, with portrayal and interpretation: Van Leo against the backdrop of a mirror; on a performance stage; or, sitting, reading Life magazine. In one extraordinary sequence of images, Van Leo depicts himself in a number of different poses with a marble statue of an eighteenth-century woman: he embraces her, puts his arms around her, holds her tightly as if to kiss her, adjusts her shawl around her shoulders. The photographer saw himself as part of a continuing Western artistic tradition. In one self-portrait, Van Leo pictures himself leaning over a bookshelf with his head and chin propped up by a number of books which ‘support’ him, both physically and artistically: Donatello, Van Gogh, Horst, Lighting for Photography, Photographing People, Men of Art. While photography provided Van Leo with a specific artistic language with which to express himself – Van Leo also experiments with solarization and manipulation of the surface of the photographic image – he saw himself first and foremost as an artist of his time: He came up with a comparison between black and white photography and the profession of the traditional tailor, which are both dying because of new technology, because of mass production. But he added that a photograph preserves its utility much longer than costume, at least for the entire life of whomever it refers to. Yet the popular taste in Egypt, in his opinion, doesn’t care anymore for black and white photography . . . He said to me: ‘If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have chosen to become a photographer.’ But he added: ‘although I love my work’. But art, in his opinion lies somewhere else. It is the lighting, the frame, the set, the pose, even the print, the retouching.6 Taken in pre-revolutionary Cairo and during the last years of the British occupation of Egypt, Van Leo’s images are self-absorbed and narcissistic but they also reflect a period of transition and change in Egypt as a whole. Gradually extricating itself from British rule, the 1930s and 1940s was a period in which different political groups vied for Egypt’s future and the scene was being set for the Free Officers Coup and Revolution of 1952 that led finally to independence from Britain, national self-determination and the development of the political, social and economic infrastructures that would mark a new era of modernity and renewal. At a time of massive social upheaval in Egypt and in the Middle East as a whole, Van Leo’s extraordinary self-portraits stretched the conventions of studio photography in his time. They can be read variously as a means of turning away from the conflict and turmoil in the world around him to a world of illusion and make-believe which he could control and manipulate, or as a reflection of the multiple possibilities which faced a country like Egypt as it considered future post-war political scenarios – whether monarchist, colonial, socialist, Islamic or modern democratic.

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Fig. 7.1 Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1944. © Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Fig. 7.2 Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1942. © Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Fig. 7.3 Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1945. © Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Fig. 7.4 Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1945. © Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Fig. 7.5 Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1942. © Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Fig. 7.6 Van Leo, Self-Portrait, 1942. © Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo. Courtesy of the Rare Books and Special Collections Library, The American University in Cairo.

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Notes 1 Pierre Gazio, in Van Leo: Portraits of Glamour, Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1977. 2 Fatma Bassiouni, ‘Van Leo’s Unrivalled Images of Cairo’s Belle Epoch’, Middle East Times, 2–8 December 2000. 3 See Max Rodenbeck, Cairo: The City Victorious, London: Picador, 1998, pp. 210–12. 4 Andrew Flibbert, ‘State and Cinema in Pre-Revolutionary Egypt, 1927–52’, in Arthur Goldschmidt, Amy J. Johnson and Barak A. Salmoni (eds), Re-Envisioning Egypt 1919–1952, Cairo and New York: American University in Cairo Press, 2005, p. 451. 5 Ibid., pp. 453–4. 6 Akram Zaatari, in ‘Van Leo, The Discipline of a Rebel’, undated article.

8 Shirana Shahbazi The banality of difference

During my last trip to London, I was asked how large Tehran was. When I said that there were 12 million inhabitants, everyone was surprised, and started asking, ‘What? Really? Tehran is as big as London?’ I was just as genuinely astonished, and I was asking them, ‘What? Really? London? As big as Tehran?’1 Shirana Shabhazi’s installations, combining an eclectic mix of paintings and photographs of different sizes, confront the limits of representation. A young girl in jeans and T-shirt on roller skates sweeps the hair away from her face; a motorway winds through the urban landscape; a female office worker dressed in a maghnae2 rummages through a filing cabinet; a man flicks on his remote control in a luxurious apartment; a young soldier in fatigues stands in the middle of the desert. These apparently unconnected images of everyday life in contemporary Iran confound our romantic and static mental pictures of a country that has been endlessly represented visually at home and abroad in films, political propaganda paintings, advertisements and photojournalism. Far from proposing a postmodern potpourri of sameness, Shabhazi’s installations articulate the complexity of contemporary life and the impossibility of distilling lived experience into a single frame. Resisting the sentimental desire to conjure up an unchanging and poetic rural landscape projected in contemporary Iranian cinema, Shabhazi elects instead to create a mosaic of banal urban living. Rather than capturing ‘the decisive moment’ as Henri-Cartier Bresson famously characterized the task of contemporary photography, Shabhazi pieces together pictorial fragments that have their own integrity but strenuously avoid any attempt to encapsulate an individual, let alone a nation. Photography has long been a tool for ethnographers mapping out the topology of non-Western cultures and fixing their essential differences in the photographic process. But Shabhazi’s ‘deliberately unspectacular aesthetic’3 and multilayered imagery is more attuned to the ambiguous and complex nature of our times where the idea of fixed origins or an unadulterated authenticity seems outmoded, romantic and even, slightly naive: 81

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When I moved from Dortmund, where I studied for two years, to Zurich, I went to a bank to open an account, and the lady asked me where I was from. ‘What exactly do you mean?’, I asked her. Shortly after, on a trip to Frankfurt, when I was asked the same question, that’s when I decided from then on, I came from the place that, quite simply, I had last come from.4 In place of the fixed and static iconography of the single framed photograph, Shabhazi creates a dynamic world made up of individual episodes, an allegory of everyday, urban life where cities are constructed in a piecemeal, haphazard way; where the lives of an heterogeneous population intersect and where the old and new collide like the encounter of classical Islamic texts with advertisements for Panasonic in daily Iranian life. Shabhazi challenges the received images of contemporary Iran, which like its political leadership, is consistently misrepresented and misunderstood as homogenous, coherent and anti-modern: Until recently, no one had heard of [fundamentalism]. It came up around 1900 and was used by North American Protestants and was then used in the 1970s by the American media to describe new political developments in the Middle East. The disciples of Khomeini thought ‘fundamental’ was a brilliant motto, but as there was no Persian or Arabic equivalent they translated it into bonyadegar ‘something like grounding’. Ironically, this Iranian fundamentalism likes nothing more than calling the opposite side eltequati (eclectic) or gharbzadeh (Western or literally ‘beaten by the West’). In the West, people still believe what the fundamentalists say and the revisitation of holy texts and religion, instead of seeing the eclectic, pragmatic and deeply opportunistic character of the real Khomeinism.5 Amidst Shabhazi’s assemblages of photographs of differing sizes are paintings rendered in the vernacular style of political propaganda posters or commercial advertising. Reworkings of family snapshots or intimate portraits, they transpose real people and real situations into the public space of politics and commerce, thereby dissolving the demarcation between the private and the public realms. Unlike the photographs that claim the status of genuine, unmediated documents, the paintings disrupt the illusion of authenticity standing out as explicit reproductions. They are constructed images, translations of the world around us but, asks Shabhazi, does that make them any less valid?

Notes 1 Shirana Shahbazi, from an email exchange with Tirdad Zolghadr, August–September, 2001. 2 The Persian word for a type of shawl worn in public and in the workplace by women in Iran. 3 Shahbazi, email exchange with Zolghadr. 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid.

9 A case of mistaken identity Notes from the scene of the crime

In the autumn of 1984, I was sitting in a small lecture theatre in the University of the Sorbonne in Paris, attending a seminar on film. The film under scrutiny was Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest and it was being subjected to a full semiotic dissection, in French. I did not glean much from my seminar but, piecing together the signs and symbols written on the blackboard, I got the general gist of the narrative of the film. It revolves around the central character, George Kaplan, for whom Cary Grant’s character is mistaken, and as a consequence, the latter enters a sinister and secretive world of espionage and murder. What emerges by the end of the film is that the main protagonist, George Kaplan, does not and never did actually exist. The film, among other things, is about identity and mistaken identity. I want to argue that curatorial practice in the latter part of the 1980s and through the 1990s was, like Hitchcock’s classic film, a case of mistaken identity: many major art institutions, curators and critics were looking in the wrong places for the wrong people. In 1988, Damien Hirst curated his infamous Freeze exhibition in London’s Docklands. In 1989, Rasheed Araeen curated his equally infamous group show The Other Story at the Hayward Gallery. The story (real or imagined) of the Freeze exhibition and what happened next has been told and retold countless times elsewhere, following the seemingly irresistible rise of the young British artists (yBas) who have dominated the British and international art world. But while most, if not all, of the participants in Hirst’s Freeze show went on to win international acclaim and amass considerable amounts of money, what has happened to the artists that were shown in The Other Story? Were their careers launched into the stratosphere? Have they achieved international acclaim and considerable wealth? The answer, of course, is no. When the Hayward Gallery hosted The Other Story after ten years of negotiations by Araeen, this survey exhibition of Afro-Caribbean, Asian and African artists was, we were told, to be a prologue to a more detailed examination by our art institutions of the careers of a number of important post-war British artists who had been inexplicably neglected. It seemed for a brief 83

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and tantalizing moment that British cultural institutions were at last beginning to reflect the reconfiguration of contemporary British society in all its complexity, but as it turned out, The Other Story was to prove to be an epilogue to what Ten-8 magazine called the ‘critical decade’. Perversely, the only artist whose career appears to have benefitted from The Other Story is Anish Kapoor, and he refused to take part, arguing that his participation would deny him any serious attention as an individual artist. Kapoor’s reluctance to participate in the exhibition commanded much media attention, as several quality newspapers reported with relish Kapoor’s quoted or misquoted profession to want to be seen as ‘an artist first and Asian second’. Assisted by the presence of Kapoor’s one-person show at the Lisson Gallery, critics gleefully contrasted the two projects. To take one example, Marina Vaizey, at that time art critic of The Sunday Times, dismissed The Other Story as ‘artists . . . chosen for their biographies rather than the quality of their art . . . an exercise in positive discrimination that has positively backfired’.1 At the same time, she delighted in Kapoor’s solo exhibition, concluding that ‘he has made his Indian experience intelligible and moving’. So, while being in Freeze was practically (although not universally) a guarantee of future success in the rough and tumble of a competitive art market, participation in The Other Story seems – with one notable exception: Mona Hatoum – to have guaranteed the opposite. My point here, however, is that identity is something that could be mobilized by art critics and institutions at one and the same time as a marker of authenticity and as a marker of inauthenticity. Kapoor was more genuinely both an Indian and an artist because, according to the critics, he had made his cultural identity ‘a servant’ to his artistic identity. On the other hand, the artists who agreed to take part in The Other Story were clearly inauthentic, inauthentically Other as well as inauthentically artists. As Brian Sewell from the Evening Standard put it: ‘Having either no traditions of their own, or traditions so exhausted that no nourishment is to be drawn from them, these artists parrot Western visual idioms that they do not understand . . . Their third-rate imitations of the white man’s cliché must seem outrageous to all who care to judge by quality.’2 While black British artists were clearly not going to be repackaged for internal or external consumption as the future of British culture, the yBas were quickly embraced by a new administration that was committed (they said) to modernizing Britain and embracing the contemporary world. ‘Newness’ and ‘coolness’ were quickly to become the buzz words of Blair’s Britain – a place where culture and media were seen to play a pivotal role in public perceptions and international relations. Britain might not rule the world any longer politically or economically, but it would now be seen at home and abroad as ‘Cool Britannia’. A political understanding of the interface between home and abroad, local and global, past and present is absolutely critical to an understanding of how identity is played out in the cultural realm and how racial politics has operated and continues to operate in the sphere of contemporary art in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere). Those who believe that questions of black British identity and the cultural production of black British artists can be addressed as self-contained questions, removed from the question of

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Britishness and the history of British art and ideas have failed to take on board the implications of the particular social, political and cultural conjuncture through which we have been passing during the past decade. This is why a number of Iniva’s projects over that period are primarily concerned with an interrogation not of blackness, black Britishness or cultural diversity in the UK, but of what Britishness is and how it has evolved. The Essential Guide to British Painting (1995–7) was a series of talks, which explored the history of British painting and looked at figures like Hogarth, Turner, Wyndham Lewis and Burne-Jones. Vindaloo and Chips (1998) was an evening event where we brought together some ‘young British artists’ to mull over the question of what precisely it means to be an artist, young and British. Performing Nations (1998) was a day-long seminar that looked at the different ways ethnic performance continues to feature in popular entertainment worldwide from Disneyworld to the Millennium Dome. In Sonia Boyce’s peep (1995), an intervention in Brighton Museum and Art Gallery’s collection of non-Western art and ethnography, Boyce wrapped the display cases, creating peepholes through which visitors could gaze at objects donated by various colonial administrators and employees. Yinka Shonibare’s Diary of a Victorian Dandy (1998) is a series of photographic tableaux that revisit late-nineteenth-century Britain to observe the frivolous pursuits of a fictitious black dandy at the height of the British Empire, reflecting on the possibility of being black, British and Victorian (Fig. 9.1). Sensation (Royal Academy of Arts, London, 1997) drew together works from the private collection of Charles Saatchi to celebrate the decade of the young British Artists. Chris Ofili was in that show and, together with Steve McQueen and Anish Kapoor, he has become part of the black triumvirate that has won the Turner Prize, disproving once and for all any accusation that the British art world is exclusionary or (heaven forbid) racist. Some commentators have implied that Kapoor, Ofili and McQueen’s success is predicated on the fact that they have gone beyond identity. We are, some insist, living in a postpolitical, postfeminist and postidentity world. However, news of the death of identity politics may be somewhat premature. The reality is that the question of identity has never gone away; it is the ways in which the question is posed that has simply become inflected in a number of new and different ways. A whole generation of artists has grown up in a Britain very different from that of their parents and are raising the question of identity in a very different way. I am not just thinking of artists like Ofili and McQueen, but equally of artists like Mark Wallinger (Fig. 9.2) and Gillian Wearing, who have long been engaged in an exploration of identity in their work, inflected by the issue of class in British society (Fig. 9.3). The devolution of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland has reinforced, if not triggered, a crisis around Englishness and English identity. And last but not least, the way a globalized culture now frames and intersects with diversity as it is experienced at home is reshaping the relationship between the local and the global, the national and the international. Of course, it was not just Britishness that was being packaged curatorially in the early 1990s. The art of different nations came wrapped in national colours: Art from Argentina (Museum of

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Fig. 9.1 Yinka Shonibare CBE, Diary of a Victorian Dandy: 03:00 hours, 1998. C-type print, 183 x 228.6 cm. © Yinka Shonibare CBE. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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Fig. 9.2 Mark Wallinger, Half-Brother (Exit to Nowhere – Machiavellian), 1994–5. Oil on canvas, 230 x 300 cm. © Mark Wallinger. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019. Photo: Edward Woodman. Collection: Tate.

Modern Art, Oxford, 1994) and New Art from Cuba (Whitechapel Art Gallery, London, 1995) to take just two examples from the early 1990s. These national curatorial projects – significantly, rarely curated by curators from those countries or reflecting the critical voices of their critics – seemed to reach a feverish crescendo with the ambitious curatorial exploration of an entire continent that took place with Africa 95. It was a multisite project that encompassed most of the major art institutions in the UK who took up the challenge of exploring Africa from a million years bc to the present day. Easily packaged to capture the attention of audiences and neatly categorized to exploit private and commercial sponsorship opportunities (not to mention Foreign Office priorities), these projects appear now as the large cultural gasps of imperial and nationalist tendencies facing the inevitable surge of the forces of modern globalization. In retrospect, Iniva exhibitions dealing with race and nation, in ways that reflected artistic practice and lived experience but often collided head on with bureaucratic structures that still understood the world as it was and not as how it had become, were ahead of their time. Curated by Hou Hanru, Parisien(ne)s (Camden Arts Centre, London, 1997) brought together nine artists living and working in Paris but who had been born elsewhere: Absalon, Chen Zhen, Chohreh Feydjou,

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Fig. 9.3 Gillian Wearing, ‘I’m desperate’, 1992–3. Photograph. Colour, chromogenic print on paper, 132.5 x 92.5 cm. © Gillian Wearing. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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Thomas Hirshhorn, Huang Yong Ping, Tiina Ketara, Sarkis, Shen Yuan and Chen Zhen. Paris has always been the home of itinerant artists from elsewhere – Picasso, Mondrian, Brancusi, to name only three – and these stalwarts of European modernism have come to be seen as quintessentially Parisian and integrated into, indeed constitutive of, French culture and Frenchness. And yet, the artists in Parisien(ne)s are marked by their difference from a designation of pure, unvariegated Frenchness. In July 1998, when France won the World Cup with a team of players that contested the notion of French nationhood as an undifferentiated, monocultural entity, France’s image of itself was questioned in the most public of domains. We repeatedly failed to secure private or public funding for Parsien(ne)s and that failure was, to a great extent, a consequence of the project’s contestation of accepted definitions of Frenchness. The work of the artists in the exhibition did not address the question of their individual identity, nor, indeed, of the impact on that identity of living in Paris. Rather, the works reflected in more ambivalent ways on the question of place and displacement as an increasingly dominant theme in our lives that, like the displaced object of Archimedes’ principle has an equal impact on the environment surrounding it. Just as the French Academy cannot defend the French language from the daily incursions of English and other cultural invasions, French society cannot defend French citizenship from the inflections and transformations brought about by successive generations of immigrants who are remoulding the idea of Frenchness for the twenty-first century. Curated by David A. Bailey, Mirage: Enigmas of Race, Difference and Desire (ICA, London, 1995) centred on an exhibition of the work of ten international artists: Sonia Boyce, Black Audio Film Collective (Edward George and Trevor Mathieson), Renée Green, Lyle Ashton Harris, Isaac Julien, Marc Latamie, Martina Attille, Glenn Ligon and Steve McQueen. They took as their starting point one of the key texts of the Martiniquan psychiatrist Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (first published in 1952), which analyses the psychological effects of postcolonial oppression and racism on the black populations of the African diaspora (Fig.  9.4). Fanon describes an encounter in Paris when a young boy points him out on a train and shouts, ‘Mama, see the Negro! I’m frightened!’ As Fanon writes: I could no longer laugh, because I already knew there were legends, stories, history, and above all historicity . . . Then, assailed at various points the corporeal schema crumbled, its place taken by a racial epidermal schema. In the train it was no longer a question of being aware of my body in the third person but in a triple person. In the train, I was given not one but two, three places . . . I existed triply: I occupied space. I moved toward the other... and the evanescent other, hostile but not opaque, transparent, not there, disappeared . . . I was responsible at the same time for my body, for my race, for my ancestors. I subjected myself to an objective examination, I discovered my blackness.3 Mirage addressed the lived experience of postcolonialism in the metropolis, the daily psychological violence of the racialized encounter which is articulated primarily and expressly

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Fig. 9.4 Isaac Julien, Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, 1996. 68 hrs 36 mins, 35 mm film, colour, stereo sound (restored and remastered in 2016). © Isaac Julien. Courtesy the artist.

through the visual – through the gaze – and only secondarily through the linguistic or theoretical explications of race and postcolonialism. What was new and distinctive about Mirage was this intimate intersection of questions of race and visuality and the implication of whiteness in discussions of race. Over the past decade or so, we have witnessed the internationalization of the art world, moving beyond the parameters of Europe and North America. The trend has been consolidated by international exhibitions that have arisen during this period, challenging the hegemony of the Venice Biennale as the major international event of the art world calendar. Located at the crossroads of East and West, the Istanbul Biennale quickly established itself in 1987 as an important biennial exhibition, although it was by no means the first to be held outside the

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traditional European centres of art. It followed in the footsteps of the Havana Biennial, established in 1984, whose international profile has grown rapidly in recent years and the Cairo Biennial, established in the same year. Both of these international exhibitions have brought contemporary artists from Latin America, the Caribbean and the Middle East, respectively, to the attention of European and North American institutions. In recent years, biennials and triennials have sprung up in new locations across the globe, including: Johannesburg, South Africa; Kwanju, Korea; Queensland, Australia; and Shanghai, China. Significantly, these newly inaugurated events have rejected the national, competitive model established by the Venice Biennale, with its national pavilions and prizes, in favour of cross-national thematic exhibitions which bring together artists of different national and ethnic identities under the same roof. The internationalization of the biennial has found parallels in the growing internationalization of contemporary art institutions and the independent curators who have become increasingly influential in the art world. Curators and critics from outside Europe and North America like Gerardo Mosquera, Hou Hanru and Okwui Enwezor. Most recently, Nigerian-born Enwezor’s appointment as the artistic director of Documenta XI is a significant indication of where the organizing committee of Documenta feel the future of contemporary art lies. At the same time, the increasing prominence of culturally diverse artists in national institutions seems to indicate that the art world is finally beginning to reflect some of the important cultural transformations that have taken place in British and European society in the second half of the twentieth century. But the very public success of artists like Ofili and McQueen masks the reality of the deep-seated racism of the British art establishment. There is a disturbing and disproportionate instance of suicide among black art students at one leading art school in Britain. There is also a lack of investment in culturally diverse artists from all parts of the world by major institutions which is reflected starkly in their exhibition programmes, their staffing and their permanent collections. All too often we see a brand of cultural tourism that imports international art according to the current trend: one year it is Japanese art; the following year Cuban art; the year after, Brazilian or perhaps Chinese art. Long-term collaborations cannot be sustained in such an unsympathetic environment and international extravaganzas that present the work of hundreds of artists in one exhibition provide little opportunity to engage seriously with individual artists in their own right. The interest inspired by exotic artists from abroad – usually represented by commercial galleries in New York – is rarely matched by a similar interest in local artists who are equally diverse in their cultural backgrounds and equally interesting as artists. So, what of recent projects like the Tate Modern’s first major exhibition Century City: Art and Culture in the Modern Metropolis (2001) that set out to explore ‘the relationship between vanguard culture and the urban . . . [focusing] on nine cities which have, at specific historical moments, acted as crucibles for cultural innovation’?4 Let’s start by stating the obvious but, nonetheless, significant fact that cities have replaced nations in curatorial discourse. It is not the messy, violent city of lived experience or the

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subversive city where the global/local dichotomy is problematized, but a clean, elegant, streamlined city, as imagined and restaged by the Guggenheim, Bilbao and the Tate Modern, London. It is the city as ‘collective symbolic capital’ as David Harvey defined it,5 that trades on authenticity and uniqueness to generate tradeable values and cultural currency. Metropolitanism has displaced nationhood and we can now, it seems, put aside those troubling questions of race and nation. Second, behind a facade of equality, the exhibition reasserts a hierarchy of cultures or rather of city-states with cultural centres and cultural satellites. With Paris in the first decade and London in the final decade acting as bookends, this new cultural order reintroduces the issue of authenticity with a new global twist. Bombay, Lagos and Rio are rearticulated as the authentic markers of cultural difference, relegating the cultural articulations of diaspora in the metropolis as secondary, inauthentic expressions of difference. Thus, the re-presentation of the city eclipses the thorny questions of race and nation and a new global and globalized order is reasserted, with an authentic, exterior Other deployed to delegitimize the diasporan experience. And what of George Kaplan? Well, we were always asking the wrong question. Instead of asking who is the real George Kaplan, we should have been asking why is George Kaplan necessary to the plot?

Notes 1 Marina Vaizey, ‘Why Partiality Does Not Tell the Whole Story’, The Sunday Times, 10 December 1989. 2 Brian Sewell, ‘Black Pride and Prejudice’, Evening Standard, 4 January 1990. 3 Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, London: Pluto Press, 1986, p. 112. 4 Iwona Blazwick, ‘Century City’, in Iwona Blazwick (ed.), Century City: Art and Culture in the Modern Metropolis, London: Tate Gallery, 2001, p. 8. 5 Speaking at the ‘Global and Local: The Condition of Art Practice Now’ conference, held at the Tate Modern, London 2–3 February 2001, at the time of the Century City exhibition.

10 Electrifying Eve

‘I am an artist first and Indian second.’ These were the words of a celebrated British artist, quoted by a national newspaper some years ago. Whether or not the artist was quoted accurately, the article set out to distinguish between those artists for whom identity was paramount and those who privileged their professional identity as artists over any considerations of race, nationality or gender. It highlighted the dilemma faced by artists who resist having their work viewed, written about and contextualized purely in terms of their ethnic, national or sexual identity (or, in some instances, all three). The Faustian pact seemed to be: either deny that your identity informs your work in any way or let your work be categorized uniquely in terms of your identity. For women artists, and particularly for those from non-Western or culturally diverse backgrounds, the urge to ‘fix’ their practice and view it through one particular lens meant that their work has sometimes been seen as being specific rather than universal, political as opposed to poetic. In reality, very few (if any) artists can separate their artistic practice from their identity – by which I mean their experiences, perceptions and values. The idea that an individual’s identity can be unravelled into a number of separate strands that can then be organized into a hierarchy of sub-identities is far removed from actual experience. Does Damien Hirst wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and decide that he is, first of all male, second white and third an artist? In conversation with a British art critic, the artist Doris Salcedo was invited to identify the essential Columbian characteristics of her works. How could her works be ascribed to specific events in Columbia that she had witnessed? Which specific experiences had inspired particular pieces? The artist, as eloquent and economic with her words as she is with her sculptures, shifted uncomfortably in her seat and politely refused to confine discussion of her work to a particular geographical location or national experience. Had her interlocutor not been a woman, one could easily imagine her being asked to describe the essential feminine qualities of her practice. In 1996, Salcedo was invited to make a new piece of work as part of the exhibition The Visible and the Invisible at St Pancras Church, curated by Tom Trevor and Zoe Shearman.1 While Louise Bourgeois populated the belfry with disturbing, decapitated bodies suspended from the ceiling, Salcedo selected a number of unassuming small alcoves in which she placed a variety of single, 93

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discarded shoes, each one isolated in its space and veiled behind a screen of animal skin, stretched across the opening and stitched roughly around the aperture. The starting-point for Salcedo’s disturbing, yet poetic, installation may have been the countless individuals ‘disappeared’ in Columbia’s unofficial civil war, but the work movingly invoked the difficult and painful experience of bereavement and loss, at once personal and unique but equally anonymous and everyday. Just as it would be simplistic and facile to attribute masculine characteristics to the heavy, metal sculpture of Anthony Caro, it would be equally superficial to describe the work of women artists purely in terms of their feminine qualities. However, some artists have invoked the realm of the feminine or the domestic only to subvert their traditional associations: Ghada Amer in her pornographic images stitched on canvas; Mona Hatoum with her sinister domestic utensils, magnified to gigantic proportions as in La grande broyeuse (Mouli-Julienne x21) (2000) or, wired with live electric current as in Homebound (2000), buzzing and shimmering as the charge ripples through the assemblage of household furniture and objects (Fig. 10.1). Re-examining the everyday and familiar in order to challenge and overturn our conventional understanding of the world has been an integral feature of Mona Hatoum’s artistic practice. The passage through time and space from one location to another is frequently a precarious and dangerous one, whether in Mona Hatoum’s solo performance piece Roadworks (1985) in which the artist walks barefoot dragging behind her a pair of Dr. Martens boots attached to her ankles by their laces, impeding her every step; or The Light at the End (1989), an installation in which the viewer enters a darkened space and gropes unaided towards a light source in the distance and then recoils when the light source turns out to be a source of heat and possible danger; or Map (1999) in which a map of the world is laid out on the floor of the gallery space, the contours of each continent and land mass constructed from transparent glass marbles that together make up an unstable and dangerous topography. In Sutapa Biswas’ enchanting film Birdsong (2004), a small boy sits in an elegant drawing room, waiting (Fig.  10.2). He stares expectantly towards the camera, anticipating a magical happening that transforms his immediate, everyday world. In this, as in other of Biswas’ works, time is fleeting and elusive, yet capable of changing everything irrevocably, over and over again. The statuesque brown horse, which stands facing the young boy in the drawing room changes this ordinary domestic space into an enchanted realm of difference. The works of these artists are fitting altarpieces for our secular world. They evoke the equivocal and precarious times in which we live, poised delicately between the specific and the universal, the political and the poetic. As the artist Anne Tallentire recently observed, it is increasingly difficult to contemplate art works that make grand, definitive statements in a shifting world where ‘questions about the specifics of history and the present are so problematised . . . almost unthinkable’.2 Instead, Tallentire’s recent works have focused on the ‘small gestures of everyday life’, evoked so poignantly in Drift: diagram vii (2005), a series of video works filmed in the

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Fig. 10.1 Mona Hatoum, La grande broyeuse (Mouli-Julienne x 21), 2000. Installation view at Tate Britain, London. Mild steel. Main sculpture 425 x 325 x 560 cm (167¼ x 128 x 220½ in.), discs each 6.3 x 210 x 210 cm (2½ x 83¾ x 82¾ in.). © Mona Hatoum, 2019. Photo: Edward Woodman. Image courtesy of White Cube.

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Fig. 10.2 Sutapa Biswas, Birdsong, 2004. Film still, 16 mm film. © Sutapa Biswas. Photo: Toby Glanville. Courtesy of the artist.

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Fig. 10.3 Anne Tallentire, Drift: diagram vii, Void Gallery, Derry 2005. © Anne Tallentire. Photo: Paola Bernardelli. Courtesy of the artist.

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early hours of the morning in the Square Mile of London’s financial district and capturing everyday but largely unseen movements or ‘performances’ within the City: a man painting the lines along the kerb of the pavement; a woman polishing a corporate meeting table; a window-cleaner suspended high above the street and moving across the glass face of a building; a piece of paper that blows into the frame of the camera and blows away again (Fig. 10.3). As the artist observes: Incorporated into these small gestures of everyday life, are other questions which are to do with what it means to move from one side of a space to another at a particular time, in a particular way, in a particular place. And so, the questions about place and about how we navigate our way through the world, and the ethical position that we take [. . .] are really urgent.3

Notes 1 The Visible and the Invisible: Re-Presenting the Body in Contemporary Art and Society was a large-scale contemporary art project, comprising a series of satellite exhibitions, installations and events occurring simultaneously at sites across Euston in Central London. It was curated by Zoe Shearman and Tom Trevor and produced by Iniva. 2 Interview with Anne Tallentire, unpublished, July 2006. 3 Ibid.

Part Three

Re-siting the city

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11 The real me

Thinking about my own sense of identity, I realise that it has always depended on the fact of being a migrant, on the difference from the rest of you. So one of the fascinating things about this discussion is to find myself centered at last. Now that, in the postmodern age, you all feel so dispersed, I become centered. What I’ve thought of as dispersed and fragmented comes, paradoxically to be the representative modern experience! . . . It may be true that the self is always, in a sense, a fiction, just as the kinds of ‘closures’ which are required to create communities of identification – nation, ethnic group, families, sexualities etc. – are arbitrary closures; and the forms of political action, whether movements, or parties, or classes, those too are temporary, partial, arbitrary. I believe it is an immensely important gain when one recognises that all identity is constructed across difference and begins to live with the politics of difference . . . Ethnicity can be a constitutive element in the most viciously regressive kind of nationalism or national identity. But in our times, as an imaginary community, it is also beginning to carry some other meanings, and to define a new space of identity. It insists on difference – on the fact that every identity is placed, positioned, in a culture, a language, a history. Every statement comes from somewhere, from somebody in particular. It insists on specificity, on conjuncture. But it is not necessarily tied to fixed, permanent, unalterable oppositions. It is not wholly defined by exclusion.1 STUART HALL, SPEAKING AT THE ICA CONFERENCE ‘IDENTITY: THE REAL ME’ IN 1986.

I think it’s important for viewers to understand the rhetoric of realism – how it is a depiction of what is real, and that it is not real. That this rhetoric permeates the pictures that we see whether they are still photographs, whether they are filmic, or whether they are broadcast for television. And just to say as a reminder that in fact what you are seeing is not me but a representation of me, which is being framed and photographed and edited and inserted within a larger, narrative of which I have very little control . . . I think to label something political within culture today is really to disarm it in a way, and I think that it tends to ghettoise particular activity. I think that there is a politic in every conversation we have, every deal we close and every face we kiss, and that sort of ordering and that sort of hierarchy permeates every social construction, and I read that as a political arena.2 BARBARA KRUGER, SPEAKING IN THE CHANNEL 4 SERIES STATE OF THE ART: IDEAS & IMAGES IN THE 1980S IN 1987.

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‘The Real Me’ sounds like a feature article from a lifestyle magazine: perhaps an article about ‘metime’ or individual self-expression. It’s hard to believe, almost twenty years on, that this was the title of a conference, organized by the Institute of Contemporary Arts (ICA) in the autumn of 1986 to explore the question of identity. When lifestyle magazines today talk about identity, they are invariably talking about individual lifestyle choices. Everywhere you look in printed and broadcast media, private and individual identities appear to have eclipsed any notion of a collective or public identification. While the question of a shared identity is largely seen as the preoccupation of a marginal few whose race, ethnicity or religion sets them apart from mainstream society and culture. In 1980s Britain, however, the dominant idea of a settled, homogeneous, mainstream identity that could be easily invoked for the nation and society was being challenged by a number of wholly different artists, musicians, writers and film-makers. From Derek Jarman’s dystopian vision of the future in Jubilee (1977) through to Stephen Frears’ more celebratory depiction of multiracial, multisexual Britain in My Beautiful Launderette (1987), the decade from the late 1970s to the late 1980s marked a radical shift in the social and cultural urban fabric of Britain for which London was the central stage. The dissonant tones of the Sex Pistols’ irreverent reworking of the national anthem God Save the Queen and The Clash’s London Calling were the discordant theme tunes of a changing society where the comforting rhetoric of ‘one nation’ Britain had become fractured not only by the three-day working week and the souring of relations between government and trade unions but equally by the changing face of its cities and the experience of its citizens. At the same time as conflicts were erupting on the streets of the metropolis from Notting Hill to Wapping (ostensibly between representatives of the state and its citizens), London was forging a new identity which was to become synonymous with the multiple identities of its inhabitants and their interrelationships. Articulating a spectrum of new social, cultural and artistic connections which criss-crossed the city and transgressed discrete racial boundaries and comfortable social conventions, London’s creative heterogeneity and cultural miscegenation found form not only in the novels of Hanif Kureishi and the songs of The Clash, but also in the works of a new generation of artists, writers and film-makers. The ICA conference ‘The Real Me: Postmodernism and the Question of Identity’ brought together writers, philosophers, scientists, psychologists, social theorists and historians, including speakers as diverse as Homi Bhabha, A. S. Byatt, Richard L. Gregory, Stuart Hall, Jacqueline Rose, James Lingwood and Terry Eagleton to discuss subjectivity, social identity and political action. The politics of identity were equally in evidence in the ICA’s exhibition programme throughout the 1980s, featuring solo exhibitions of artists such as Barbara Kruger, Robert Mapplethorpe and Cindy Sherman as well as ambitious projects like Difference: on Sexuality and Representation and Sandy Nairne’s State of the Art: Ideas and Images in the 1980s which was anchored in a series of television programmes on the newly launched television station Channel 4. What was striking about the work of artists like Kruger, Mapplethorpe and Sherman was their preoccupation not only with identity politics but also with the politics of representation itself. Kruger’s experience of working on

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fashion magazines had inspired her to question the ways in which film and photography mediate and frame our perception of reality (Fig.  11.1). In a very different way, Mapplethorpe’s highly aestheticized and sexually charged photographs (Fig. 11.2), which provoked much controversy at the time, challenged conventional representations of men (Ken Moody) and women (Lisa Lyon). By the mid-1980s, the ICA, London had become a meeting place for black artists, writers and thinkers who heralded a significant shift in wider British culture and society. This new generation – artists, film-makers, writers and musicians – which emerged in the early 1980s, contested the settled image of Britain as a monocultural society, and the capital was frequently the focal point for cultural and political struggles to redefine Britishness and British culture. The works of Kruger, Mapplethorpe and Sherman were not only backdrops to these discussions and meetings but a significant influence on this younger generation of artists and image-makers. Among them was the artist Sonia Boyce whose works were saturated in the narratives of the city and the intersecting relationships of its inhabitants. In works like Talking Presence (1987) where two naked black figures are silhouetted against the London skyline, Boyce quite literally projected difference against the familiar map of the city’s architecture (Fig. 11.3). While not referencing the city directly in his work, Rasheed Araeen’s Ethnic Drawings (1982), make reference to the graffiti that covers its physical surfaces, defacing its urban structures and disfiguring with racist abuse its non-white inhabitants (Fig  11.4). Hand-drawn in Arabic script, Araeen’s series of intimate self-portraits unhinge the possibility of neutral representation in modern art in the same way that Kruger’s poster images challenge the notion that photography’s representation of the real can be unmediated. In a series of performances set in Brixton and entitled Roadworks (1985), Mona Hatoum renders her entire body as artwork against the backdrop of the city (Fig. 11.5). In one performance with Stefan Szczelkun, Hatoum and Szczelkun take turns in tracing the outlines of their prone bodies with chalk on the paving stones. Contingent on each other, they move through the street leaving traces of their presence like forensic evidence of a crime or rather crimes committed. In another performance also entitled Roadworks – but this time, a solo performance work – Hatoum walks barefoot dragging behind her a pair of Dr. Martens boots attached to her ankles by their laces, impeding her every step. The two performance works speak eloquently about our interdependency and the constraints on our movement through the city – the things we can’t see or that lie outside of our control but which affect our capacity to move freely and unhindered. Black Audio Film Collective’s Twilight City (1987) maps a visual journey through London in the late 1980s, negotiating the contradictions of the metropolis from the now forgotten and erased Cardboard City (the cardboard structures that housed London’s homeless people and populated the spaces between the railway arches of South London) and the then emerging brave new edifices of London’s former Docklands in Canary Wharf (Fig  11.6). A different kind of navigation takes place in Steve McQueen’s Super 8 film Exodus (1992/1997) which follows two elegantly-dressed middle-aged black men negotiating the city’s traffic, carrying exotic plants that evoke a different space far removed from London’s heaving urban sprawl.

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Fig. 11.1 Robert Mapplethorpe, Pictures/Self Portrait, 1977. © Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation. Used by permission. Courtesy of the Robert Mapplethorpe Foundation.

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Fig. 11.2 Barbara Kruger, Untitled (You Thrive on Mistaken Identity), 1981. Gelatin silver print, 152.4 x 101.6 cm (60 x 40 in.). © Barbara Kruger. Courtesy of the artist and Sprüth Magers.

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Fig. 11.3 Sonia Boyce, Talking Presence, 1987. Mixed media on colour photograph, 121 x 182 cm. © Sonia Boyce. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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Fig 11.4 Rasheed Araeen, Ethnic Drawings, 1982. Pencil and pen on paper. 4 parts, each 79 x 53.3 cm. © Rasheed Araeen. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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Fig. 11.5 Mona Hatoum, Roadworks, 1985. Performed for ‘Roadworks’, Brixton Art Gallery, London. Live action with Dr. Martens boots, 50–60 mins. © Mona Hatoum, 2019. Photo: Patrick Gilbert.

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Fig 11.6 Black Audio Film Collective, Twilight City, 1987. Film stills. DVD, 54 mins. © Black Audio Film Collective. Courtesy of Smoking Dogs Films.

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The idea of living with the politics of difference has all kinds of unwanted connotations in the aftermath of the London bombings in 2005. In the tidal wave of commentary that has sought to understand or explain the suicide bombers who attacked the tube and bus – icons of London’s metropolitan identity – the idea of London as a multicultural city has been invoked for diametrically opposed political ends. London’s mayor Ken Livingstone has underscored London’s identity as a city home to diverse communities whose personality is forged from difference. The ultra-right-wing British National Party (BNP), on the other hand, has used the image of the exploded No. 30 bus as a metaphor for the destruction of the city (and, by extension, of the nation itself) wrought by immigrants. Once again, London is the focus for contested visions of Britain’s future and its identity as a nation. The representation of the city and its inhabitants is, once again, a manifestly political arena. In London, perhaps more than any other place in Britain, as Barbara Kruger says, ‘there is a politic in every conversation we have, every deal we close and every face we kiss’.

Notes 1 Stuart Hall, ‘Minimal Selves’, ICA Documents 6, Identity: The Real Me, London: ICA, 1987, pp. 44–6. 2 Barbara Kruger, quoted in Sandy Nairne, State of the Art: Ideas and Images in the 1980s, London: Chatto & Windus, 1987, pp. 11 and 163.

12 Vladimir and Estragon are still waiting

I Ending Jean-Luc Godard once said that all his films have a beginning, a middle and an end but not necessarily in that order. This paper is about endings and beginnings which, like Godard’s films don’t necessarily obey the logic of a single, linear trajectory. I wanted to begin with an ending. The end of a film, the end of a love affair and the symbolic ending of an irrecoverable past which is signalled by David Lean’s Brief Encounter. Made in 1945, the film marked the end of the Second World War in Europe and the beginning of a new post-war era in Europe. Like David Lean’s subsequent film Great Expectations, the film points to the inevitability of change. Things will never quite be the same again. Nostalgic longing for an irrecoverable past provided the focus for an installation work made fifty years later by the artist Sonia Boyce as part of Camden Art Centre’s public art project Northern Adventures, located in St Pancras Station in Central London. The piece, which interweaves three different narratives, one fictional, the other two apparently factual, speaks of desire and disjuncture in the lives of three women from different classes, races and generations whose paths cross in the tea shop of a railway station. To create the installation, Boyce fabricated four tablecloths to cover the tables of the British rail tearooms at St Pancras station. Attracted to the environment which was, in her words, ‘so artificially cosy yet sterile and dated’, the tea rooms are the quintessential transitory space, what Boyce describes as a ‘perfect kind of ante-chamber for all the hustle and bustle of a busy station’, which mediates private and public space, stillness and movement, departing and arriving. Each tablecloth, made from vinyl-coated polyester, is imprinted with the same image of a floral, embroidered design but inscribed with different texts. Extracts from the dialogue of the two protagonists of Brief Encounter is intertwined with the narratives of two black women: a ‘semi-retired West Indian Christian lady’ and a young Asian woman, both of whom are anticipating imminent encounters: a ‘blind date’ due to arrive on a 111

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train from Derby in the case of the former and a job interview in Nottingham in the case of the latter. As in earlier works by the artist, the voices of different characters mingle with each other in a space which remains, characteristically of Boyce, neither a fictional space nor a real space, neither private nor public, but a space where such subtle distinctions become eroded and where individual desires are within a whisker’s breath of becoming real possibilities: Semi-retired West Indian Christian lady, seeks religious unattached gentlemen for sincere relationship. Leading to nuptials. Genuine replies only. Write to Box 961B. My crazy children put me up to this ‘Come on mum you need a bit of excitement in your life.’ Well here I am waiting for the 3.15 from Derby, I hope I don’t miss the announcement for the platform – it’s so noisy in here. I wonder if Trevor’s as nice as his letters. I should have worn the pale blue dress-suit instead, Oh! this is silly – he’s only coming down to spend the day with my family, nothing to get het up about . . . I feel like a young girl courting for the first time.1 Importantly for Boyce, the space of the railway station tea room is also a transgressive one which allows the artist to explore ‘the idea of an encounter between strangers in a public yet intimate space. For some it raises anxieties about safety, the known. It suggests a transgression, particularly for women – moving beyond acceptable behaviour – a sure sign of our modern age.’2 Yet, Boyce moves her work beyond the mildly transgressive content of the original film and the imminent moral and sexual transgression of its main characters Alec and Laura (played by Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson). She does this by disrupting the narrative structure of the film in her own ‘restaging’ of the crucial ‘first encounter’ scene between Alec and Laura in the tea room of a suburban railway station: It had already been a mad panicky morning trying to get organised for the interview up in Nottingham . . . 1 ASIAN WOMAN SUPPORT WORKER Must be fluent speaker and writer of Gujarati (section 5.2.d Race Relations Act and 7.2.b of the Sex Discrimination Act applies). The Support Worker must have the relevant professional qualifications and at least 1 year’s experience of working with people in a residential context. Welfare rights knowledge and/or nursing background would be useful. . . . with about half an hour to spare before the 8.30 left, I thought I’d have a cup of tea in the Traveller’s Fare. Just my luck, there was a commotion going on at the food counter. Rucksana Can I help? Alec

Oh, no please – it’s only something in my eye.

Staff 1 Try pulling down your eyelid as far as it will go.

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Staff 2 And then blow your nose. Rucksana Please let me look. I happen to be a nurse. Alec

It’s very kind of you.

Rucksana Turn around to the light please. As we got close I noticed how young and quite handsome he was.3 Rucksana Now – look up – now look down – I can see it. Keep still . . . There. Alec (blinking) Oh dear, what a relief – it was agonizing. Rucksana It looks like a bit of grit. Alec

It was. How lucky for me you were here.

Rucksana Anybody could have done it. Alec Well you did, and I’m most grateful. Rucksana There’s my train – goodbye. The insertion of Rucksana, a young Asian woman into the text of this quintessential mid-1940s British film, disrupts the original text which Boyce has consciously restaged in a non-linear sequence across the four tablecloths which make up the work. The sequence of beginning, middle and end has been broken up, rewritten and rearranged in a way which disrupts the narrative and chronology not only of the film but also of post-war British culture. The ending of Brief Encounter, as we have just seen, signals a number of departures: the train is departing; Laura is saying good-bye to Alec for the last time; and Alec is about to leave England for Africa. Things will never quite be the same again. The ‘off-stage’ action imbues the on-stage action with meaning and even anchors it in meaning. Just as the comings and goings of Sir Thomas Bertram between Mansfield Park and his ‘off-stage’ plantation in Antigua precipitates the decisive action in Jane Austen’s nineteenthcentury novel, the tangential relationship of Brief Encounter to Britain’s colonies precipitates the ending of the love affair and the film.4 And whereas Britain’s former empire remains an absent presence in the film (Johannesburg is ‘a long way away’ as Alec tells Laura), Sonia Boyce inverses the colonial relationship within the very narrative of the film. The empire ‘comes back’ in Boyce’s narrative to play a critical role in the ‘real’ story of Britain’s past, present and future.

II Beginning A train journey from Oxford to London. An elderly, well-spoken man sits down opposite a young woman in her early twenties. They start to talk. She is studying at college, she tells him.

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Eventually, she wants to work with people with learning difficulties. He is travelling to London for a reunion. It is a reunion of former employees from Lloyds Bank who worked in India before 1946. He was a member of the Calcutta Rowing Club, he tells her. ‘I was 22 years old when I went to India and I came back to England in 1960,’ he explains. Just then, a young Asian boy runs through the carriage, chased by his older sister. The man shouts out something in Hindi. The children stop. They turn and look at the man quizzically. He says something else in Hindi. They turn away and carry on running. The man looks down, confused and a little embarrassed. Are we nearly there? He asks the young woman sitting opposite him. ‘Clapham Junction. This is Clapham Junction’ comes the message across the public address system. The man gets up slowly. ‘Don’t let them close the door on me will you.’ This encounter between the old man and the young Asian boy on a train travelling between Oxford and London mirrors an encounter described by Frantz Fanon, the Martiniquan psychiatrist in Black Skins, White Masks, published in 1952. In the book, Fanon describes an encounter in Paris when a young boy points him out on a train and shouts, ‘Mama, see the Negro! I’m frightened!’ As Fanon writes in the chapter entitled ‘The Fact of Blackness’: I could no longer laugh, because I already knew there were legends, stories, history, and above all historicity . . . Then, assailed at various points the corporeal schema crumbled, its place taken by a racial epidermal schema. In the train it was no longer a question of being aware of my body in the third person but in a triple person. In the train, I was given not one but two, three places . . . I existed triply: I occupied space. I moved toward the other . . . and the evanescent other, hostile but not opaque, transparent, not there, disappeared . . . I was responsible at the same time for my body, for my race, for my ancestors. I subjected myself to an objective examination, I discovered my blackness.5 At Beaconsfield, an artist-run space in London on an external rendered wall facing the railway track which winds its way around the back of Beaconsfield’s nineteenth-century building, Sonia Boyce mounted two vast black-and-white photographic portraits. A woman cradles her tilting face between her hands, filling the full expanse of the image. Installed like billboard posters below two matching chimneys without any frame or accompanying text, the images appear identical at first glance, echoing the architectural features of the building. Designed to be glimpsed within a fraction of a minute from a moving train, these works disrupt the familiar conventions of the advertising hoardings which tend to conform to the rule of communicating a clear, repeatable and legible message. By contrast, Boyce’s works are contradictory: the images are not identical (one being markedly darker than the other); they appear to be intimate, personal photographs, enlarged and relocated to a public site without any obvious reason; and, rather than becoming clearer through repetition, their message is rendered more enigmatic. Being the same but different simultaneously, these two images make visible within the public domain the moment of recognition and disavowal of racial difference which Fanon describes so vividly

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in Black Skin, White Masks and which is enacted not in the colonial city but rather in the European metropolis, the capital of what Fanon calls ‘the mother country’. In response to Boyce’s installation, the viewer’s fleeting gaze from the train is caught in a double-take which at first disavows and then recognizes the difference between the two images and displaces the corporeal schema for the racial epidermal schema. In other words, the single, repeated image of a woman becomes split into the images of two (almost identical) women, one dark-skinned, the other light-skinned. In that split second of recognition and disavowal, the viewer’s gaze fixes its subject with the fact of her blackness. As the train moves away, across the bridge which links the south of the city to Europe, Boyce’s images remain fixed to the rendered wall of the nineteenth-century building, mute witnesses to the narratives of fear and desire which permeate the fabric of the postcolonial metropolis.

III Middle You are inside the middle of a drum rolling along the pavement of a crowded metropolis. The city is apprehended as angular, fragmented, moving. Like a cubist painting, reality has been spliced and mixed. Like a needle in the grooves of a record, the drum moves round and round, covering the different ground with the same, repetitive motion. Things are familiar but never quite the same. An artist’s film, Steve McQueen’s Drumroll (1998) is presented across three screens, a cinematic triptych which elides any distinction between the performative and the material object (Figs 12.1). The camera is both object and subject, performer and performed. Trapped inside an oil drum as it is rolled along the streets of New York, the camera catches glimpses of the city and of the artist himself as he pushes the oil drum along the street, negotiating the people and objects in his path. McQueen takes us on a dizzying, seemingly endless journey, accompanied by a soundtrack of the drum rattling along the pavement, the voice of the artist politely saying, ‘Excuse me, please,’ every now and again to bewildered passers-by. The film’s effect is nauseating; the stomach-churning movement of the camera an endurance test on the senses. McQueen’s film retraces the footsteps of modernism through the city and reconfigures it through the lens of postcolonial experience. Modernism’s abstract celebration of movement and speed is translated into a slow and tortuous physical negotiation of the terrain of the metropolis. No longer removed from the site of action, the artist has become a participant in the action, an action which is not a gestural effect nor a self-reflexive gaze turned in upon the artist’s body nor a performance isolated to the artist’s studio or a neutral space. In fact, this is not a performance but rather a negotiation of space where artist, viewer, camera are all implicated in the gruelling process of moving through the cityscape. The linear trajectory of progress has been derailed and rerouted as a continuous circular movement. There is a beginning, middle and end

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Figs 12.1 Steve McQueen, Drumroll, 1998. Film still. Three-channel colour video, sound, 22 mins 1 sec., synchronized continuous projection. © Steve McQueen. Courtesy of the artist, Thomas Dane Gallery and Marian Goodman Gallery.

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but the middle is all that really matters. In this respect, McQueen’s Drumroll recalls Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot and the inevitable circularity of the endless waiting of the two protagonists for the elusive Godot: Estragon

He should be here.

Vladimir

He didn’t say for sure he’d come.

Estragon And if he doesn’t come? Valdimir We’ll come back tomorrow. Estragon And then the day after tomorrow. Vladimir

Possibly.

Estragon And so on. Vladimir

The point is –

Estragon

Until he comes.

Vladimir You’re merciless. Estragon We came here yesterday. Vladimir Ah no, there you’re mistaken. Estragon What did we do yesterday? Vladimir What did we do yesterday?6 Beckett’s homeless tramps wander from one place to another, yet always return to the same location. They are of no fixed abode and no fixed identity. Their names – Vladimir and Estragon – are indeterminate and they could almost be refugees from another place. Like recent migrants grappling with a second language, they frequently muddle colloquial expressions. (At one point, Vladimir tells Estragon, ‘Let’s wait till we know exactly how we stand,’ and Estragon replies, ‘On the other hand it might be better to strike the iron before it freezes.’) For Vladimir and Estragon, the existential question, ‘Why are we here?’ has been answered because they are waiting for Godot. But Vladimir and Estragon have been asking the wrong question. Continually returning to the same place and repeating the same task, Beckett’s tramps have neither a history nor a memory. Artists like Sonia Boyce, Isaac Julien and Steve McQueen, on the other hand, cannot escape the contingencies of history and memory in the postcolonial city. For them, the important question is not, ‘Why am I here here?’ or even, ‘Who am I?’ but rather, ‘How do I negotiate this location?’ In recent years, postcolonial studies has tended to retreat to the safe, untroubled haven of academic debate, forgetting what Frantz Fanon and a whole generation of artists have articulated through their practice: namely, that it is through the performative and visceral encounters on the street that identities and histories are both forged and contested.

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Notes 1 Text by Sonia Boyce from Table 1 of the installation, Northern Adventures, 1992. 2 Sonia Boyce from ‘Proposal for 4 Tablecloths’, unpublished. 3 Text by Boyce, Table 1, Northern Adventures. 4 See Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism, London: Chatto & Windus, 1993, pp. 100–16. 5 Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks, p. 112. 6 Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot [1952], in The Complete Dramatic Works, Faber and Faber, 1986, p. 16.

13 Alfred’s favourite tree

I Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe. Geometric squares of light punctuated the wall. It looked like an Edward Hopper painting. The doctors in their white coats. One looking at an X-ray, clipped to an electric light box. A modern(ist) cathedral of light. The other doctor is examining a woman who is bent forward, his stethoscope resting on the curve of her back, listening to her breathing. ‘It all seems so perfect,’ you said, ‘an image of care, of the intangibles of light and shadow, the x-ray image of the body’s interior and an absent but imagined sound.’ I thought it was a woman. When you said it was an old man, everything changed. I didn’t know what to make of it. I had it all figured out – male/female, doctor/patient, middle class/working class. What does it matter, anyway? It’s just an old photograph. It’s hopeless trying to make sense of this historical debris. Make it exhibit no. 3 [for the defence?] – ‘Public Health Centre, Grange Road, Consulting Room in the Tuberculosis Dispensary. 1937. PB 497’ in the case of Modernist Utopia versus Dystopic Hell of Real Modern Life.

II A mass of bloom. Nine years ago, the Council decided to plant trees in all the main roads in the Borough. So far, 7,000 trees have been planted. The drab sordidness of Old Bermondsey will have gone forever and the district will be illuminated with touches of colour and beauty never known before. We shall have available to all inhabitants many of the benefits of civilization previously obtainable only by the favoured classes who could afford to live in the most desirable residential areas.

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III Alfred’s favourite tree was an Alianthus whose popular name is ‘Tree of Heaven’. Apparently, it grows very well in the city but it has this nasty habit of spontaneously dropping its branches without warning (Fig. 13.1). Was Giacometti’s tree for Waiting for Godot an Alianthus? You didn’t say. And are the pit-bull terriers still hanging from the branches of the trees in Southwark Park? I can’t get that image out of my head. If Alfred was here, he’d say, ‘That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I meant at all.’ Now, I’m getting my Alfreds mixed up. It’s not Alfred Prufrock, is it. It’s Alfred Salter. S-A-L-T-E-R. ‘Maybe it’s called the tree of heaven because it’s the last thing you see before you die,’ said the park warden, laughing.

IV Vladimir

Look at the tree.

Estragon

It’s never the same pus from one second to the next.

Vladimir

The tree, look at the tree.

Estragon

looks at the tree

Estragon Was it not there yesterday? Vladimir Yes, of course it was there. Do you not remember? We nearly hanged ourselves from it. But you wouldn’t. Do you not remember? Estragon You dreamt it.1

V Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Out.

VI Stripped to their waists the children sit in rows out in the open air, silhouetted against a chocolate-box scene of snow-capped mountains. I meant to ask you what you thought the Bermondsey kids would have made of their alpine retreat. Clean Swiss mountain air versus TB-infested urban smog. Did they hate London after they returned or were they relieved to be

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Fig. 13.1 Jo Stockham, If Not Now, When? 1999. Detail, Dilston Grove, 1999. © Jo Stockham. Courtesy of the artist.

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back? At least it was home, not Le Corbusier’s home ground. How did that rural backwater come to produce such a fervent modernist anyway? Tell Harry Lime that 500 years of peace and democracy produced not only cuckoo clocks but also modernists.

VII From all available evidence no black man had ever set foot in this tiny Swiss village before I came. I was told before arriving that I would probably be a ‘sight’ for the village; I took this to mean that people of my complexion were rarely seen in Switzerland, and also that city people are always something of a ‘sight’ outside of the city. It did not occur to me – possibly because I am an American – that there could be people anywhere who had never seen a negro.2

VIII For Everything you need from a Chemist RALPH DANCY LTD. DISPENSING & PHOTOGRAPHIC CHEMISTS PHARMACEUTICAL SPECIALITIES AND OXYGEN ALWAYS IN STOCK On the flipside of the history book you found in Southwark Local Studies Library was the advertisement for ‘Ralph Dancy Ltd’. THE CHURCH OF THE EPIPHANY (CLARE COLLEGE MISSION) ROTHERHITHE LONDON S.E.16 – A SHORT HISTORY. Above the Chemist’s advertisement,was one for a new lighting shop in Bermondsey,‘THE CHANDELIER’. The irony couldn’t have been missed on you. Did electricity make it easier to read the words, ‘God is the light’? Or did everyone put all their faith in the wonders of modern progress?

IX Some Activities of The Bermondsey Borough Council. Dir. H.W. Bush, 1931. They converted an old disinfectant van into a cinema van and powered it from special sockets in the street lamps. Dr. Connan, Chief Medical Officer for the borough in 1928 and previously its Tuberculosis Officer, was responsible for medical information and direction; Mr. Bush, Chief Administrative Officer was responsible for the captions and ensured continuity; Mr. Lumley,

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Technical Officer and Radiographer was in charge of photography. These pioneering councilmen from Bermondsey knew that what they were doing was radically new and that they needed to make a visual record of their achievement.

X One of the most difficult problems facing the Council is the provision of proper housing accommodation for the inhabitants of the Borough. The need is great and the land is scarce. Many of the houses are old, worn out and badly overcrowded. Several areas have been condemned and are being dealt with as quickly as the law allows. Sites are being steadily cleared. Modern cottages or blocks of flats are then being erected. All the work is being done by the Council’s own men.

XI Baldwin, the preacher’s son would have got on well with Salter the Quaker. No sermon-wielding priests for him, cloaked in gold-embroidered hypocrisy. His was a quiet, unadorned religiosity. But he shared the same missionary zeal of the Church of the Epiphany. ‘What good is it turning wine into the blood of Christ when we can turn this living hell into a heaven?’ ‘We can pull down the walls of Jericho right here in Bermondsey, with our own hands. These are not fallen people, just poor.’

XII Falling, falling, falling, falling, fallen. We sat side by side in the editing suite, sifting through the documentary evidence. The walls came tumbling down towards us. The film was silent. The walls came tumbling down towards us, revealing a line of men in cloth caps. The only sound was the soft whirring noise of filmstrip running through the editing machine. The walls came tumbling down towards us, revealing a line of men in cloth caps, pushing and heaving against the walls until they came tumbling down.

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XIII Alfred buried his head in his hands as the bombs came raining down. ‘It will all be undone. I’m holding my breath but I know that it will all be undone by this terrible war. God is the light but these are dark days, nonetheless.’ There was no transubstantiation after all.

XIV Seeing the church door open, people wandered in and talked to you as you worked. The church was cold and damp. ‘It’s always leaked, ever-since I was a choirboy here,’ one of them said. Your friend who lives next door called you last night in tears. She’d been hanging birdfeeders on the communal trees outside the block of flats. A child had broken off one of the larger branches of the tree. ‘It’s shit round here, it’s a dump.’ The next day, she saw the child clutching a bird identification chart and a spider plant, given to him by your neighbour. Later, the same day, he helps to dig over the garden of another neighbour and plant it with flowers and shrubs.

XV Vladimir We have to come back tomorrow. Estragon What for? Vladimir

To wait for Godot.

Estragon Ah! (Silence.) He didn’t come? Vladimir

No.

Estragon And now it’s too late. Vladimir Yes, now it’s night. Estragon And if we dropped him? [Pause.] If we dropped him? Vladimir

He’d punish us. (Silence. He looks at the tree.)

Everything’s dead but the tree. Estragon (Looking at the tree.) What is it? Vladimir

It’s the tree.

Estragon Yes, but what kind? Vladimir

I don’t know. A willow.

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(Estragon draws Vladimir towards the tree. They stand motionless before it. Silence.) Estragon Why don’t we hang ourselves? vladimir With what? Estragon You haven’t got a bit of rope? Vladimir

No.

Estragon

Then we can’t.

(Silence.)3

Notes 1 Beckett, Waiting for Godot, p. 56. 2 James Baldwin, ‘Stranger in the Village’, in Notes of a Native Son, Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 1955, p. 159. 3 Ibid., pp. 86–7.

14 The leopard

The intense glare of the sunlight, reflecting violently off the white buildings along the waterside almost blinded Paolo. It had been difficult enough to get out of bed this morning after last night’s celebrations. His eyelids had been glued together with sleep when the alarm clock went off next to his bed. He had groped clumsily at the table several times until his hand landed on the alarm clock and he’d been able to switch it off. Intermittent images of the previous night’s events flashed across his mind. When Fabio Grosso’s penalty shot past the French goalkeeper, he’d felt a surge of elation that he’d never experienced before. At that moment, he was like a surfer, riding a towering wave of Italian pride and victory. The bar had erupted in cheers and jubilation which seemed to echo right across the city. Shouts and screams rang out of apartment, bar and café windows that had been left wide open in the oppressive heat. No one had wanted to leave the bar that evening. Neither his friends Marco and Francesco nor any of the others who had congregated at the bar soon after lunch that Sunday had been able to tear themselves away before the early hours of the morning. It was as if they were afraid that if they left each other’s company, that the events of that afternoon and evening would fall away and disappear into nothing, like a pleasurable dream that ends abruptly when you’re woken up. Lying in bed with his eyes closed trying to rouse himself, Paolo wondered whether it had all really happened or whether he had imagined it all. He had to force himself to get out of bed and get showered and dressed so that he could buy a copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport and read the report about last night’s World Cup final between France and Italy. If he hurried, he’d have time to have a coffee and read the report on the match before he went to work at the restaurant. The icy-cold water from the malfunctioning shower in his apartment was intolerable in winter but cool and refreshing at the height of summer. He wished he didn’t have to go to work today. He daydreamed about taking the waterbus to the Lido and lying on the beach all day, cooling down in the water when it got too hot. But skipping work was out of the question. He’d taken too many days off work all month to watch the football. If he didn’t show up for work today, he’d get the sack. Fabio was looking for any excuse to get rid of him. He’d never liked Paolo. He thought he was arrogant and if he hadn’t been so good at his job would have sacked him months ago. Ahmed, another waiter at the restaurant had hinted as much a few weeks ago. Paolo had been 126

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working at the restaurant for four months – the longest he’d held down a job for the same number of years – he’d paid off some of his debts and begun to turn a corner; at least where money was concerned. He could really do without the hassle of losing this job and having to look for another job all over again. It didn’t used to bother him before. Now, more and more, he wanted an easier life. He was probably just getting old. The bitter taste of the coffee started to kick his head into gear. The photograph of Gianluigi Buffon embracing Fabio Cannavero was all over the front pages of the newspapers that morning. There was no doubt about it. The Italians were World Cup champions again for the first time since they beat West Germany in Spain in 1982. Paolo’s father had always said that his son was well-starred, having been born in the auspicious year when Italy won the World Cup. His mother had been heavily pregnant during the tournament, uncomfortable in the heat of another sweltering summer. He had been born a week after the tournament ended and his father had named him after Paolo Rossi. It was a constant reminder of how Paolo had failed to live up to the achievements of his namesake. The second espresso made Paolo feel awake and alert for the first time all morning. It didn’t seem fair that the players and Cannavero of all people might end up in the third division after all they’d achieved for Italy. Paolo didn’t believe the allegations about the match-fixing ring but even if it was true, surely the players weren’t implicated. If the allegations were found to be true, then the management should suffer but not the players as usually happened. That was how things were. Ordinary people always got the blame and those with power and influence somehow managed to get away scot-free without any repercussions. Or else the wrong people got the blame. Zinedine Zidane was a perfect example. He would probably escape all blame for head-butting Marco Materazzi nineteen minutes into extra time. So what if Materazzi had called him a terrorist? It wasn’t serious. Just a jibe to wind him up. That sort of thing happens on the football pitch all the time anyway. Ahmed didn’t get it either. After Zidane attacked Materazzi, Paolo had cursed him the same way everyone else had in the bar that evening. Most terrorists were Arabs these days, so what was the big deal? Ahmed couldn’t take a joke. He shouldn’t have grabbed Paolo like that in front of his friends. Paolo paid for his coffee, picked up his paper and started walking to the restaurant. The sunlight was piercing and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. The light seemed to ricochet off the pavements and the buildings and it doubled, even trebled in its intensity. Sunglasses were inadequate protection from its relentless brightness. The problem was that things were changing too fast. The climate was changing too fast and so was everything around him. It was all too intense. It was manageable when there were just a few of them. If anything, he’d quite liked it then. It had made life more interesting but it wasn’t interesting any more, just more complicated. He felt like Burt Lancaster in The Leopard. A man caught up in a tide of change and upheaval that threatened everything he knew but over which he no longer had control. When Marco had suggested going to see it last November, he thought he’d be bored rigid. A movie made forty years ago and two and a half hours long was bound to be completely dull. He tried to persuade

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Marco to go and see something else but Marco was quite determined. He had a thing about Visconti films and Claudia Cardinale. Thinking about it, it was more a thing about Claudia Cardinale than Visconti but Paolo barely noticed her. From the beginning, he had been captivated by Burt Lancaster. It was hard to believe that an American could play an Italian aristocrat so convincingly but he had. Elegant and dignified, Lancaster had been the epitome of refined aristocracy, barely ruffled by the upheavals going on around him. He’d bought the DVD of the film after that and watched it over and over again. In the privacy of his own room, he practiced walking and sitting like Burt Lancaster, imagining himself living in Italy a hundred years earlier. Paolo turned down the alleyway by the side of the restaurant and was assaulted by a putrid smell. Uncooked bits of meat and bone, tossed out of the restaurant kitchen the day before, were rotting in the heat. Paolo hadn’t eaten anything yet that morning and the stench of decomposing flesh made his stomach turn. The refuse men had obviously been out late themselves the night before and skipped their early rubbish collection shift. He knocked on the side door of the restaurant and waited for what seemed like ages. He was desperate to get away from that dreadful smell. He heard the top and bottom locks turn as Fabio opened the door and let Paolo in without a word. He was obviously surprised to see Paolo turn up at all that day, let alone on time. Paolo walked straight past Fabio and through to the kitchen, opened his locker and changed into his work clothes. He wondered how long it would be before someone reported Ahmed missing. There was no doubt in his mind that Ahmed had provoked him. He’d taunted him that Italy’s pure-bred stallions were going to be thrashed by a team of immigrants. The game was on a knife-edge:1:1 and into the first period of extra time. He didn’t want the game to go to penalties. Italy had never been good at penalties and if they failed to score another goal in extra time, then all might be lost. Lippi’s team just had to win. Italy needed them to win. Fabio thought that Paolo was arrogant and that Ahmed was a quiet, unassuming and hard-working migrant. He hadn’t seen the other side of Ahmed. The proud, Algerian side of him. The side that would never be Italian. Most of them were like that. Quiet and unassuming on the outside but inside full of resentment and anger towards their Italian hosts. The problem was that most politicians and liberal intellectuals never actually spent time with them, didn’t know them like Paolo and his friends did. Italy needed more politicians that saw Italy the way ordinary working people did. Perhaps then Paolo and his friends wouldn’t be provoked and taunted to do things that they didn’t want to do. Paolo didn’t want to kill Ahmed. He hadn’t set out to kill him but Ahmed had driven him into a rage and he just hit out, grabbing whatever object came easily to hand. If Ahmed hadn’t turned in that split second, it would just have been a cut in the arm that could have been patched up in hospital. He hadn’t panicked when Ahmed’s body slumped to the ground. Like the Leopard, he was composed and dignified. He and Marco had wrapped a dark shirt around Ahmed’s mid-riff, propped up his body and carried him out of the bar, pretending he’d passed out from too much heat and alcohol. No one there knew Ahmed or that he rarely drank. It wasn’t that he avoided alcohol for religious reasons but that he was studying to pass his

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Italian medical exams and spent all his spare time reading and revising. Paolo had envied Ahmed for his tenacity and commitment. He had a goal and was determined to achieve it. Paolo had never felt so driven. He’d never wanted anything that much; at least not until Italy reached the finals of the World Cup and then he’d wanted them to win, not just for his sake but for the sake of the whole nation.

15 Maps of desire

Ten years ago. on an extended visit to Heliopolis, a north-eastern suburb of Cairo in Egypt, I was continuously getting lost. So, I went in search of a map, scouring all the bookshops in vain. Finally, I asked the manager of a bookshop if they had a map of Heliopolis. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘we have no maps of Heliopolis. No maps exist.’ I was taken aback. I had never been to a place which wasn’t mapped. No maps were needed because everyone who lived there knew their way around and there were relatively few outsiders. My desire for a map betrayed my true status as an outsider in the place where I had been born. The experience of exile carries with it an acute sense of space and time, of the exigencies of history and geography, not as abstract concepts or crude categories but rather as something lived and breathed which informs our reality and our imagination. Edward Said puts it very well: ‘Just as none of us is outside or beyond geography, none of us is completely free from the struggle over geography. That struggle is complex and interesting because it is not only about soldiers and cannons but also about ideas, about forms, about images and imaginings.’1 My presence in Europe, too, is a function of that struggle over geography: my physical presence here is intimately bound up with the forces of imperialism, colonialism and postcolonialism; while my interest in images and imaginings, in turn, is framed by the crosscurrents of colonial history and experience. The relationship between political reality and cultural imagination is the subject of Said’s book Culture and Imperialism: Underlying social space are territories, lands, geographical underpinnings of the imperial and also the cultural contest. To think about distant spaces, to colonise them, to populate or depopulate them; all this occurs on or about, or because of land. The actual geographical possession of land is what empire in the final analysis is all about . . . Imperialism and the culture associated with it affirm both the primacy of geography and an ideology about control of territory. The geographical sense makes projections – imaginative cartographic, military, economic, historical, or in a general sense cultural. It also makes possible the construction of various kinds of knowledge all of them in one way or another dependent upon the perceived character and destiny of a particular geography.2 130

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There is an intimate relationship between the way we picture the world and chart our ideas, and our desires in the sense of what we wish to possess or what we long to regain. The idea of maps and the process of mapping is crucial in this regard because maps are to a large extent visual abstractions extracted from the fluid and shifting domain of lived experience. Concerned with fixed points, boundaries and lines of demarcation, they are about ordering and translating shifting experiences into a set of static and decipherable marks. The practice of making art is equally engaged with transforming lived experience (or fragments of it) into something else which is related but not the same. This is at the heart of Richard Long’s work, where different journeys are recorded through a variety of means – words, movements, sights and so on. His works are literal recordings of his journeys but they are always fragmentary, incomplete in some way. They carry with them a profound longing for the whole picture, the complete view. This longing is most evident in his map works where Long traces the linear or circular route of his journey and the physical landscape seems to resist his imposition of a geometric order upon it. His lines meander or falter where they meet insurmountable physical obstacles and confound this desire to create perfect circles or lines. This longing to resolve the cracks and fissures of the everyday is also present in the work of Piet Mondrian. Seeking to achieve unity from the reconciliation of the vertical and the horizontal, Mondrian’s neo-plasticism proposed a fusion of the art work and its surroundings. But paradoxically, Mondrian’s aesthetic strategy for achieving universal expression was premised on a gradual withdrawal not only from figurative or representational art but also from the artist’s location in the world. Mondrian’s paintings slowly moved away from the landscapes they represented to become a sort of spiritual-diagrammatic code for lived experience. Like maps, Mondrian’s paintings transformed the three-dimensional world into a two-dimensional representation of it. Instead of putting us into the world, they place us above it, offering us a bird’s eye view of its essential configurations. Mondrian’s paintings map space and time but they do so from a particular perspective which also claims to be a universal perspective. ‘Both science and art,’ wrote Mondrian in 1937, ‘are discovering and making us aware of the fact that time is a process of intensification, an evolution from the individual to the universal, of the subjective towards the objective; towards the essence of things and ourselves’.3 Despite Mondrian’s interest in Eastern philosophy and spirituality, the equation of the universal and the individual in Mondrian’s way of seeing persists in being the equation of a Western European point of view with the universal. Europe is the universe; or, at the very least, Europe defines the universe. And its perspective is fixed and static, suspended above the world it surveys. As Marlow recounts in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness: When I was a little chap I had a passion for maps, I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. At that time, there

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were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look like that) I would put my finger on it and say, When I grow up I will go there. I have been in some of them . . . But there was one yet – the biggest, the most blank so to speak – that I had a hankering after.4 Like Marlow, the old masters of European modernism hankered after the blank spaces of the world, empty canvases on which they sketched their longings and desires. The modernist vanguard launched their attack on the fortresses of the academy in the early years of this century like art guerrillas assaulting past tradition and invading unknown territory to make forays into an as yet unknown future. They entered unchartered terrains and transformed what they saw there into a universal map of the imagination. The impulse to map the world is fuelled by a desire to clarify certainly, but also to sweep aside the unequivocal and unresolved areas of our knowledge and understanding. The ambitious and self-consciously epic scope of the exhibition Magiciens de la Terre (Centre Georges Pompidou, 1989) which brought together approximately 100 artists from across the globe, is the curatorial equivalent of mapping the world. Such a project relies on a uniform interpretation of a complex range of cultural practices as the unique, unequivocal practice of making art. It allows for difference (indeed, difference is an essential component in such an enterprise) but only within certain, defined parameters. One of the major, epistemological challenges which faces us in the late twentieth century is the setting aside of the nineteenth-century episteme which privileges clarity and resolution as the essential barometers of knowledge and understanding. In its place, we need to take on board the notion that our perspective at any one time is partial and obscured not only because it is subjective but also because the greater picture is itself incomplete and ambivalent. Our perception of other cultures and, indeed, the notion of otherness is intricately linked to this desire to clarify, define and resolve. Otherness is merely a prism through which we refract our own desires and images of the world. In other words, our picture of other cultures has more to do with our picture of ourselves and our relationship with the rest of the world than it has to do with engaging with cultures different from our own. It is linguistic modes of representation which we privilege above all in British culture. Words are to images what maps are to real space: we depend on them to anchor the fluid and unpredictable domain of physical experience. Like the diagrammatic markings on a street map, language relies on a shared, common understanding of the relationship between the word and the object that it designates. Yet, it is that assumption of shared meaning which consistently undermines the authority of language: when the word blue proves inadequate as a description of the sea or when perceptions of a colour collide and no agreed definition can be found. This is evidence not only of the seemingly infinite gradations of colour but also of the subtle and shifting quality of language and its fallibility. In Arabic, there are over a hundred words for camel. In English there is only one word for camel and this is a transliteration of the Arabic word

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gamel. This is not to say that Arabic is a richer or more precise language than English but simply to underline the point that despite the authority and power we ascribe to language, it is both partial and incomplete, as well as culturally defined. Otherness is a strikingly vague and unspecific term; its incompleteness, its lack of specificity and the way that it is so much about lack of specificity. When we talk about the other, we are referring to something or someone that is not anchored by time, place or identity of any kind. The only specificity about the term is that it is specifically not us. The other, or the state of otherness is defined by its separation and distance from me, here, in this place, now, at this particular time. The implication is that I, myself can never be in a state of otherness. The speaking, acting, looking ‘me’ is at a remove from the other which can only be bridged if I negate the difference implicit in the idea of otherness and impose on the world what the Chilean critic Nelly Richard has called ‘an economy of sameness’. The Greek word for other is allos made up of the relative pronoun hos (who, which, that) with a negative suffix added on the front. In Greek, it is a compound word made up of a positive and a negative combined. Otherness is both a subjective presence and an objective absence at the same time. If I didn’t exist, then nor would the other. Equally, I rely on the other to affirm my own existence and my specificity. In this sense, the other is a kind of alter ego – me at another time, or in another place or in another culture. There is a duality or fissure in the notion of otherness which is rarely acknowledged and often suppressed. It is this fissure which makes possible the paradoxes inherent in an exhibition like Magiciens de la Terre which defines the work of so-called developing world artists in terms of a specific geographical origin at a remove from the curatorial centre; and at the same time, part of a universalist rhetoric which eclipses the specificity of time, place or cultural identity. The same impulse which needs to define every type of music other than Western/European music as World Music and then subdivides that unwieldy entity into national categories and then again into regional or ethnic subcategories, adopts the vantage point of an all-encompassing, aerial view of an imaginary world culture. From this vantage point, the utopian desire to construct a world community of artists or musicians operating on an aesthetic plane removed from the exigencies of time or place at times supersedes and at others collides with the necessity to define and anchor difference through a seemingly infinite number of categories and subcategories. There is a third aspect to the notion of otherness which is encompassed by the Greek word for other – allos – which can also mean untrue or unreal. This suggests that otherness is not about the cultures that we define as other but about our desires and fantasies. Like Thomas More’s Utopia the crucial thing about our representation of otherness is that it does not refer directly to a specific culture or specific cultural object but is a filter through which the self is revised and re-evaluated. When we make exhibitions about other cultures we are making exhibitions about ourselves and our desires and not reflecting another reality. This is precisely the function of More’s Utopia which quite literally means no place. Utopia was intended as a satirical comment on More’s own

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society and time and provided More with a vehicle for proposing an alternative to the sixteenthcentury English society in which he lived. ‘European: To dream of a European denotes economic slavery.’ These words come from one of a series of paintings entitled Dreambook (1988) by the American artist Glenn Ligon (Fig. 15.1). These are small, oil paintings where the paint has been applied unevenly and thickly onto the canvas in some areas, thin and splattered in others. Each canvas, a different colour, is inscribed with words which represent the interpretation of dreams. They provide a cipher for the dreams, explaining what it means to dream of sailors, of numbers or of Europeans. The interpretations are derived from dream lexicons published throughout black American communities. These lexicons provide interpretations of dreams but they also provide numbers attached to different dreams. The numbers are for betting on your dreams in the numbers game. The tone of the language is authoritative and equivocal and yet the interpretations themselves are often contradictory or ambivalent. These works represent the paradox of our desire to make sense of the world, to explain, define, clarify mingled with the irrational, the obscure and the unpredictable. They are maps of a kind but they do not map out an objective, depopulated landscape. Rather, they map a community’s dreaming which is shaped by nostalgia and desire as much as by lived experience and memory. Alistair Raphael’s installation Invasive Procedures (1992) is also made up of maps of a kind (Fig. 15.2). Based on the process of medical infiltration of the body, these maps fail to define the body as a physical space to be dissected or analysed into its component parts. Instead, this work blurs the boundaries between the body of the viewer which occupies the space of the installation and the architectural body of the city which is under investigation along with our position in it. Invasive Procedures problematizes the notion of illness as an invading other but it also problematizes the role of the viewer who cannot stand outside this map and cannot be other. The work of both these artists occupies an ambivalent, in-between space, between the general and the specific. In Sutapa Biswas’ Synapse III (1987–92) – one of a series of works entitled Synapse – the artist’s face stares out at the viewer in partial silhouette, dark shadows, like ghosts, spill over into the space beyond the outer limits of the frame (Fig. 15.3). Her existence here seems to hover between the conflicting states of presence and absence, occupying a physical and psychological space-in-between. Placing her body and sexuality at the intersection of the ambivalent space, Biswas maps the landscape of the diaspora. At once a physical site and a state of mind, this space dispenses with fixed definitions of identity, and dismantles the false boundary which differentiates the past from the present and the sensual from the experiential. The space-in-between becomes a remembered and imagined space. Existing not as a tangible location which can be represented in unequivocal terms as on a conventional map, it is more akin to early hand-drawn Indian maps which included community shrines, wells, sacred trees, resident personages past and present, benevolent spirits, deities, animals, pools of fish and Naga – the serpent-like protector

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Fig. 15.1 Glenn Ligon, No.  291 (Language), 1988. Oil, synthetic polymer, oil stick and graphite on paper, 30 x 22.25 in. (76.2 x 56.5 cm). © Glenn Ligon; Courtesy of the artist, Hauser & Wirth, New York, Regen Projects, Los Angeles, Thomas Dane Gallery, London and Chantal Crousel, Paris.

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Fig. 15.2 Alistair Raphael, Invasive Procedures, 1992. Installation view. © Alistair Raphael. Courtesy of the artist.

of beings. Like these cartographical representations, drawn not according to topographic accuracy, but to the experience of a particular landscape, the work reveals an ontological view of the world which fuses body and mind, reality and fantasy, past and present. If you trace the footsteps of Leopold Bloom through the streets of Dublin in James Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), you will apparently trace the outline of a geographical question mark. Bloom’s journey doesn’t take you in a straight line between two fixed points and seems to have no purpose other than to pose a question. The protagonist’s journey becomes a map which does not show you the whole picture but only a fragment defined by the route of a single individual; a fragment which is destined always to be incomplete, contingent and unresolved.

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Fig. 15.3 Sutapa Biswas, Synapse III, 1987–92. Hand-printing black-and-white photograph, 112.2 x 132.5 cm. © Sutapa Biswas. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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Notes 1 Said, Culture and Imperialism, p. 6. 2 Ibid., p. 93. 3 Piet Mondrian, ‘Plastic Art and Pure Plastic Art’ (‘Figurative and Nonfigurative Art’), 1937, reprinted in Herschel B. Chipp (ed.), Theories of Modern Art, Berkeley, Los Angeles, CA, and London: University of California Press, p. 351. 4 Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness, London: Penguin Books, p. 33.

Part Four

Studies in a postcolonial body

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16 The revolution stripped bare

In geological terms, fault lines reveal themselves as fractures in the earth’s surface but they also mark a break in the continuity of the strata. Fault lines may be a sign of significant shifts, or even of impending disaster, but they also create new landscapes. This essay focuses on the work of a small number of contemporary artists from Africa and the African diaspora whose works trace the outlines of fault lines that are shaping contemporary experience locally and globally. These fault lines have been etched into the physical fabric of our world through the effects of colonialism and postcolonialism, of migration and globalization and their reverberations echo through contemporary lived experience and in the work of these artists working across a range of media from painting and sculpture through to architecture, photography and installation. The nationalist struggles of the first decades of the twentieth century gave rise in the second half of the century to postcolonial independence and a new self-determination in Africa and beyond that articulated itself in a heightened political consciousness but also in new forms of visual and architectural practices. These new practices sought to negotiate the difficult and, as yet, unexplored terrain between tradition and modernity, between formal concerns and political contingencies. Modernism and modernity is too often defined in Western terms as a decisive break or rupture with the past and yet it is almost always experienced as an uneven negotiation between past and future that can remain unresolved. The artists and artworks discussed below explore the ambivalent space where tradition and modernity, past histories and future possibilities are mapped out. This is a space which is continuously ‘under negotiation’, shaped by the uneven flows of cultural and economic exchanges between the so-called developing and developed worlds. This is not to say that this is an insubstantial or inconclusive zone but rather that the push and pull of tradition and modernity, past and future, exert differing pressures and are negotiated differently in various geographical locations and at different historical conjunctures. In specific instances, artists and architects have developed what I term a ‘vernacular modernity’; that is to say, they navigate between a national and international consciousness that gives rise to distinctly new forms of cultural production. Rooted in the conditions of a specific location, vernacular modernity is a term that can be applied to the innovative forms of artistic and architectural practice that push the epistemological and formal envelope of traditional 141

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forms of modernism. In the case of the Egyptian architect Hassan Fathy, this moved Fathy to challenge the limited internationalism of international modernism, while the Guyanese-born painter Frank Bowling peals away the apolitical gloss of abstract expressionist painting placing it in a wider global framework. Globalization and its impact are themes that underpin this assemblage of art works but globalization here is understood not purely in terms of the exchange of global commodities and the erosion of nation states in favour of corporate multinationals. Rather, the patterns of globalization are traced through the experiences of political exiles, disenfranchised citizens, immigrants and refugees, amongst others. This essay proposes new ways of considering the work of artists from Africa and the African diaspora that resist the construction of an imagined and essentialist construction of Africa, undisturbed by the effects of globalization and migration. Such a worldview inevitably follows the linguistic and political fault lines inscribed into the global landscape by colonialism, setting clear demarcation lines between Africa and the African diaspora, between sub-Saharan Africa to the south and Arab Africa to the North. The fault lines of our contemporary world manifest themselves in the contradictions of everyday life which daily present us with both the closure of opportunity and the possibility of change, at one and the same time. This essay proposes a space where we can engage with these complexities of lived experience through the work of artists who have embraced the ambiguities and inconsistencies of the contemporary world through artworks that are by turns witty and serious, monumental and understated.

I A common struggle On a hot July night in 1952, at the stroke of midnight, 3,000 troops and some 200 officers took control of the key army headquarters barracks in Abbasiyya, Cairo, precipitating a military coup by the Free Officers Movement. Troops commanded by Free Officers and their supporters occupied the headquarters of the Frontier Force, all airports, the broadcasting station headquarters and its relaying facilities at Abu Za’bal, the Cairo telecommunications centre and all major roads and bridges in the city. At 7 a.m. on 23 July, the first announcement was made to the public over Cairo radio by Anwar al-Sadat. The military coup would swiftly lead to the forced abdication and exile of King Farouk and the eventual overthrow of the monarchy in 1953, and the appointment of Gamal Abdel Nasser as the first indigenous leader of Egypt for centuries. This was the final chapter in the colonial struggle against the British that culminated in the Suez crisis. Together with the Algerian War of Independence of 1954–62, the Suez crisis of 1956 marked the last attempts of Britain and France to reassert their position in North Africa and gave rise to powerful articulations of a new postcolonial, pan-African and non-aligned world order that would arise phoenix-like from the ashes of colonial struggles throughout the continent.

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Since the region is one and the same with the same conditions, the same problems, the same future and the same enemy, no matter how different the masks he might wear in an endeavour to conceal his identity, why should our efforts be dissipated? The experiences we have gone through after July 23 have manifestly demonstrated the pressing need for a common struggle.1 President Nasser’s rallying cry for a new nationalism and independence not only in the Arab world but throughout the African continent and the developing world galvanized a postcolonial movement that aspired towards independence from the superpowers, and social reforms in the direction of greater equality and greater union between Arab, African and Islamic countries. Nasser characterized them as three circles – the Arab Circle, the African Continent Circle and the Circle of ‘our Bretheren-in-Islam’ – as though they were concentric circles, radiating from the hub of a shared battle for independence. The call for unity and the invocation to a common struggle, expressed so compellingly by leaders such as Nasser and Kwame Nkrumah, emerged directly from the shared experience of shedding the mantle of colonialism. It propelled the idea of Africa as a unified geographical and political entity that eventually took institutional form as the Organization of African Unity which was founded in 1963: The movement for independence in Africa which gained momentum after the Second World War has spread like a prairie fire throughout the length and breadth of Africa . . . The ‘wind of change’ has become a raging hurricane, sweeping away the old colonialist Africa. The year 1960 was Africa’s year. In that year alone, seventeen African States emerged as proud and independent sovereign nations. Now the ultimate freedom of the whole of Africa can no more be in doubt.2 But what role was culture to play in this new world order? Could one speak of a single African cultural identity in the same way as a unified political identity? Would a spectrum of new national cultures emerge in the wake of these new nations throughout the African continent? How could the native intellectual and artist free themselves of the intellectual and cultural lens of colonialism that had consistently distorted and misrepresented indigenous experiences. Speaking of the experience of Morocco in the postcolonial aftermath and the struggle to write the Maghreb’s history in its own terms, Abdullah Laroui asks, ‘What each one of us wants to know today is how to get out of ourselves, how to escape from our mountains and sand-dunes, how to define ourselves in terms of ourselves and not of someone else, how to stop being exiles in spirit.’3 First published in France in 1961, The Wretched of the Earth was a thorough and prescient study of the national liberation struggle as witnessed in the Algerian War of Independence. The work of Martiniquan psychiatrist and writer Frantz Fanon who had been assigned to a hospital in Algeria during the rising against the French, The Wretched of the Earth became a manifesto for decolonization and the liberation struggles taking place throughout the continent. For Fanon,

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there could be no separation between the struggle for liberation from colonial rule and the formation of a national culture. The two were inextricably linked, creating the essential conditions not only for national cultural expression but for the cultural expression of the whole continent: To fight for national culture means in the first place to fight for the liberation of the nation, that material keystone which makes the building of a culture possible. There is no other fight for culture which can develop apart from the popular struggle. To take an example: all those men and women who are fighting with their bare hands against French colonialism in Algeria are not by any means strangers to the national culture of Algeria. The national Algerian culture is taking on form and content as the battles are being fought out, in prison, under the guillotine and in every French outpost which is captured or destroyed. . . It is around the peoples’ struggles that African-Negro culture takes on substance, and not around songs, poems or folklore. Adherence to African-Negro culture and to the cultural unity of Africa is arrived at in the first place by upholding unconditionally the peoples’ struggle for freedom. No one can truly wish for the spread of African culture if he does not give practical support to the creation of the conditions necessary to the existence of that culture; in other words, to the liberation of the whole continent.4 Fanon was not calling for a Soviet-style agitprop or social realist art that would uncritically celebrate and eulogize the triumphs of the revolution. Nor was he making the case for a romantic return to traditional artistic practices. ‘A national culture is not a folklore,’ wrote Fanon, ‘nor an abstract populism that believes it can discover the people’s true nature.’ On the contrary, Fanon emphasizes the futility of looking back to outmoded customs for artistic inspiration. More often than not, these traditions, he argues, are taken up as ‘mummified fragments’, static and out-ofdate traces of a dynamic culture which has in fact moved on as a result of the struggle for independence from colonial rule. Most importantly, perhaps, Fanon makes it clear that he is not advocating nationalism or nationalist culture but rather ‘national consciousness’, which, he concludes, is the most elaborate form of culture. The responsibility of the artist or intellectual, according to Fanon, ‘is not a responsibility vis-à-vis his national culture’, but rather, ‘a global responsibility with regard to the totality of the nation’, of which culture is only one aspect.5 While Fanon rejected the notion of an essentialist African culture or cultural identity, he recognized that it was colonialism and the struggle for liberation from colonial rule that connected different African nations. This struggle was, by its very nature, internationalist in its form and it was this interplay between the national and the international or, the local and the global as we might say now, that created the preconditions for the making of culture: National consciousness, which is not nationalism, is the only thing that will give us an international dimension. The problem of national consciousness and of national culture takes on in Africa a special dimension. The birth of national consciousness in Africa has a strictly contemporaneous connexion with the African consciousness . . . Far from keeping aloof from other nations, therefore it is national liberation which leads the nation to play its part on the

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stage of history. It is at the heart of national consciousness that international consciousness lives and grows. And this two-fold emerging is ultimately the source of all culture.6

II A vernacular modernity It is precisely this negotiation between a national and an international consciousness that emerges from the life and work of the Egyptian architect Hassan Fathy (Fig. 16.1). As Nasser Rabbat points out, Fathy’s career ‘more or less mirrored what was happening in Egypt, a country undertaking the long and torturous journey from colonialism to independence to development and its aftermath entangled with grand dreams of regional supremacy during the same period’.7 The son of wealthy landowners from Upper Egypt, Fathy was well-schooled in European ideas and, as a young architect, he had learnt the language of contemporary European architecture, experimenting with various different architectural styles before defining, what I would term, the vernacular modernity for which he subsequently became famous with his New Gourna project (1948–61). An ambitious scheme to rebuild an entire rural village in Upper Egypt, New Gourna, provided Fathy with the opportunity to establish a cost-effective and modern solution to the problem of mass housing for the rural poor in Egypt while also staying true to indigenous materials and methods of construction (Figs  16.2–3). Working with highly skilled Nubian

Fig. 16.1 Hassan Fathy, Stoppelaëre House, Luxor, Egypt, 1950. © Aga Khan Trust for Culture. Photo: Christopher Little Courtesy of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture.

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Fig. 16.2 Hassan Fathy, Gourna, Plan and Elevation with Hathor, 1948. Gouache on paper, 58 x 47 cm. © Aga Khan Trust for Culture. Photo: Gary Otte. Courtesy of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture.

master builders from Aswan, Fathy built a village of domed and vaulted adobe courtyard houses that were, as Rabat points out, ‘a mixture of rural traditional and modern, utopian principles’. Fathy’s brand of vernacular modernity which he defined in his treatise ‘Architecture for the Poor’, was indeed utopian and idealistic but it was also a radical rebuttal of the universalizing tendencies of Western modernism. Rejecting the claims of Europe’s modernists to have discovered universal solutions to contemporary living, Fathy’s architectural response was an attempt to forge local, indigenous traditions of architecture with contemporary ideas and technologies. He refracted the lessons learnt from modern architecture through the lens of national consciousness, traditional building methods and the particular context of the Egyptian fellaheen or rural poor (Figs 16.4 and 16.5). Fathy believed passionately in the importance of

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Fig. 16.3 Hassan Fathy, New Gourna, 1945–7. © Aga Khan Trust for Culture. Photo: Christopher Little. Courtesy of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture.

Fig. 16.4 Hassan Fathy, Development of the Northern Shore at Sidi Krier, Egypt, 1971. © Aga Khan Trust for Culture. Courtesy of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture.

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Figs 16.5 Hassan Fathy, Development of the Northern Shore at Sidi Krier, Egypt, 1971. © Aga Khan Trust for Culture. Courtesy of the Aga Khan Trust for Culture.

articulating a distinctive ‘Egyptian accent’ to national architecture through a ‘living’ – as opposed to stagnant – tradition of indigenous architecture. Tradition and modernity could coexist, insisted Fathy, each modulating the other but neither should be adopted as a stylistic device or architectural orthodoxy.8

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If, in the first decades of the twentieth century, modernism professed to speak universally from the privileged bastion of Western metropolises, then the vernacular modernity that emerged so vociferously in Egypt and throughout Africa in the middle of the twentieth century responded with an equally emphatic insistence on national and local specificities that were nonetheless in constant dialogue with an ‘international consciousness’. Rather than replacing one brand of universalism with another, artists, architects and intellectuals constructed these vernacular modernities as responses to the popular, national fight for liberation from colonialism and they emerged as an integral part of the struggle for national and continental selfdetermination. Fathy’s subsequent career saw him departing from his version of vernacular modernity and his architectural ideas evolved in parallel to the changing ideology of Egypt from 1920s and 1930s Egyptianism, to Nasserist Pan-Arabism in the 1960s, to Islamism in the 1980s. These political and ideological shifts would be mirrored in different ways throughout the continent in the latter half of the twentieth century and were brought about, to a great extent, by the failure to realize fully the aspirations and dreams of the liberation struggles in Africa.

III Mapping space Just as Hassan Fathy sought to negotiate the intellectual and technical concerns of architectural modernism and Egypt’s shifting political and cultural contingencies, other artists and intellectuals in Africa and the African diaspora in the second half of the twentieth century were also seeking to depart from modernism’s universalizing agenda in order to re-articulate contemporary art and literature through their own ideas and experiences. One of the most important artists of his generation, Frank Bowling created map paintings in the late 1960s and early 1970s that combine his investigations into the formal properties of picture making with his political preoccupations. Bowling not only put the political into Pop Art but also put postcolonial concerns into contemporary art, thereby creating a sublime tension between form and content and laying the ground for subsequent generations of artists for whom aesthetic and political concerns are never mutually exclusive. Bowling began making map paintings in 1967, at a time when maps were not uncommon in the work of cutting-edge artists of the 1960s and, as Kobena Mercer identifies, the motif of the globe attracted artists who were responding to the social and political turmoil of the time. In the same way that Fathy found a way to reconcile the demands of tradition and modernity, Bowling did not distinguish a hierarchy of form over content or content over form. The edges of Bowling’s canvases frequently spill over across the frame that fails to rein in or constrain the rich, accumulated brush strokes, creating visual spaces that extend, like a horizon line, beyond our immediate field of vision. It is as though Bowling’s brush is probing beyond the surface of the visible world to elicit a hidden reality that threatens to slip out of reach. In the sumptuous

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deep reds, pinks and purples of Bowling’s epic work Marcia H. Travels (1970), the artist constructs out of pure colour a vast, three-dimensional oceanic space, in which the outlines of the continental land masses recede and protrude like the ebb and flow of the sea (Fig. 16.6). The distinctive colourings of imperial possession that characterized the maps of colonial textbooks throughout Africa and the Caribbean become submerged beneath the thick, layered strokes of the artist’s brush. The clearly delineated outlines of South America Squared (1967) had yielded by the end of the decade to a richly textured abstraction in which a radically new cartography could be glimpsed enlarging and receding into the depths of the paint. As Mercer puts it, these canvases represent nothing less than ‘a painterly act of postcolonial re-vision’: In the darkening vertical stains that threaten to engulf the outlines of Europe and the Americas in Marcia H. Travels, it is possible to suggest that the world picture imprinted by the Empire project was being placed ‘under erasure’. By virtue of the ways in which they tackle the subject of postcolonial history, the map paintings were critically rewriting the Eurocentric projection of the globe.9 The ink drawings of Clifford Charles represent a very different kind of postcolonial re-visioning and yet they share with Bowling’s canvases the search through painterly abstraction for a new visual and physical space that reflects a profoundly altered social and political reality (Fig. 16.7). They are, in Bheki Peterson’s words, ‘a provocatively ingenious response to South Africa’s “altered states” . . . of governance and consciousness.’10 Charles’ works are preoccupied with the same double consciousness of ‘blackness and abstraction’ that Mercer locates in Bowling’s paintings, evoked through the motif of an endlessly repeated journey, moving from the past to the present and back again. Sitting tangentially to Clifford Charles’ series of ink drawings is a documentary journey, ‘We’ve Also Been to Soweto’, a fictional text by Prince Massingham that recounts a sightseeing tour of Soweto. Written in a kind of South African Esperanto that interweaves English, Sotho, slang, Afrikaans, Zulu, Tswana and Tsonga, Massingham’s text effects a parallel movement to the ink drawings, moving backwards and forwards between the city’s apartheid past and its post-apartheid present. Charting the passage of both space and time, Charles’ drawings and Massingham’s text unmask the illusion of arbitrary dividing lines that demarcate one distinct historical moment from another, from slavery to freedom, from colonialism to postcolonialism, from apartheid to post-apartheid. The reality of lived experience is somewhat different, bearing witness to incompleteness, slippage, multiple layers, forgetfulness and erasure. Charles’ series of drawings that has the generic title Painting on Water (2002–3) evokes the uneven and slippery ground that the present occupies, balancing precariously on the past. The black ink flows unevenly across the surface of the white paper, dense and impenetrable in some areas, in other areas staining the paper only lightly, at times almost transparent. In Interaction (2001), an inky mass spreads across the centre of the paper; while in Looking Glass (2001), the ink is contained in a tight oval, rocklike shape. In other drawings, the ink spills in fluid, unconstrained movements across the

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Fig. 16.6 Frank Bowling, Marcia H Travels, 1970. Acrylic on canvas, 111¼ x 213 in. (2 m 82.58 cm x 5 m 41.02 cm). © Frank Bowling. All rights reserved, DACS, 2019. Collection: Dallas Museum of Art, TWO x TWO for AIDS and Art Fund 2014.53.

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Fig. 16.7 Clifford Charles, Rhythm and Blues, 2001. Ink on paper. 123.5 x 153 cm. © Clifford Charles. Courtesy of the artist.

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paper. As Peterson points out, this new series of works recalls an earlier body of work, a series of oil paintings under the composite title of Metamorphosis where Charles made physical incisions on the canvas that were then layered with ink upon ink resonating with the ‘incisions upon the body as it was literally scarred, tortured and reconfigured under the violence of apartheid.’ But here Peterson discerns a witty displacement that is contained in the very materiality of Charles’ drawings ‘of whiteness with the intricacies of blackness’: They recall the black marks (usually blocks) that apartheid censors used to hide faces and material that was considered subversive . . . Let us not forget the sardonic humour of apartheid that euphemistically called areas populated by black people outside of the homeland reserves, as ‘black spots’ that needed to be removed from South Africa.11 Through their investigations of the material qualities of paint on canvas and ink on paper, Bowling and Charles make tangible, in different ways, particular political and social spaces in transition. In the case of Bowling, this is the postcolonial reconfiguration of political and cultural geographies in the aftermath of the independence movements of formerly colonized nations. In the case of Charles, it is the articulation of a more recently won post-apartheid space that is resolutely unsentimental or romantic. In both instances, these spaces do not constitute a neat and uncomplicated break with the past, but rather are continual, forced reminders. In Charles’ case, they are engagements with what has historically taken place, ‘another necessary archival project’, whereas in Bowling’s works it is more a question of the unenunciated difference which hardens on the surface of his canvases, ‘intervening in the codes of culture to delay and postpone the closure of the signifying chain’. As Mercer writes, ‘Frank Bowling’s map paintings activate an awareness of the agency of something that is not there anymore.’12

IV The algebra of difference The echoes of ‘something that is not there anymore’ haunt the works of Zarina Bhimji (Fig. 16.8). Her triptych of large-scale light boxes are altarpieces, appropriate to a secular, postmodern age. Whereas the main protagonists and narratives of the traditional Christian altarpiece would have been familiar to their audience of worshippers, the narrative of Bhimji’s irreligious triptych is enigmatic and difficult to pin down. The works provoke an overwhelming sense of absence and loss, an immediate emotional response in the first instance and, only after an interval, an intellectual response. Epic in scale, Bhimji’s works reflect on the minutiae of people’s lives, abandoned in the haste of sudden, enforced exile. A collection of fans have been felled from the ceiling and lie abandoned on the floor of a large empty space. Another evacuated room is occupied only by a shaft of light that spills through an open door. A pair of shoes, hanging forlornly on the wall, is the last remaining evidence of human presence in an uninhabited room.

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Fig. 16.8 Zarina Bhimji, How Like Dogs, I Swallowed Air, 1998–2003. Transparency in light box, 130 x 170 x 12.5 cm. © Zarina Bhimji. All rights reserved, DACS, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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Enlarged and illuminated, these minute residues are the only clues to what has taken place and they evoke a disturbing sense of cataclysmic events that have shaken the everyday patterns of human activity, giving, ‘a sense of unspeakable horrors . . . but also a sense of long-term decay’.13 Bhimji has described the works as being concerned with ‘learning to listen to “difference”, the difference in shadows, microcosms and sensitivity to difference in its various forms. Listening with the eyes, listening to changes in tone, difference of colour . . . it is about making sense through the medium of aesthetics.’ Far removed from the realm of factual history or documentary photography, Bhimji’s approach proposes a new way of mapping the tragic and seismic events that have characterized a period of history riven by ethnic and racial conflicts not only in Africa but throughout the globe. How does one begin to picture the devastating effects of elimination, extermination and erasure on a vast scale? If, as Stalin once chillingly observed, the death of one man is a tragedy and the death of millions a statistic, how is it possible for us to engage with the scale of mass trauma on an intimate, and even poetic, level? Bhimji extrapolates from the historically and geographically specific situation, distancing it and thereby transcending it; from the particular and personal residues of human activity, her work extracts a deafeningly quiet question: Whether in Paris or Rwanda, London or Kosovo, why does it seem impossible for us to live creatively with difference? It is the indexing of difference from the ‘multicultural managerialism’ of art circuits and the cultural industry in the 1990s through to the rigid, compartmentalizing logic of apartheid that Sarat Maharaj exposes in ‘Fatal Natalities’.14 The fields of representation and cultural authority, according to Maharaj, are not so far removed from the exigencies of political power and conflict in their expression of incommensurate difference. Presented in opposition to this process of differentiation – of measuring, scanning and classifying difference – but ultimately bound up with it are the ‘natalizing’ tendencies that Maharaj discerns in the articulation of post-apartheid South Africa’s Rainbow Nation but which have emerged at various junctures in different parts of the continent. Maharaj identifies the search for the ‘authentically native place’ as a reaction to apartheid’s ‘fraudulent natalities’ and its ‘map of homelands, racial areas, Bantustans’. Ultimately, the search for authentic, fixed identities is born from the negative space cast by the dismantling of apartheid, or by the failure of liberation movements to realize the aspirations of their peoples, or by the disempowering effects of globalization. Caught in that sphere of negativity, of reaction to something outside of itself, a space is opened up for ideological polarities, intransigent orthodoxies and fundamental opposites that brings in its wake religious and ethnic conflict, political uncertainty and civil war. Salem Mekuria’s RUPTURES: A Many Sided Story (2003) is explicitly rooted in the recent political and social history of Ethiopia. Mirroring the tripartite structure of traditional Ethiopian Orthodox religious art, Mekuria’s triptych video installation examines the turbulent events, from within and without, that have erupted periodically in the lives of Ethiopian people in recent decades. Visually referencing the Trinity – Father, Son and the Holy Spirit – in Ethiopian

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Orthodox faith, Mekuria’s installation explores the chronological synchronicity which characterizes contemporary Ethiopian life, namely the coexistence of past, present and future experienced simultaneously in the present. ‘Time is circular,’ observes Mekuria, ‘one is never too far from encounters with the pre-historic, the pre-modern, the modern and the post-modern in the course of a few moments’. As new images emerge on the three-screen video projection, the old presences linger, never far from the surface. The coexistence of more than one temporal space and multiple perspectives lies at the heart of Mekuria’s intervention that contests the dominance of a single, unifying narrative of Ethiopian experience. As Elsabet Giorgis writes, ‘her work acknowledges the varieties and complexities of Ethiopian culture and questions the ability of any single philosophical rationalization to be the primal context of conventional value’.15 Whether within the religious context of Ethiopian Orthodoxy or the ideological framework of Marxism, Mekuria’s fractured narrative of Ethiopian contemporary experience resists yielding to a single authoritative voice, replacing this instead with a palimpsest of images and voices that constitute the complex layers of Ethiopian lived experience. Her work speaks, more generally, to the contradictions and tensions that lie beneath the surface of contemporary societies in the so-called developed as well as ‘developing’ world; contradictions expressed through the push and pull of the totalizing narratives of ideological or religious unity on the one hand and the centrifugal forces of migration, exile and diaspora on the other. Defying the political violence that has marked Algeria from the colonial struggle to present-day conflicts, Samta Benyahia’s architectural installation (a tribute to the great Algerian writer Kateb Yacine) creates a utopian space in which the past and present are no longer in conflict with one another; here, a multiplicity of viewpoints becomes possible at one and the same time (Figs 16.9). Benyahia’s wooden structure is a circular construction in three dimensions, built with sharp exterior angles in the form of a star-shaped polygon. As Benyahia describes it, the interior of the polygon is ‘a space one enters like a cocoon, made up of seven recesses through which the spectator or the visitor discovers seven different stained glass windows . . . and on which the key motif is the blue rosace, a form carrying the name of a woman: Fatima in the Arab-Andalucian repertoire’. Yacine’s poetic concept of the ‘starry polygon’ (le polygone étoilé) stands as a metaphor for a utopian political and social space, in which ideological and cultural polarities are negated. In direct dialogue with the rosace motif, the starry polygon is a structure without a defined beginning or end but is experienced as a kind of vortex that eradicates everything in its orbit, thereby holding out the possibility of a fresh beginning, a new start: Ali La Pointe and all those condemned to death are children of the polygon. They live a violent death, just as I write in an impasse. And the obsessive star that haunts prisons is a night star. For the condemned man walking to his death, this sleepless, sputtering night wipes out everything, begins everything afresh, to infinity. This is the inextricable completeness of the polygon, the empty interior of which is extinguished like a campfire, all forms abolished . . .

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Figs 16.9 Samta Benyahia, Le Polygone et le Dédale (The Polygon and the Maze), 2003. Installation view at Venice Biennale, 2003. © Samta Benyahia. All rights reserved, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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Peace to its ashes. But we may also inhabit the scaffold, holding our heads under our arms. This is the lot of the poet. Then we sing of the ‘black sun of melancholy’ and wander the Orient like Gérard de Nerval! We may also haunt a castle, like [Franz] Kafka, or pace the paths of a labyrinth. Or again, like [Henri] Michaux, we may send this ‘inside space’ for which we have lost the keys flying into pieces. Then there is no more East, no more West. The polygon reasserts its rights. And if the streets of Dublin find echoes in Algiers, it is because the creative artist does not inhabit, but is inhabited by a sort of starry vertigo, which is even starrier for those of us whose starting point is the darkest point, is the darkest corner of an alleyway.16 The circular movement that takes us (the viewers) around Benyahia’s starry polygon evokes the movement of Muslim pilgrims around the Ka’ba, the rectangular building which Muhammad had purged of idols and made the centre of Muslim devotion. But the circle also assumes a particular structural and symbolic significance in the literature of Kateb Yacine as a symbol of freedom that straddles both the spatial and the temporal. According to Yacine, the image of the circle is ‘the reality of the revolutionary world, the freedom of men who are always on the move, freedom in both space and time’. Benyahia has created an ideal space, tinged with a deep, azure blue that underscores the notion of an ideal existence in complete contrast to the context of conflict and chaos that has scarred Algeria’s recent history. Entering Benyahia’s utopian structure provides a space for reflection and memory, respite, if only for a short time, from the conflict and chaos that exists beyond its idyllic confines.

V Signs and meanings The possibility of reconciling different world views underpins the work of Rotimi Fani-Kayode who creates a photographic world in which ‘the body is the focal point for an exploration of the relationship between erotic fantasy and ancestral spiritual values’.17 Situated at the vanguard of work that explored the politics of identity, Fani-Kayode’s images insist upon the sensuality of the photographic image and its ability to elicit both an emotional and an intellectual response (Fig. 16.10). Politics and aesthetics were not mutually exclusive terms in Fani-Kayode’s visual vocabulary, nor were the different facets of his identity and artistic practice: In my case, my identity has been constructed from my own sense of otherness, whether cultural, racial or sexual. The three aspects are not separate within me. Photography is the tool by which I feel most confident in expressing myself. It is photography, therefore – Black, African, homosexual photography – which I must use not just as an instrument, but as a weapon if I am to resist attacks on my integrity and indeed, my existence on my own terms.18 Far from being a self-indulgent practice that meditated on personal experience and identity as the self-contained subject and object of his artworks, Fani-Kayode located his images within

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Fig. 16.10 Rotimi Fani-Kayode, Untitled, 1987–8. R-type colour print, 137 x 137 cm. © Rotimi Fani-Kayode. Courtesy of Autograph, London.

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wider political, historical and cultural contexts. A committed activist on issues of race and sexuality, Fani-Kayode saw his political engagement as bound up with his own creative practice and that of others. He saw parallels between his own work and that of the Osogbo artists in Yorubaland who ‘themselves have resisted the cultural subversions of neo-colonialism and who celebrate the rich, secret world of our ancestors’.19 The rich saturated colours of Fani-Kayode’s photographs, his use of chiaroscuro and mise-en-scène contribute to the construction of what Mark Sealy describes as a ‘twilight cross-cultural zone’ where Fani-Kayode erodes the lines ‘between black and white, gay and straight, acceptance and taboo’.20 Ultimately, Fani-Kayode’s images contest the idea of a settled world view dominated by an established canon of ideas and iconography; he disturbs fixed notions of African-ness, blackness and homosexuality that rely too heavily on an essentialist and uncomplicated view of the world and human experience. While Fani-Kayode and Benyahia offer up alternative constructions of the world which insist on the coexistence of different world views and the possibility of multiple interpretations, Laylah Ali paints an altogether darker, dystopian realm (Fig. 16.11). Evoked through her ongoing series of brightly coloured gouache paintings, Ali’s cartoon-like images are deeply disturbing and ambiguous narratives that suggest repeated episodes of violence and conflict underpinned by the dynamics of race and power. Inspired by the graphic style of comic strips, Ali constructs a world in which the identities of her varied Greenhead characters are difficult to pin down and their behaviour both ambivalent and contradictory. The apparent simplicity of Ali’s work masks a sophisticated aesthetic strategy that, as Lisa Fischman points out, implicates the viewer in the process of de-coding and interpreting the works, making the viewer responsible for the meaning they elicit from the images.21 At first glance, the hard-edged contours of Ali’s characters suggest that the content of the paintings might be as unequivocal and clear-cut as traditional comic strips in which the dividing lines between ‘goodie’ and ‘baddie’ are clearly drawn and the narrative conclusion foregone. But Ali’s world is unsettlingly equivocal. Her strange wide-eyed creatures – part-human, part-alien – with gigantic heads play their parts in a series of narrative fragments without a clear beginning or end and, as Fischman notes, explode ‘simplistic binary categorisations – human/alien, male/female, good/evil, black/white – forcing their re-examination . . . allowing them, as [Laylah Ali] puts it, to “act like a question mark” ’.22 The moral ambiguity of Ali’s characters and their actions make the viewer’s active role as interpreter and participant in these bizarre tales all the more uncomfortable. It is as though Ali is making us aware of our own position as both spectator and protagonist in the ‘real’ world and the ethical choices that we make on a daily basis to watch or participate, or maybe even our mute culpability as spectators whose very inaction allows unspeakable things to happen. Underpinning Ali’s work is an acknowledgement of the social and political violence that consistently subverts human relations and erodes the will to effect political change. Ali’s work signals a disillusion with the redemptive narratives of radical politics and liberation struggles but also a desire to re-engage without the benefit of rose-tinted spectacles.

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Fig. 16.11 Laylah Ali, Untitled, 2003. Gouache on paper. © Laylah Ali. Courtesy of the artist.

It is the increasingly widening gap between two incommensurate worlds that informs the work of Sabah Naim: namely, that of the international arena of the media and global politics on the one hand and the everyday world of Egyptians and their daily effort to survive on the other (Figs 16.12 and 16.13). Naim’s images are frequently populated by ordinary Cairenes going about their daily business: two policemen sit on a bench; a group of people waiting for a bus or a crowd of people crossing a busy street. Naim’s works represent an artistic intervention into the arena of media representation, offering alternative images which are characterized by their ordinariness, documents of the banality of everyday life that stand in stark contrast to the exaggerated depictions of Middle Eastern life that proliferate in the global media. But Naim’s images are also a comment upon the process of mediation itself. The surfaces of her photographic images have been physically disturbed. Drawn upon, painted, scratched, inked, decorated, the images are irrevocably altered by the artist’s hand. The act of marking and revising the photographs draws

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Fig. 16.12 Sabah Naim, City People, 2003. Mixed media. © Sabah Naim. Photo: Pat Binder and Gerhard Haupt. Courtesy of Universes in Universe.

attention to the ways in which our experiences have become subject to greater and greater mediation. Paired with Naim’s photographs are three-dimensional sculptures, moulded from newspapers and magazines (selected by the artist from both Egyptian and foreign print media), which are meticulously rolled and shaped by the artist. In their form, these bifurcated installations – half-photograph, half-sculpture – physically reflect a divided public realm in which the words and images of the global media are rendered as abstractions and the ‘real’ documentary evidence of Cairene street life is ‘tampered with’, assuming a peculiarly heightened realism. As Yasmeen Siddiqui points out, together with other Cairo-based artists, Naim is concerned with ‘how the city is organised and how public space is occupied and territorialised’.23 Perhaps, this is not surprising given the history of Cairo, whose Arabic name ‘the victorious’ evokes what was once a global metropolis at the centre of an Islamic empire that has since waned and given way to new empires and global formations. But Naim is less concerned with Cairo’s glorious past as with its dynamic present. With her adoption of the moving image and sound, Naim’s video work takes not one image but hundreds of individual frames that are manipulated and worked upon like her photographs. It is the city that assumes the role of chief protagonist in Naim’s urban tale and ‘the street’, notes Naim, ‘becomes the stage; all those who walk through it actors, a microcosmic glance at larger Egyptian society. Each of the players walks through the scene

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Fig. 16.13 Sabah Naim, City People, 2003 (detail). Mixed media. © Sabah Naim. Photo: Pat Binder and Gerhard Haupt. Courtesy of Universes in Universe.

[enclosed/isolated] in their own world, carrying a mixed bag of emotions and concerns, unaware of that which surrounds them.’24 Her technique of manipulating the photographic image which, by turns, obscures or highlights particular details of the scene, removes individual characters out of their environment, isolating them and alienating them from their everyday surroundings. It is difficult not to read Naim’s work as a poetic critique of the alienation of thousands of people from the new political and economic global order and the re-inscription of other experiences and ways of living on to the international stage.

VI Cities under construction The culture from which I am descended (my Algerian roots) has nothing in common with the culture from which I come . . . In contrast to the ancient culture of the bled, the culture of these [housing] estates is still under construction (through grafitti, street gear, rap, break dancing etc).25 Contradicting claims that a settled political, economic and cultural regime has been established worldwide as a result of a ‘new world order’ that materialized after the crumbling of the

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Figs 16.14 Kader Attia, La Piste d’Atterissage (The Landing Strip), 2000/2002. Slide show, sound. © Kader Attia. Courtesy of the artist and Musée National d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris.

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Communist regimes in Eastern Europe, the work of Kader Attia paints a picture of an assymetrical globalization and of cities (and cultures) in the heart of Europe that are still under construction (Figs 16.14). Continuously monitoring the world for signs of shifts and changes (while also longing romantically for the developing world to remain frozen in an idealized past), the European metropolises, that were once the centres of Empire, recoil from the cultural transformations that are taking place in their midst. Globalization, in this sense, has come home to roost in the figure of migrants, refugees and asylum seekers who, together with the secondand third- generation children of earlier migrants, are transfiguring indigenous European cultures irrevocably. It is these signs of cultural difference and dissonant experience that Attia marks in his photographs and installations. In his slide installation piece La Piste d’Atterisage (The Landing Strip) (1998–2000), Attia depicts the lives of Algerian transvestites and transsexuals in Paris. Intimate and domestic, Attia’s portraits evoke the lives of people who are on the margins of both Algerian and French society. Exiled from Algeria and living illegally (sans papiers) in Paris, Attia likens the protagonists of La Piste d’Atterissage to medieval saints, describing them as ‘people who take everything upon themselves, who are persecuted, abused, ridiculed and finally adulated’.26 Excluded from both Algeria and France, the figures who populate Attia’s work represent the lived experience of globalization and its disaffected and disenfranchised ‘non-citizens’. But, for Attia, they also paradoxically represent the triumph of personal freedom over conformity and of difference over assimilation. In this sense, Attia’s protagonists might be seen as the vanguard of an alternative world order that is still ‘under construction’. Like Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales which evokes the daily lives and experiences of a group of medieval pilgrims, Attia’s work also carries a warning. In La Machine à Rêves (Dream Machine) (2002–3), Attia critiques the hegemonizing effects of consumer society whose brands, labels and logos recall the rigid laws of medieval heraldry. A designer-clad young beurre (French-born Algerian youth) stands in front of an automatic vending machine that distributes an assortment of desirable objects that reflect sardonically on life in France’s cross-cultural housing estates. Dispensing syringes, kosher salami, Mecca Cola, condoms and hijabs (veils), Attia’s vending machine stands as a metaphor for the widening net of globalization and consumer society which absorbs and appropriates difference, transforming it into yet another consumable object with only the outer wrapping of difference. Like Attia, Wael Shawky interrogates the uneven, discontinuous effects of globalization and mass migration (Figs  16.15). Constructing his own massive cityscape in the centre of the exhibition space, Shawky’s city is a hybrid metropolis, part-rural, part-urban. Encircled by perimeter walls, Shawky’s Asphalt Quarter (2003) evokes the popular, urban districts of downtown Cairo and, yet, it lacks any distinguishing features that fix it as any city in particular. Drenched in asphalt and liquid tar, the buildings rise up, some separated by narrow alleyways, some topped on their rooftops by plasma screens, reminiscent of the billboards that litter today’s

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Figs 16.15 Wael Shawky, Asphalt Quarter, 2003. Installation view at Venice Biennale, 2003. Asphalt, liquid tar, graphite, silver paint, metal, fluorescent light, glass, wood, 4 synchronized DVDs and plasma screens. © Wael Shawky. Photo: Pat Binder and Gerhard Haupt. Courtesy of Universes in Universe.

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cityscapes. A series of images alternate randomly on these screens, each the length of a standard television commercial: a group of Arab Bedouins build cement houses and cover them with liquid tar against the backdrop of a desertscape close to the sea; Bedouin children create a runway from liquid tar; a nomad leaves his mud shelter, pulling a water buffalo behind him. The convergence of incongruous elements is a frequent motif in Shawky’s work. In an earlier video and installation piece entitled Sidi el Asphalt’s Mulid (2001), Shawky set the rhythmic, hypnotic movements of a Sufi religious trance to the sounds of Cypress Hill.27 The unlikely melding of the two results in a disquieting convergence between American hip-hop and a traditional Egyptian religious festival that points to the wider contradictions and incongruities of contemporary life effected by the dual processes of migration and globalization. As Niru Ratnam comments: ‘Can you get perfect fits between constituencies that know little and care to know little about the other? . . . Or is the act of fitting them together the site of productivity and questioning?’28 Sidi el Asphalt’s Mulid reflects upon the effects of modernization on contemporary Egyptian culture and the dramatic shifts that have taken place in the country in recent decades, from the economic transformations of the 1970s, through the waves of immigration to the Gulf in the 1980s, leading up to the impact of globalization from the 1990s to the present. In this context, the mulid is, according to Shawky, ‘a stereotypical image of Egyptian society that encompasses all its coexisting contradictions without allowing any of its poles to affect the other negatively or positively’. In the same way that Attia points to the surprising convergence between the conformity demanded by consumer society and that defined by new forms of religious orthodoxy, Shawky suggests that these opposite poles of cultural experience coexist and come together to create a hybrid social and cultural reality which has many equivalences (see also Figs 16.16): Via its nomadic nature, the Bedouin community becomes a metaphor for globalisation: borders and space are broken, and the tribal tendencies of nomads find an equivalent in the notion of shared interests raised by the owners of capital – the driving force behind globalisation. The mutated water buffalo represents an amalgamation of the agricultural with the nomadic; its artificial hump comes to epitomise the nomadic. At issue here are the Poetics of Modernisation, where the primitive becomes urban, the nomadic agricultural, the bourgeois aristocratic, the popular bourgeois, and the sacred consumer.29

VII Notes on the postcolony The notion ‘postcolony’ identifies specifically a given historical trajectory – that of societies recently emerging from the experience of colonisation and the violence which the colonial relationship, par excellence, involves . . . The postcolony is characterised by a distinctive style of political improvisation, by a tendency to excess and a lack of proportion as well as by distinctive ways in which identities are multiplied, transformed and put into circulation.30

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Fifty years after the revolution that dispensed with colonial rule, Moataz Nasr’s mesmerizing video installation presents a powerful critique of the cynicism of politicians and the indifference of their electorate in post-revolutionary, postcolonial Egypt (Figs 16.17). But while Nasr’s work emerges from a specific historical and cultural context, it transcends that context. As Bheki Peterson writes of Charles’ work, Nasr’s artistic practice is ‘deeply inscribed with historical specificity’, yet ‘stubbornly refuses to be reduced to, solely defined by, or more correctly, confined to the exigencies of time and place’.31 Simon Njami accurately locates Nasr’s work in the context of a generation of postcolonial artists who are raising questions about the nature of the postcolony and its regimes of power. Born of historical upheavals, as Njami points out, these artists are ‘more or less the same age as the independent states of Africa’ and they expose the ‘illusion of pan-Africanism which never came to pass or the illusion of independence movements which happened to become nothing but failures and disappointments’. At a historical juncture where the autonomy of the nation state has yielded power to corporate multinationals whose GDP often exceeds that of smaller nations, these questions assume a universal poignancy that extends beyond Egypt, Africa, or the so-called developing world, to encompass the entire globe. We are all in the postcolony now. At the far end of an enclosed space, a man is playing a tabla (drum). His legs are wrapped around the curves of its finely crafted clay base, inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory. Remaining out of sight, the man’s face and body extend beyond the edge of the large video screen. He plays out a repertoire of traditional Arab compositions, invoking a spectrum of emotions by his music that ranges from nationalistic cries of war to melancholic love ballads. Extending across the floor of the space, Nasr creates a river of four hundred hollow clay drums of various sizes. Raw and unpolished, these drums map the demographic structure of the Nile Delta, densely concentrated at the centre and gradually dispersing across the space. Nasr’s work resists what Mbembe calls the ‘binary categories used in standard interpretations of power – resistance vs passivity, autonomy vs subjection, state vs civil society’. Nasr articulates instead the contingency of rulers and ruled and the intricate web into which both are locked together. Describing the condition of the postcolony, Nasr’s work raises questions equally about the conditions that exist in the urban metropolises of Europe and elsewhere whose political and economic configurations are increasingly converging to those of the postcolony. We are all in the postcolony now. If everyday struggles have taken the place of nationalist struggles in this new postcolonial world order, then waiting has displaced action. Moshekwa Langa’s collages and installations reflect upon the continuous displacements and shifts not only in linguistic and visual representation but equally in the physical landscape of contemporary Africa (Figs 16.18). In his installation of large-scale drawings and video works, he presents a story in twelve parts, a ‘nonstory’ in three acts, in which people are waiting to get on a bus, waiting in doorways passing the time or just smoking and waiting, waiting, waiting . . . As Langa writes:

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Figs 16.16 Wael Shawky, Asphalt Quarter, 2003. Film stills. Video, colour, sound, 15 mins. © Wael Shawky. Courtesy of the artist and Sfeir-Semler Gallery Hamburg/Beirut.

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Figs 16.17 Moataz Nasr, The Tabla, 2003. Video installation, dimensions variable. © Moataz Nasr. Courtesy of Galleria Continua, San Gimignano/Beijing/Les Moulins/Habana.

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Figs 16.18 Moshekwa Langa, Where do I begin? 2001. Film stills. Video, 4 mins 30 sec. © Moshekwa Langa. Courtesy of the artist and Blain|Southern.

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The whole presentation really is like a drama without actors . . . It is a fluid essay-like thing with footnotes and so on so that the main text and the subtext and the offpaths are never quite differentiated . . . I have always enjoyed and preferred the interwoven structure of spoken language and actual physicality or physical presentation over cleanliness and demarcation when it comes to art making.32 Made up of a series of collages and drawings that relate tangentially to a series of video pieces mounted on rough-hewn crates and dispersed across the exhibition space, Langa’s work avoids any clear beginning, middle or end, but rather constructs a number of sequences or acts which have no linear narrative structure but yet are inter-related. The twelve elements of Langa’s work could be read as the stories of nation states dispersed across the map of Africa or of individuals connected and yet disconnected from each other in spite of their experiences in common. Emerging from what Okwui Enwezor defines as the ‘postcolonial constellation’ are a host of artists and artistic practices who are ‘expanding the definition of what constitutes contemporary culture and its affilations in other domains of practice; the intersection of historical forces aligned against the hegemonic imperatives of imperial discourse’.33 In this context, the artist like the poet, has a critical role to play; a role which is radical and revolutionary but which nonetheless should never be in the service of politicians or regimes of power. Reflecting divergent views, the artist, according to Kateb Yacine, should ‘create their own revolution within the political revolution’, operating at the heart of trouble as ‘perpetual troublemakers’. For the artist, like the poet, ‘is the revolution stripped bare, the very movement of life in an unending explosion’.34

Notes 1 Gamal Abdul Nasser, ‘Need for Unity’. First published in Gamal Abdul Nasser, Egypt’s Liberation: The Philosophy of the Revolution, Cairo: General Organisation for Government Printing Offices, 1958, pp. 63–70. 2 Kwame Nkrumah, ‘I Speak of Freedom’. First published as the preface to Kwame Nkrumah, I Speak of Freedom: A Statement of African Ideology, London: William Heinemann, 1961, pp. xi–iv. 3 Abdullah Laroui, L’Histoire du Maghreb: Un essai de synthèse, Paris, 1970. English translation, The History of the Maghrib: An Interpretive Essay, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1977. Cited in Albert Hourani, A History of the Arab Peoples, London: Faber and Faber, 1991, p. 394. 4 Frantz Fanon, ‘On National Culture’, The Wretched of the Earth, 3rd edn, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990, pp. 187–8. First published in France as Les Damnés de la Terre, François Maspéro (ed.), Paris: Cahiers libres, nos 27–8, 1961. 5 Fanon, ‘On National Culture’, p. 187. 6 Ibid., p. 199. 7 Nasser Rabbat, ‘Hassan Fathy and the Identity Debate’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, p. 202. 8 Hassan Fathy, Architecture for the Poor, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1973, pp. 1–26. Extracts reprinted in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 187–95.

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9 Kobena Mercer, ‘Frank Bowling’s Map Paintings’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 139–50. 10 Bheki Peterson, ‘Clifford Charles and the Pleasures of Contemplative Insurgency’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 151–8. 11 Ibid. 12 Mercer, ‘Frank Bowling’s Map Paintings’, p. 149. 13 Deepali Dewan, ‘Tender Metaphor: The Art of Zarina Bhimji’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, 131–8. 14 Sarat Maharaj, ‘Fatal Natalities: The Algebra of Diaspora and Difference after Apartheid’. First published in Photofile, No. 57, October 1999: 41–9, and republished in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 79–90. 15 Elsabet Giorgis, ‘Salem Mekuria’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 219–25. 16 Kateb Yacine, Afrique Action, Tunis, 26 June 1961. 17 Kobena Mercer, ‘Eros and Diaspora’, in Mark Sealy and Jean Loup Pivin (eds), Rotimi Fani-Kayode & Alex Hirst: Photographs, Paris and London: Éditions Revue Noire and Autograph, 1996, p. 108. 18 Rotimi Fani-Kayode, ‘Traces of Ecstacy’, first published in Sealy and Pivin (eds), Rotimi Fani-Kayode & Alex Hirst, pp. 177–82. 19 Ibid. 20 Mark Sealy, ‘A Note from Outside on Rotimi Fani-Kayode’, extracts from Rotimi Fani-Kayode 1955–1989: Communion, London: Autograph, 1995, reprinted in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 183–6. 21 Lisa Fischman, ‘Untitled (A Way In)’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 97–104. 22 Ibid. 23 Yasmeen Siddiqui, ‘Emergent Forms: Sabah Naim Reconceptualises Movement’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 233–42. 24 Sabah Naim, unpublished text, 2002. 25 Kader Attia and Jerome Sans, ‘The Right Position’, in Tawadros and Campbell (2003), pp. 105–18. 26 Ibid. 27 Wael Shawky writes, ‘An essential part of the mulid (festival) is zekr . . . it is a Sufi religious ritual to reach a higher spiritual level or it is a state of transition,’ unpublished text, 2002. 28 Niru Ratnam, ‘So You Wanna Be . . .?’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 251–7. 29 Shawky, unpublished text. 30 Achille Mbembe, ‘Provisional Notes on the Postcolony’, Africa, No. 62 (1), 1992: 3–37, republished in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 53–64. 31 Peterson, ‘Clifford Charles’, p. 154. 32 Moshekwa Langa, unpublished correspondence, 2003. 33 Okwui Enwezor, ‘The Postcolonial Constellation’, in Tawadros and Campbell (eds), Fault Lines, pp. 65–78. 34 Kateb Yacine, Le Poète comme un boxeur, Barbara Mellor (trans.), Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1994, p. 176.

17 Studies in a postcolonial body

I In the Maquis, when I heard that she’d been raped by the French, I first of all felt angry with the swine. Then I said, ‘Oh, well, there’s not much harm done; she wasn’t killed. She can start her life over again.’ And then a few weeks later I came to realize that they’d raped her because they were looking for me. In fact, it was to punish her for keeping silence that she’d been violated . . . This woman had saved my life and had protected the organisation. It was because of me that she had been dishonoured. And yet she didn’t say to me: ‘Look at all I’ve had to bear for you.’ On the contrary, she said: ‘Forget about me; begin your life over again, for I have been dishonoured.’ . . . So I decided to take her back; but I didn’t know at all how I’d behave when I saw her. And often, while I was looking at the photo of my daughter, I used to think that she too was dishonoured, like as if everything that had to do with my wife was rotten. If they’d tortured her or knocked out all her teeth or broken an arm I wouldn’t have minded. But that thing – how can you forget a thing like that? And why did she have to tell me about it all?1

II The stitches are rough and clumsily sewn. The hand of a hurried or amateur seamstress, or of someone who is unaccustomed to stitching skin. The coarse black thread darts in and out of the outer seam, pointing haphazardly in different directions. It has the appearance of human skin but it is only animal fibre. It looks like a mouth sewn shut. The niches cut out of the wall used to house family souvenirs: framed photographs, mementos of different journeys and moments, sometimes cut flowers. The shoes look out of place there but no one can recollect how they came to be incarcerated behind the screens of animal skin. There are some boxes stacked on the floor below. They, too, are made of animal skin but they are empty. There is nothing left to store in the boxes. The women have disappeared. Their clothes have gone with them. Only the shoes remain. 176

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Worn and moulded to fit the shape of their individual feet, they are useless keepsakes; more useless than photographs which at least capture the semblance of an individual. But they cannot be discarded until we can be sure that they have died.

III The photographs are banal. The sites that they document are themselves banal and barely worth recording for posterity. In most cases, the objects which once were situated there have been removed. They record that removal, so perhaps they could be described as photographs of absence: the holes in the brickwork where the nails had been hammered in and the empty plinths where the statues had stood. It’s curious how quickly people forget and how easily they remember once their memory has been jogged. The recollections begin characteristically with an account of what the person remembers of the site and what once stood there. Then they begin to recount what they felt about the object and what it represented. Some of them go on to talk about the old country and you get the sense that they are quite ambivalent about this new, reunified nation. Recent developments in what used to be the Eastern quarter are not just replacing the earlier buildings but erasing their memory. A field of cranes is harvesting a new city. Soon there will be no empty spaces. No one will remember that they had once been occupied and then vacated. Sweet oblivion.

IV I left the town where I had been a student to join the Maquis. After some months, I had news of my people. I learnt that my mother had been killed point-blank by a French soldier and two of my sisters had been taken to the soldiers’ quarters. Up to now, I have no news of what happened to them. I was terribly shaken by the death of my mother. Since my father had died some years before, I was the only man in the family, and my sole ambition has always been to manage to do something to make life easier for my mother and my sisters. One day we went to an estate belonging to settlers, where the agent, who was an active colonist, had already killed two Algerian civilians. We came to his house, at night, but he wasn’t there. Only his wife was at home. When she saw us she started to cry and implored us not to kill her: ‘I know you’ve come for my husband,’ she said, ‘but he isn’t here. I’ve told him again and again not to have anything to do with politics.’ We decided to wait for her husband. But as far as I was concerned, when I looked at that woman I thought of my mother. She was sitting in an armchair and her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. I wondered why we didn’t kill her; then all of a sudden she noticed I was looking at her. She flung herself upon me screaming ‘Please don’t kill me – I have children. A moment after she was dead; I’d killed her with my knife.2

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V She has made a virtue of filling in the blank spaces. They are not monuments in the grand sense but solid shadows of everyday things. They do not commemorate individuals or historic events but moments in space and time. The space beneath the bed where you rummaged as a child in search of your mother’s secrets. Remember, remember the fifth of November. Do you remember the time we hid behind the cupboard in our parents’ room? It was fun for a while but then you started to feel really claustrophobic and wanted to come out. I held you there for a while but you started screaming so I let you go. Memories in physical form. But they are opaque memories cast in dark rubber and murky wax. Why is it that I only seem to recall the insignificant episodes? Maybe it is better to forget after all. We’ll never know the whole truth about what happened anyway. What did Stalin say? The death of one man is a tragedy, the death of millions is a statistic.

VI We weren’t a bit cross with him. Every Thursday we used to go and play with catapults together, on the hill above the village. He was a good friend of ours. He usen’t to go to school any more because he wanted to be a mason like his father. One day we decided to kill him, because the Europeans want to kill all the Arabs. We can’t kill big people. But we could kill ones like him, because he was the same age as us. We didn’t know how to kill him. We wanted to throw him into a ditch, but he’d only have been hurt. So we got the knife at home and we killed him. But why did you pick on him? Because he used to play with us. Another boy wouldn’t have gone up the hill with us. And yet you were pals? Well then, why do they want to kill us? His father is in the militia and he said we ought to have our throats cut. But he didn’t say anything to you? Him? No. You know he is dead now. Yes. What does being dead mean? When it’s all finished, you go to heaven. Was it you that killed him? Yes.

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Does having killed somebody worry you? No, since they want to kill us, so . . . Do you mind being in prison? No.3

VII It was Deleuze who spoke about ‘a zone of indiscernability’ in relation to his paintings. I’ve often imagined that he was referring to the physical and psychic spaces which are created within the frame of the canvas. They are ambiguous spaces where the distinction between the human and the animal become collapsed, where the internal body convulses into the external body. Humanity twisted in upon itself and spilling, excreting. The agony and the ecstasy. The Soviet film-maker understood about that. The old woman with her broken spectacles and blood streaming down her bespectacled face. The young mother who loses grip of her child’s pram, which cascades down the steps at Odessa. The baby screaming. The screaming mother. What do you make of his Popes, then? The revenge of a lapsed Irish Catholic, perhaps? The painter has disrobed the pope, divesting him of his vested interests. Trapped like a caged animal. Pope Innocent X. But there’s nothing innocent about him. He’s laughing now. A ribbed carcass of meat decorates each side of his throne. The power and the glory.

VIII Sometimes we almost wanted to tell them that if they had a bit of consideration for us they’d speak out without forcing us to spend hours tearing information word by word out of them. But you might as well talk to the wall. To all the questions we asked they’d only say ‘I don’t know.’ Even when we asked them what their name was. If we asked them where they lived, they’d say ‘I don’t know.’ So of course, we have to go through with it. But they scream too much. At the beginning that made me laugh. But afterwards I was a bit shaken. Nowadays as soon as I hear someone shouting I can tell you at exactly what stage of the questioning we’ve got to. The chap who’s had two blows of the fist and a belt of the baton behind his ear has a certain way of speaking of shouting and of saying he’s innocent. After he’s been left two hours strung up by the wrists he has another kind of voice. After the bath, still another. And so on. But above all it’s after the electricity that it becomes really too much. You’d say that the chap was going to die any minute. Of course there are some that don’t scream; those are the tough ones. But they think they’re going to be killed right away. But we’re not interested in killing them. What we want is information.4

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IX At that particular time of day, the light streamed into the space through the long, thin aperture. From a distance, it could almost have been an abstract painting filling the frame of the window. The wooden tables were simply made and each one marked a stage in the process. It reminded me of one of the tombs I had visited where the wall paintings had been left incomplete. The artist had begun to sketch the outlines of his drawings on the wall but his work had evidently been interrupted. I imagined that perhaps the dead man had died prematurely.

Notes 1 Frantz Fanon, ‘Colonial War and Mental Disorders’, in The Wretched of the Earth, London: Penguin Books, 1971, p. 207. 2 Ibid., p. 211. 3 Ibid., pp. 217–18. 4 Ibid., p. 213.

18 Veil: Veiling, representation and contemporary art

Veil. The word alone conjures up images in the mind’s eye. In the aftermath of September 11, the veil has become synonymous with cultural and religious differences that have been presented to us repeatedly as unbridgeable, alien and terrifying. The fact that the veil and veiling have been a part of both Western and Eastern cultures for millennia, from the aristocratic women of ancient Greece to contemporary brides worldwide, has not diminished their overwhelming association with Islam and an abstract, exoticized notion of the East.1 This project was conceived long before the events of September 11. The concept of Zineb Sedira, it was researched and developed by Sedira and Jananne Al-Ani over a period of four years, and emerges directly from their practice as visual artists. For Al-Ani and Sedira, the significance of the veil lies in its complex and multiple meanings. As Al-Ani points out in her essay, the work of artists in this exhibition re-presents the veil from plural and complex viewpoints and against the grain of written histories: [The works] have been generated, often with wonderful humour, by artists with an intimate knowledge of both Western and Eastern cultures . . . Through their work, the artists have helped to broaden debate on representation and the veil in a complex and provocative way and to sow doubts about the facts of the past, by looking at something we think we know and understand.2 For Sedira, the veil is not simply a physical code or visual motif but rather elicits ‘a multitude of readings, both visible and invisible’ (Fig. 18.1). As she writes of her practice as an artist: ‘Veiling-the-mind’ has become a metaphor of mine for the (mis)reading of cultural signs . . . in order to explore the multiple forms of veiling in both Western and Muslim cultures. I find myself asking how to ‘represent the unrepresentable’ and my artistic interventions reveal my desire to open up the paradoxes, ambiguities and symbolism of the veil.3

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Fig. 18.1 Zineb Sedira, Self Portraits or The Virgin Mary, 2000. Triptych. C-Prints mounted on aluminium, 170 x 100 cm each. © Zineb Sedira. All rights reserved. DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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In her essay, ‘The Language of the Veil’, Ahdaf Soueif points out that there is no single word equivalent in Arabic to the ‘veil’; while its physical manifestations are as varied as the social, historical and cultural contexts in which it is to be found: To the west, ‘the veil’ like Islam itself, is both sensual and puritanical, is contradictory, is to be feared. It is also concrete, and is to do with women, and since cultural battles are so often fought through the bodies of women, it is seized upon by politicians, columnists, feminists . . . Malak Hifni Nasif [one of the pioneering feminists] . . . wrote in 1906 that the veil was, so to speak, a red herring. Her view was that the question of the veil was only central in the debate about women’s place in society because the West (personified in Egypt then by Lord Cromer) had made it so.4 Veil is a major exhibition and publication that brings together the work of twenty contemporary international artists of Muslim and non-Muslim backgrounds whose work explores the symbolic significance of the veil and veiling in contemporary culture. Curated by Al-Ani and Sedira with David A. Bailey and Gilane Tawadros, this is the first project to address the question of the veil in all its complexities and ambiguities from the vantage point of contemporary visual art practice. Just as, in recent years, there has been a trend in contemporary visual arts to re-examine the representation of the Other in contemporary art and popular culture, a number of contemporary practitioners, generally – but not exclusively – with connections to the Middle East and North Africa or other parts of the Muslim world, are producing a growing body of work that addresses the representation of the veil. Despite the abundance of academic work which explores Orientalism as a system of knowledge and belief, a structure by which Europe illustrates its cultural and political superiority over the Orient, little has been done in exploring the particular representation of the veil in historical and contemporary visual art. And yet, no single item of clothing has had more influence on Western images of Middle Eastern and North African women than the veil. For the first time in the history of curatorial and exhibition practice, this project extends the possible interpretations of the veil and explores the ambiguities articulated in recent and contemporary practice rather than presenting a polemical or academic thesis. The strength and uniqueness of this project lie within the curatorial narrative which repositions the exhibition from the arena of ethnographic survey shows into a contemporary art context with a collaborative team of curators comprising artists, writers and curators. Veil takes up the challenge set by the Orientalist reimagined shows of the 1980s and 1990s, which were weighed down by the burden of representation, and succeeds in producing a contemporary narrative which focuses instead on the work and its relationship to twenty-first-century visual art production. Work by artists using photography, film, sculpture and mixed media – in a variety of installation practices – will be juxtaposed to comment and take a ‘spin’ on the theme of the veil and veiling. For example, the 1960s works of documentary film-maker Gillo Pontecorvo and

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photographer Marc Garanger, exploring history and contested spaces in their different approaches to the Algerian War, are shown alongside the mixed-media drawings of Emily Jacir and Ghazel’s video monographs which develop the idea of recovering histories within what is now seen as the transient spaces that we all occupy in our globalized world.

Orientalism, Edward Said and ‘imaginative geographies’ Edward Said’s hugely influential text Orientalism, first published in 1978, challenged established Western attitudes to the East and defined Orientalism as a system of knowledge about the Orient, ‘an accepted grid for filtering through the Orient into Western consciousness’.5 Importantly, Said’s thesis stressed the emergence of Orientalism from the cultural hegemony of the West in relation to the East, describing Orientalism as the product of ‘imaginative geography and history’, a creative fiction that presented itself as reality. According to Said, the keynote for this relationship was Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt in 1798. His flagship l’Orient brought in its train not only an armada of ships, frigates and transports but an army of savants, a literal academy of Oriental specialists who would both aid him to conquer Egypt through their knowledge of the Orient and build what Said describes as a ‘sort of living archive’ for the expedition. In 1802, Napoleon commissioned the Imperial Press to begin publication of a volume on the cultural and scientific spoils of the Egyptian expedition. For twenty years, 400 copper engravers worked on Description de l’Égypte, a complete visual and textual record of Egypt at the time of the expedition, not only of its antiquities but also an inventory of its flora and fauna, including 837 copper engravings and more than 3,000 illustrations. At the heart of Napoleon’s project was the visual illustration of the Orient, its detailed tabulation by visual artists with the object of making it ‘totally accessible to European scrutiny’.6 While Orientalism relies almost entirely on literary and textual references, other writers have subsequently applied Said’s thesis to the field of visual representation. These texts articulate an unambiguous polarity between the West and the East, where the East is penetrated by the unrelenting gaze of Western eyes, leaving her (the East is always, it seems, described as female) both passive and mute. In The Colonial Harem, Malek Alloula subjects to scrutiny picture postcards of Algerian women produced and sent by the French in Algeria in the first decades of the twentieth century. The veiled female body emerges as a recurring preoccupation of these images and, according to Alloula, defies the gaze of the French photographer: The first thing the foreign eye catches about Algerian women is that they are concealed from sight . . . The Algerian woman does not conceal herself, does not play at concealing herself. But the eye cannot catch hold of her. The opaque veil that covers her intimates clearly and simply to the photographer a refusal . . . Draped in the veil that cloaks her to her ankles, the Algerian woman discourages the scopic desire (the voyeurism) of the photographer. She is

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the concrete negation of this desire and thus brings to the photographer confirmation of a triple rejection: the rejection of his desire, of the practice of his ‘art’, and of his place in a milieu that is not his own.7 How then does one read the work of Gaëtan de Clérambault? Born in France in 1872, Clérambault trained as a pysychoanalyst and was fascinated by the relationship between women and fabric. As a photographer, he went on to extend his research by taking images of veiled women – and occasionally men – in Morocco. He became increasingly obsessed by the drapes and forms created by the veil and the ‘invisible gaze’ of the veiled women he photographed, producing a huge body of photographs some of which are now in the collection of the Musée de l’Homme in Paris. But Clérambault’s photographs, taken between 1918 and 1934, defy a straightforward Orientalist reading. The very fact that they are not texts, but visual images without the particular historical and social context of the French postcards of Alloula’s study, makes it more difficult to fix these images uniquely within an Orientalist discourse. However, Clérambault’s images clearly do emerge from the same discursive field as Alloula’s postcards and the images have come into being as a result of the particular colonial relationship between France and Morocco. The female figure remains anonymous and emblematic of the exotic Middle Eastern woman. And yet, Clérambault’s images are not presented as attempts to render his subjects accessible or transparent. They are more equivocal visual experiments in the human figure. In some, the figure is set against a neutral ground, wrapped in fabric to create different shapes. In others, the figure is set against the architecture of a domestic space, where the undulating folds of white fabric contrast against the symmetric abstract patterns of the tiles beneath her. Unlike Alloula’s postcards, the veiled figure in Clérambault’s photographs is never unveiled; nor is she passive or immobile. From one image to the next, she moves and shifts, rearranging the contours of her figure and Clérambault’s composition. By comparison with Clérambault’s small-scale photographs, Kourosh Adim’s black and white photographic landscapes appear monumental. In place of intimate, domestic interiors, Adim’s ghostly, veiled presence haunts an empty, rural landscape. A vast swathe of fabric unfolds in the wind, dwarfing its unpopulated surroundings. Located somewhere between absence and presence, figuration and abstraction, Adim’s poetic photographs posit the veil as an integral part of the physical and psychological landscape. These images are far removed from a simplistic, anthropological representation of the veil that all too often presents the veil as a cipher for female oppression. For Adim, the veil becomes a constantly-moving, structural feature of the natural landscape.

Architecture, space and modernity In October 1910, Henri Matisse visited Munich to see the first ever international exhibition of Islamic art. An extraordinary exhibition which brought together over 3,500 objects from Islamic cultures all over the world, it had a profound effect on the direction of Matisse’s work from that

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point on. In Clérambault’s photographs, there are intimations of the challenge to traditional Western artistic practice contained within an Islamic worldview. In place of the literal representation of the human figure and the material world that had dominated classical Western representation for over 500 years, Islamic art opened up the possibilities of abstraction, of colour fields and of radically different relationships between form and content. Most importantly, perhaps, Islamic art opened up a space for artistic expression that did not rely upon the literal presence of the human figure to articulate existential or divine ideas. In the same way that African sculpture offered avant-garde artists a new mode of seeing, Islamic art suggested ways of breaking free from the constraints of established Western traditions. This is not the place to discuss at length the extent of modernism’s debt to Islamic art. Suffice to say that the dialogue and exchange between Islamic and non-Islamic cultures has had a profound effect on the way that we articulate our ideas through visual forms of representation, from painting, photography and sculpture through to architecture and gardening. The relationship between the human figure and space and, more particularly, between the individual and the space that they occupy – both cultural and physical – is a constant theme in the work of many artists in this exhibition. For example, in Ramesh Kalkur’s photographs, the line between figuration and abstraction, between photography and sculpture, is broached. Working against the grain of traditional portrait photography, Kalkur’s portraits contravene convention by portraying individuals with their identities masked. Making identification impossible, Kalkur’s portraits confound the expectations of the viewer, privileging the multiplicity of human gestures over and above the fetishization of individual identity. The figures that populate Kalkur’s portraits are concealed beneath a double veil – the fabric veil or mask that covers their face and their hands which guard their faces from the penetration of the photographer’s gaze. Kalkur’s elegant images seem to suggest that there are aspects of our existence which lie beyond representation. Contingent upon any discussion or exploration of the veil or veiled subject is the cultural and social demarcation of public and private space. As Malek Alloula writes, ‘the veil has [the] function: to recall, in individualized fashion, the closure of private space. It signifies an injunction of no trespassing upon this space and it extends to another space, the one in which the photographer is to be found: public space.’8 But the veil, like its architectural equivalence, the mashrabiyya (an ornate wooden screen which is a feature of traditional North African domestic architecture), operates in two directions. While it demarcates the line between public and private space, it does not multilaterally impede the flow of light, air or vision. As Hamid Naficy writes in his essay on the poetics and politics of the veil in contemporary Iranian cinema: Veiling as a social practice is not fixed or unidirectional; instead, it is a dynamic practice in which both men and women are implicated. In addition, there is a dialectical relationship between veiling and unveiling: that which covers is also capable of uncovering . . . Veiling,

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therefore is not a panoptic process in the manner Foucault describes because vision is not in the possession of only one side; women and men organise the field of vision of the other.9 The relationship between the veil or mashrabiyya and the gaze is a constant trope not only in cinema and architecture but equally in literature. Desire is eloquently articulated through the gaze in a sensual passage in Naguib Mahfouz’s Palace Walk where one of the female protagonists, Aisha, watches the man with whom she has fallen in love through the mashrabiyya. They first catch sight of each other through an open window and then Aisha returns to the mashrabiyya every day: At the same hour the next day and for days after, she had gone to stand by the slit, where he could not see her. She would observe with triumphant happiness how he looked up at the closed window with concern and longing and then how his features were illumined by the light of joy as he began to discern her figure at the crack. Her heart, on fire and reaching out, awake for the first time, looked forward impatiently to this moment, savouring it happily and then dreamily bidding it adieu as it ended.10 Through the mashrabiyya, it is Aisha who controls the gaze so that, far from rendering her passive or invisible, the mashrabiyya, in fact, enables Aisha not only to manage her lover’s gaze but also to communicate her feelings for him. Being veiled does not equate with being silenced, as Hamid Naficy notes in his discussion of the film Banu-ye Ordibehesht, where the voices of two lovers circumvent the stringent rules of Iranian film censors on what can be visually portrayed on screen. The Arab diva Umm Kalthoum (who began her career reciting the Quran and singing religious songs) proved this point with her love songs which – backed by an orchestra comprising Western and Middle Eastern instruments producing Arab tonal forms – were full of intense longing and passion. In architectural terms, the mashrabiyya appears simply to separate private, interior space from public, exterior space. But it ingenuously combines functional needs with cultural needs, making it an essential component in the architecture of the groundbreaking, Egyptian architect Hassan Fathy. As his biographer James Steele explains, the mashrabiyya evolved from ‘a simple, flat, perforated wooden screen into an elegant, bracketed projection, which would allow its occupants to sit inside’: Traditionally used on both the outer and inner walls of the houses of the past, its primary function was to prevent the women of the family from being seen by strangers, by providing a screen that would allow them to look down into the street below, or into the courtyard, or qa’a from the floor above without being seen. It therefore became an architectural expression of a cultural necessity . . . the screens in addition to providing privacy, cutting down glare and allowing natural ventilation, also had hygroscopic properties: the wooden balusters retain the humidity of the air that passes through them. On every level, the mashrabiyya proves, as

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Fathy states, that ‘culture is the unique human response of man to his environment in his attempt to answer both physical and spiritual needs.11 Samta Benhayia’s early black and white portraits of ordinary Algerian women are enlarged to a monumental scale, filling the entire space of the gallery with their huge presence. Her recent works are embedded into the physical structure of the gallery. Laid across glass windows or doors, Benhayia’s vinyl abstract designs create a contemporary mashrabyyia inserted into the fabric of the interior space of the building. Falling like a physical veil across the viewer’s line of vision, Benhayia’s installations designate different spatial zones, demarcating new public and private spaces within the gallery. With Benhayia’s abstract patterns in place, it is impossible to see the space unmediated. A veil has been drawn by the artist that makes us acutely aware of the precise delineations of spaces. It makes us profoundly aware of the process of seeing and its myriad mediations. Is it possible, asks Benhayia, to see the world without the screen of social and cultural assumptions?

Photography, veiling and the politics of representation In her essay ‘Visibility, Violence, and Voice? Attitudes to Veiling Post-September 11’, Alison Donnell argues that there has been a decisive shift, a quantum leap even, in attitudes to veiling since September 11, after which time the veil became a symbol of oppression in Western eyes: The familiar and much-analysed Orientalist gaze through which the veil is viewed as an object of mystique, exoticism and eroticism and the veiled woman as an object of fantasy, excitement and desire is now replaced by the xenophobic, more specifically Islamophobic, gaze through which the veil, or headscarf, is seen as a highly visible sign of a despised difference . . . Post-September 11, it would appear that attitudes to and representations of the veil have overwhelmingly demonstrated the intransigence of the veiled woman as an icon of oppression – an embodiment of the rationale for the continuation of George W. Bush’s war without end, a strategic figure constantly evoked as a visual reminder of the incommensurability between Western and Islamic societies.12 It is precisely the incommensurability between Western and Islamic societies so prevalent in the media that is invoked by AES art group’s provocative, digitally manipulated photographs (Fig.  18.2). The image of the Statue of Liberty veiled or the image of Muslims massing on a Western metropolis visualize the deep-seated Islamophobia of which Donnell writes and its constant reiteration through images in film, television and photography. How does one begin to deconstruct the barrage of mediated images and strip away culturally reinforced prejudices? The works of both the artists’ collective AES and Mitra Tabrizian engage with the role of photography in mediating and, not infrequently, manipulating lived experiences. Mitra

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Fig. 18.2 AES art group, New Freedom 2006, AES – The Witnesses of the Future, 1996. Photographs. © ARS, New York, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of AES+F group.

Tabrizian’s black and white billboard image Surveillance (1990) engages with the icon of the veiled woman once again but this time from the vantage point of post-revolutionary Iran where she is emblematic not of ‘despised difference’ but of the victory of Islamic values over Western values. A key player in the early debates on photography and representation in the 1980s, Tabrizian’s panoramic photograph suggests the power of photography and media representation to take on the authority of historical authenticity and documentary evidence. The exploration of genres within photography and painting in order to narrativize questions of representation is also central to the work of Faisal Abdu’Allah. In the artist’s own words: ‘My work is not there so that voyeurs can look down on people they believe to be in a lesser state than themselves. My work is about us looking at ourselves through people with a

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certain degree of power and presence.’ Although The Last Supper (1995) makes reference to the European discourse of painting, Abdu’Allah represents a new generation of black artists in Britain who are exploring the geographical and cultural links with black America and Africa (Fig.  18.3). For Abdu’Allah, this large-scale photographic work is a hybridized canvas which reworks and rehistoricizes the figure of the Nubian Messiah. The repetitious use of the black male figure alludes to Abdu’Allah’s earlier work on the racial coding of black masculinity within a modern aesthetic and to the black diasporic figure in contemporary photography. Meanwhile, the scale of the work and richness of its photographic quality (archival seleniumtoned bromide print) seduce the viewer in their play on advertising billboard imagery within popular culture. Farah Bajull’s 30-metre-long string of handmade, oversized worry beads made of wood and wound tightly into a ball forms part of her installation Notime (2001). Adjacent to the wound ball of worry beads on the floor, a photograph of a woman seated and bound by the string of

Fig. 18.3 Fasial Abdu’Allah, The Last Supper, 1995. Computer-generated bromide prints with selenium split tone on photographic paper, mounted on aluminium, 136 x 191 cm. © Faisal Abdu’allah. All rights reserved, DACS, 2019. Arts Council Collection, England.

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worry beads hangs on the wall. The intricate knot seems to symbolize the intractability of the problem of bridging cultural and religious differences against the grain of the continuous stream of media images which caricature and steadily reinforce the idea of unbridgeable, irreconcilable difference between Western and Islamic societies. The anonymous woman is apparently held, trapped by this enforced divide. In Ghazel’s series of video diaries Me (1997–2000), the artist films herself undertaking a variety of pursuits – skate-boarding, boxing, taking a ballet lesson or sheltering during an air raid – fully attired in a chador. Shot in Iran, Paris, Montpelier and New York, Ghazel’s comic and sometimes absurd films, attest to the banality of difference, making the artist – who plays herself – both the comic subject and at the same time irrelevant prop in her biographical mini-features. In Ghazel’s world, the veil is a feature of everyday life. Shadafarian Ghadirian’s pastiches of traditional studio photography provide a humorous reflection upon the impact of the cultural and technological traffic that exists between Iran and the West. Inspired by the photographs of the Qajar dynasty (1785–1925), Ghadirian recreated a Qajar studio in her Tehran home. She scrupulously choreographed the formal poses, then added ghetto blasters, televisions, vacuum cleaners and bicycles. Studio photography became established in the Middle East in the nineteenth century in the footsteps of European travellers who used the new technology of the photographic camera to record their travels. Ghadirian’s ironic blackand-white portraits document the latest stage of cultural and technological exchange in the new global economy, precisely tabulating social and cultural mores in contemporary Iran. A comic Buster Keaton-like sensibility permeates the work of Harold Offeh. His video piece Alien Communication (1999), like other of Offeh’s works, is a humorous but troubling exploration of the politics of representation. A large magnifying glass, synonymous with scientific investigation, distorts the artist’s face, blowing it up to surreal proportions. Using comic everyday scenes of frustration and alienation, Offeh presents a reality that is veiled or distorted through the use of a variety of photographic techniques. Offeh’s work can be seen as a wry commentary on the disfiguring effects of media representations of racial and ethnic difference where the photographic lens wilfully distorts reality. And it is as a cipher for unequivocal, uncompromising difference that the image of the veil permeates Western society.

Veiling the body: Sexuality, censorship and cultural difference The Western [sic] word veil is ‘sexy’ and marketable in the West. It thus tends to be overused, invariably out of or without context, in titles of books, articles, conferences, press, films and popular literature in a way disproportionate to the relative significance of the veil in Middle Eastern affairs, and irrespective of the quality of knowledge about the veil. Some scholars of

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Islam have expressed concern that ‘veil’ has come to replace ‘crescent’ as a symbol of Islam in the West, which is outrageous. Rather, the veil has come to replace the earlier obsession with ‘harems’ and hammams. ‘Harems’ and hammams then and the ‘veil’ now evoke a public sexual energy that early Christianity, puritanist Western culture, and contemporary elements of fundamentalist Christianity have not been able to come to terms with, comprehend or tolerate. In the West harem, veil, polygamy invoke Islam and are synonymous with female weakness and oppression.13 Emily Jacir’s installation made up of numerous drawings on tracing paper were inspired by a memory from her childhood. She recalls her mother, on the airplane home to Saudi Arabia after a trip abroad, blocking out the uncovered arms and legs of the models in her fashion magazine with black felt pen. From Paris to Riyadh (1998–2001) is a large-scale, black-and-white wall installation, made up of seemingly abstract drawings on tracing paper. The forms of female figures move across the expanse, their black limbs standing out in stark contrast to the field of white surrounding them. The outlines of the models’ bodies slip in and out of view, dissolving into abstract geometric shapes and then re-emerging as human figures, playing on the border between abstraction and figuration. Abstraction and figuration, absence and presence, are also motifs in Ghada Amer’s work. At first glance, and from a distance, Amer’s works appear to be finely drawn, abstract and spontaneous, like automatist drawings on canvas. On closer inspection, they reveal themselves to be fragmented lines of figurative embroidery, describing the naked or scantily clad female body in the archetypal poses of pornography. With Majnun (1997), Amer has roughly stitched words on to the fabric of a closet. The work makes reference to the story of the character Majnun, equivalent to Romeo in the literature of the Islamic world, who is driven made by his unrequited love. Written in French, the text of Amer’s work attests to the convergence of love and death in the language of a love letter or poem. Invoking the world of hidden love, Amer’s installation Majnun (which means ‘mad’ in Arabic) simultaneously makes visible the linguistic but veils the physical from view. Drapery and sexuality are key motifs in Elin Strand’s work. In her performance piece, Speaking Bernina (2000), swathes of fabric envelop the performers who patiently stitch themselves into the metres of drapery which ebb and flow over their bodies like waves on the ocean (Fig. 18.4). Concerned with questions of concealment and sexual identity, Strand’s work explores the ways in which sexual restrictions and conventions censure and veil our individuality. In a similar vein to Faisal Abdu’Allah, Majida Khattari appropriates advertising codes to produce sculptural performance pieces that address adornment in the practice of live art. On the surface, these works appear to play on Gap and Benetton advertisements, but, in fact, Khattari is targeting fashion conglomerates and the fashion world to produce ‘animated fabric objects’ where the catwalk takes centre stage as an artistic performance piece. In these staged events, the performers, how they are dressed and how they address the audience are all central to understanding the work. For instance, in an earlier series, Khattari draped one of her performers

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Fig. 18.4 Elin Strand Ruin, Speaking Bernina, October 2000. Four-day performance at the Pump House Gallery, London. © Elin Strand Ruin. Courtesy of the artist.

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with a garment draped with the Coca-Cola logo in the style of Islamic calligraphy, as a play on the performer, the product, corporate iconography and language. In very different ways, the works of Strand, Amer, Khattari and Jacir disrupt the simplistic binaries that are repeatedly invoked about the liberal West and censorious East and reflect upon the myriad ways in which female sexuality continues to occupy our collective imaginations. But, as Leila Ahmed points out, the continuous reiteration of the veil and veiling as a site of struggle and contestation about the position of women in Islam over the decades has concealed a more fundamental struggle from view, namely the historical struggle for national self-determination in opposition to colonialism; Because of this history of the struggle around it, the veil is now pregnant with meanings . . . [a] legacy of meanings and struggles over issues of culture and class with which not only the veil but also the struggle for women’s rights as a whole has become inscribed as a result of this history and as a result of the cooptation by colonialism of the issue of women and the language of feminism in its attempt to undermine other cultures . . . To a considerable extent, overtly or covertly, inadvertently or otherwise, discussions of women in Islam in academies and outside them, and in Muslim countries and outside them, continue either to reinscribe the Western narrative of Islam as oppressor and the West as liberator and native classist versions of that narrative, or conversely, to reinscribe the contentions of the Arabic narrative of resistance as to the essentialness of preserving Muslim customs, particularly with regard to women, as a sign of resistance to imperialism, whether colonial or postcolonial.14

Women, history and the veil In an early interview, when asked what she thought about women and the veil, the artist Shirin Neshat responded: From the beginning I made a decision that [my photographic] work was not going to be about me or my opinion on the subject, and that my position was going to be no position. I then put myself at a place of only asking questions but never answering them. The main question and curiosity was simply being a woman in Islam. I then decided to put the trust in those women’s words who had lived and experienced in the life of a woman behind the veil. So each time I inscribed a specific women’s writings on my photographs, the work took a new direction.15 In Neshat’s photographic pieces selected for the exhibition – Allegiance with Wakefulness (1994), The Rebellious Silence from the Women of Allah series (1994), Shameless (1997) and I Am Its Secret (1999) – the layering of text, the image of the gun, the facial representations and the blackened veil suggest that the photographic frame becomes a site where images compete with each other (see Fig. 18.5). Such contestation relates to the idea of the body becoming a

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Fig. 18.5 Shirin Neshat, Rapture, 1999. Film still. © Shirin Neshat. Photo: Larry Barns. Courtesy of the artist, Gladstone Gallery, New York and Brussels and Galerie Jérôme de Noirmont, Paris.

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Fig 18.6 Jananne Al-Ani, Untitled I & II , 1996. Silver gelatin prints, 122 x 182 cm. © Jananne Al-Ani. Courtesy of the artist.

battleground for visual languages and political discourses, a dilemma to which the artist provides no resolution. The interplay between the subject and viewer – with the veil and gun serving as props – suggest that these photographic works are framed as performance pieces in much the same way as Majida Khattari uses adornment to frame her performative works. In some ways, Neshat’s works can be seen as protagonists entering the stage on which the veil and veiling have been embroiled in the history of the struggle against colonialism and, more recently, neocolonialism. And as Janane Al-Ani’s poetic projection piece Veil (1997) suggests, historical narrative is a differently articulated and fragmented activity made up of an assemblage of individual experiences (Figs 18.6). As the camera fixes each one in its view like a formal studio portrait, five women of different ages appear veiled, unveiled and re-veiled to different degrees, over and over again. It is hard to extricate the veil from this history since, as Leila Ahmed points out, the discourses of feminism, of colonialism and of indigenous resistance gradually became deeply intertwined. Huda Sha’rawi’s ceremonial public unveiling in 1923 on her return from a feminist meeting in Rome is seen by Ahmed as evidence of the degree to which Sha’rawi as an upper class Egyptian had uncritically taken on board Western cultural values and yet only four years earlier, Sha’rawi had become deeply involved in the nationalist struggle against British occupation, leading demonstrations of women. Her public gesture of unveiling, however, has eclipsed her political activism and resistance to colonialism which sits uncomfortably within a homogeneous narrative of feminist struggle:

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We women held our first demonstration on 16 March to protest the repressive acts and intimidation practised by the British authority. In compliance with the orders of the authority we announced our plans to demonstrate in advance but were refused permission . . . On the morning of the 16th, I sent placards to the house of Ahmad Bey Abu Usbaa, bearing slogans in Arabic and French painted in white on a background of black – the colour of mourning. Some of the slogans read, ‘Long Live the Supporters of Justice and Freedom’, others said, ‘Down with Oppressors and Tyrants’ and ‘Down with Occupation’.16 The Martiniquan psychoanalyst Frantz Fanon, has written at length of the psychological and sociopolitical dynamic of colonialism and its impact on both colonizers and colonized. In his compelling study of the Algerian Revolution, he identifies the ‘historical dynamism of the veil’ in the development of colonization and native resistance to the unveiling of Algeria as a nation: In the beginning, the veil was a mechanism of resistance but its value for the social group remained very strong. The veil was worn because tradition demanded a rigid separation of the sexes, but also because the occupier was bent on unveiling Algeria. In a second phase, the mutation occurred in connection with the Revolution and under special circumstances. The veil was abandoned in the course of revolutionary action. What had been used to block the psychological or political offensives of the occupier became a means, an instrument. The veil helped the Algerian woman to meet the new problems created by the struggle.17 Two more or less contemporary but very different documents of the period reveal the symbolic and physical significance of the veil in the colonial struggle over Algeria: Gilles Pontocorvo’s

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film Battle of Algiers (1965) and Marc Garanger’s black-and-white portraits of unveiled Algerian women from 1960 (Fig. 18.7). Pontocorvo’s landmark film employed the genre of the black-and-white documentary film to powerful effect in his fictional restaging of the Battle of Algiers. Pontocorvo presents veiling as a tool of resistance deployed by Algerian women against their French colonial occupiers. In one memorable scene, an Algerian woman conceals a gun beneath her clothes and then dresses to cover her body and face before going outside and passing through a French military checkpoint. Pontecorvo’s work echoes the ideas of Fanon: ‘I cannot go to a film without seeing myself. I wait for me. The people in the theatre are watching me, examining me, waiting for me.’ For Pontecorvo and Fanon the theatrical space of cinema

Fig. 18.7 Marc Garanger, Femmes Algériennes (Algerian Women), 1960. Photograph, 30 x 40 cm. © DACS, 2019.

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becomes the site of subjection to a complex bombardment of images, looks and ideologies which disorientate our subjectivities and identities. Hence, the Battle of Algiers explores not only the battle for Algerian independence, but also the battle of images. The film is now seen as a template that illustrates the fusing of the fictive with the documentary in its use of a black and white neorealist style and its adoption of the film noir flashback technique. Pontecorvo’s reconstruction of historical events is a theme taken up and developed further by other artists in the exhibition, as we see in the photographic panoramic work of Mitra Tabrizian and Faisal Abdu’Allah. It is the process of unveiling rather than veiling that lies behind Garanger’s disturbing portraits of Algerian women. Compelled by his commander to unveil Algerian women by force and take their photographs for identification purposes, Garanger, who was working as a military photographer at the time, described his superior’s attitude to his assignment as an obscene physical attack, a kind of rape. He believed that this rape was not the first that the Algerian women had suffered; the first rape was the unveiling itself. In Zineb Sedira’s mesmerizing video Silent Sight (2000), the kohl-rimmed eyes of a woman stare through a rectangular strip, framed by a white veil. Her eyes open and close. They blink. They look to the right and then to the left. Here, it is the woman’s gaze and the control of her gaze that takes precedence, while the veil dissolves into a white haze. Discussing the colonial photographer’s reading of the veil, Alloula writes: The whiteness of the veil becomes the symbolic equivalent of blindness: leukoma, a white speck on the eye of the photographer and his viewfinder. Whiteness is the absence of a photo, a veiled photograph, a whiteout, in technical terms. From its background nothing emerges except some vague contours, anonymous in their repeated resemblance. Nothing distinguishes one veiled woman from another. From its background nothing emerges except some vague contours, anonymous in their repeated resemblance. Nothing distinguishes one veiled woman from another.18 By contrast to this colonial ‘blindness’, the artists, writers and film-makers in this project present a myriad different ways of seeing and reading the veil. Insisting on its diversity and complexity, Veil opens up a space for dialogue and exchange about the varied social, cultural and historical meanings of the veil through the prism of contemporary visual arts practice.

Notes 1 For a comprehensive study of the veil, see Fatwa El Guindi’s excellent study, Veil: Modesty, Privacy and Resistance, New York and Oxford: Berg, 1999. 2 Jananne Al-Ani, ‘Acting Out’, in David A. Bailey and Gilane Tawadros (eds), Veil: Veiling, Representation and Contemporary Art, London: Iniva, in association with Modern Art Oxford, 2003, p. 106.

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3 Zineb Sedira, ‘Mapping the Illusive’, in Bailey and Tawadros (eds), Veil, pp. 58–63. 4 Ahdaf Soueif, ‘The Language of the Veil’, in Bailey and Tawadros (eds), Veil, pp. 110 and 113. 5 Edward Said, Orientalism, rev. edn, London: Peregrine Books, 1985, p. 6. 6 Ibid., p. 83. 7 Malek Alloula, The Colonial Harem, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987, p. 7. 8 Ibid., p. 13. 9 Hamid Naficy, ‘Poetics and Politics of the Veil, Voice and Vision in Iranian Post-Revolutionary Cinema’, in Bailey and Tawadros (eds), Veil, p. 140. 10 Naguib Mahfouz, Palace Walk, London: Doubleday, 1990, p. 25. 11 James Steele, An Architecture for the People: The Complete Works of Hassan Fathy, London: Hassan Fathy and Thames & Hudson, 1997, p. 85. 12 Alison Donnell, ‘Visibility, Violence and Voice? Attitudes to Veiling Post-11 September’, in Bailey and Tawadros (eds), Veil, pp. 122–3 and 134. 13 El Guindi, Veil: Modesty, Privacy and Resistance, p. 10. 14 Leila Ahmed, ‘The Discourse of the Veil’, in Bailey and Tawadros (eds), Veil, pp. 54–5. 15 Interview with Lina Bertucci, ‘Shirin Neshat: Eastern Values’, Flash Art, November–December, 1997: 84–6. 16 Huda Sha’rawi, Harem Years: The Memoirs of an Egyptian Feminist, Margot Badran (trans. and introd.), London: Virago Press, 1986, p. 113. 17 Frantz Fanon, Studies in a Dying Colonialism, rev. edn, London: Earthscan Publications, 1989, p. 63. 18 Alloula, Colonial Harem, p. 7.

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19 Strangers and barbarians Representing ourselves and others

I The lie has penetrated to our most private moments, and the secret chambers of our hearts. Nothing more sinister can happen, in any society, to any people. And when it happens, it means that the people are caught in a kind of vacuum between their past and their present – the romanticized, that is, the maligned past, and the denied and dishonoured present. It is a crisis of identity. And in such a crisis, at such a pressure, it becomes absolutely indispensable to discover, or invent – the two words, here, are synonyms – the stranger, the barbarian, who is responsible for our confusion and our pain. Once he is driven out – destroyed – then we can be at peace: those questions will be gone. Of course, those questions never go, but it has always seemed much easier to murder than to change. And it is really the choice with which we are confronted now. JAMES BALDWIN, NOTHING PERSONAL 1

A man, beginning to grow slightly bald and wearing only swimming trunks, a wristwatch and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, is bent over on his hands and knees in deep concentration. His hands are moulding the base of a sandcastle. It will be the sixth in a small accumulation of sandcastles, a mini-metropolis in sand. Each one looks like a cross between Antonio Gaudi’s organic architectural structures and what were once New York’s ‘Twin Towers’. Far off in the distance, barely perceptible at first, is the vague outline of a woman on an inflatable lilo. The man is lost in thought, completely absorbed in his task. He seems entirely unaware of any other human being, or, indeed, of the camera. Shot on Santa Monica beach, the photograph is the opening image of the book Nothing Personal, a unique collaboration between the photographer Richard Avedon and the writer James Baldwin. First published in 1964, one year after the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Nothing Personal was a compelling and disturbing portrait of the United States of America. Combining images 203

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and text in an elegant and provocative way, the artistic collaboration between Avedon and Baldwin was an incisive analysis of the United States in the mid-1960s and its inherent contradictions: the tension between what Baldwin called its invented self and its undiscoverable self; between its romanticized past and its denied present, between its image and its reality. Avedon and Baldwin’s project is still relevant forty years later, perhaps more so, provoking as it does questions about the state of the American nation and about the United States of America’s increasingly imperial role on the world stage. It sets a challenge to its viewers and readers to disentangle fact from fiction and to confront present realities, informed by an unromantic understanding of the past. Above all, Avedon and Baldwin’s collaborative venture sought to highlight the gap between how the nation saw itself and how it actually was, stripping away illusions of a comfortable and reassuring surface reality, replacing them with a portrait of a dysfunctional nation, locked into a history of violence and injustice. Avedon and Baldwin’s landmark photographic book was the inspiration for the Brighton Photo Biennial 2006 and the starting point for an exploration of the limits of representation, both photographic and political. Bringing together historical, contemporary and newly commissioned photographic and moving image works, the second Brighton Photo Biennial features works by artists who explore, in different ways, the thin line between past and present, fact and fiction, illusion and reality. Brighton Museum and Art Gallery and the historic gardens of the Royal Pavilion, the former being the venue for a major exhibition which takes its title from Avedon and Baldwin’s book assembles historical and contemporary photographic work by six major American artists. One of the most eccentric and distinctive buildings in England, the Royal Pavilion Brighton, was developed by the architect John Nash into an exuberant Indian and Chinese-inspired summer palace for the Prince Regent in the early part of the nineteenth century; a flamboyant architectural expression of an empire that was rapidly expanding across the globe. Drawing connections between Britain then, as an emerging imperial nation and the United States in recent decades, the exhibition Nothing Personal investigates the compelling attractions as well as the dark shadows inherent in all empires, past and present. Throughout Brighton and along the South-East Coast are a range of other solo and group exhibitions of established and emerging international artists, presented across a number of distinctive sites including the University of Brighton Gallery, Fabrica, Charleston Farmhouse, the De La Warr Pavilion and the Gardner Arts Centre. At a moment when the boundaries of democracy are being tested and pushed to new limits provoking questions about civil liberties, human rights and electoral legitimacy in different parts of the world, it seems timely to consider how the photographic image itself (and in the widest possible sense) has been the focus for forays, experiments and elaborations on the limits of representation. As Susan Sontag wrote of the photographs of Iraqi prisoners taken by US soldiers in Abu Ghraib prison: ‘the horror of what is shown in the photographs cannot be separated from the horror that the photographs were taken . . . where once photographing war was the province of photojournalists, now the soldiers themselves are all photographers –

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recording their war, their fun, their observations of what they find picturesque, their atrocities.’2 We are participants in a political moment when democracy is invoked as a standard bearer for acts which are far from democratic and when the tools of representation are being deployed to represent acts which should not be enacted, let alone represented. ‘The photographs are us,’ wrote Sontag of the horrific pictures from Abu Ghraib.3 The pictures, she argued, could not be seen as isolated incidents or the representations of maverick individuals but rather were the direct outcome of the political actions of the American nation. Only by recognizing how the individual and the national intersect with one another can one understand how these photographs stand as material evidence of the brutal and ubiquitous impact of the political on the personal. It is precisely this relationship between different regimes of representation – political and pictorial, collective and individual, written and visual – that makes Avedon and Baldwin’s Nothing Personal such a seminal and groundbreaking artistic project. Written and photographed as parallel but distinct elements, which were subsequently woven together by Avedon and the designer Marvin Israel (with editorial assistance from Marguerite Lamkin and James Baldwin’s brother David), Nothing Personal was the second collaboration between Avedon and Baldwin. They attended the same high school, DeWitt Clinton High, in the Bronx where they worked together on the school magazine Magpie together with Emile Capouya who later became literary editor of the Nation. There is no preface or introductory text to Nothing Personal. Instead, the book opens with a double spread of the lone builder of sandcastles, followed by a sequence of wedding photographs shot by Avedon in the Marriage Bureau at New York City Hall. It is the sheer ordinariness of this subject matter as commonplace occurrences from everyday life (holidays and weddings must surely be the most commonly photographed events in the family album) which sets the mundane scene for Avedon and Baldwin’s spectacular incision into the heart of America and the explosion of its myth of itself. ‘It is, of course, in the very nature of the myth,’ writes Baldwin, ‘that those who are its victims, and, at the same time, its perpetrators, should, by virtue of these two facts, be rendered unable to examine the myth, or even to suspect, much less recognise, that it is a myth which controls their lives.’4 In Nothing Personal, photographer and writer set out to immerse themselves in everyday American life and its representations, extracting from the individual and the commonplace a picture of the USA’s collective social and political reality in the mid-1960s. There is nothing personal about Avedon and Baldwin’s assault and everything political about their elegant dissection of America. While Avedon sets the scene with images of ordinary Americans doing everyday things like getting married and playing on the beach, Baldwin opens his text with a television remote control in his hand and acerbic reflections on the vain self-absorption that dominates American television commercials. His words are delivered in the form of a rapid-fire commentary on the tide of fleeting television images which he observes before moving rapidly into a sharp debunking of the nation’s founding mythology:

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To be locked in the past means, in effect, that one has no past, since one can never assess it, or use it: and if one cannot use the past, one cannot function in the present, and so one can never be free. I take this to be, as I say, the American situation in relief, the root of our unadmitted sorrow and the very key to our crisis.5 Baldwin’s ferocious attack on the US media – television, Hollywood and magazines – is an attack on the superficiality of America’s representations of itself which lulls its citizens into a false sense of security and, even, a misplaced euphoria (19.1). ‘I know,’ writes Baldwin, ‘that these are strong words for a sunlit, optimistic land, lulled for so long into such an euphoria, by prosperity (based on the threat of war) and by such magazines as READER’S DIGEST, and stirring political slogans, and Hollywood and television. (Communications whose role is not to communicate, but simply to reassure).’6 Throughout the book, Baldwin and Avedon repeatedly challenge America’s representations of itself and the tenuous, even dangerous, link between these representations – written, visual and political – and reality. Importantly, Avedon’s photographs do not illustrate Baldwin’s text. Nor does Baldwin’s text describe or comment upon Avedon’s pictures. Images and text work together in Nothing Personal like two distinct melodies in a musical score, coming together at certain points and diverging at others but underpinned by a consistent, shared base line which repeatedly pokes and prods at the nation at a critical point in its history. The assassination of John F. Kennedy in 1963 had shocked America and the immense grief that accompanied his death was clearly tied to what JFK represented. Even if the perception of a new era in North American politics did not match

Fig. 19.1 Glenn Ligon, Warm Broad Glow, 2005. Neon and paint, 36 x 192 in. (91.4 x 487.7 cm). © Glenn Ligon; Courtesy of the artist, Hauser & Wirth, New York, Regen Projects, Los Angeles, Thomas Dane Gallery, London and Chantal Crousel, Paris.

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Fig. 19.2 Paul Fusco, RFK Funeral Train, 1968. © Paul Fusco/Magnum Photos. Courtesy of Magnum Photos.

the reality, nonetheless JFK symbolized to many the hope and possibility of progressive social change. One year later, Nothing Personal reads like a forensic report on the state of the nation in the aftermath of Kennedy’s death. Through a syncopated relationship of image and text, the book compiled evidence for the prosecution uniting the passionate and fluent language of Baldwin with the cool but damning material corroboration of Avedon’s camera. JFK’s assassination was still fresh in the minds of the American people when five years later, Robert F. Kennedy (JFK’s brother and New York Senator) was assassinated on 5 June 1968 whilst he was running for the presidency. On 8 June, his funeral took place at St Patrick’s Cathedral, New York City, and his body was carried on a funeral train from New York to Washington, DC, as Abraham Lincoln’s had been over a century earlier. The photojournalist Paul Fusco travelled with Kennedy’s funeral train and recorded the many thousands of people that lined the railway tracks (Fig. 19.2). As with his brother before him, and even more so, Robert Kennedy represented the possibility of political, social and economic change. Fusco’s camera records the masses of people, black and white, young and old, who waited patiently to salute the passage of Robert Kennedy’s body from his political constituency to the political capital of America. The writer Norman Mailer recalled of the honour guard around Kennedy’s coffin in St Patrick’s:

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Lines filed by. People had waited in line for hours, five hours, six hours, more, inching forward through the day . . . The poorest part of New York had turned out, poor Negro women, Puerto Ricans, Irish washer-women, old Jewish ladies who looked like they ran grubby little news-stands, children, adolescents, families, men with hands thick and lined and horny as oyster shells, calluses like barnacles, came filing by to bob a look at that coffin covered by a flag.7 Thousands more waited patiently in the searing June heat to catch a glimpse of Kennedy’s coffin as it travelled along America’s East coast, supported by two chairs and visible through observation windows in the last carriage of the train. Fusco’s camera, trained on the waiting crowds, moves from the densely crowded platforms in New York and New Jersey in the bright midday sunlight through to the trickle of small groups standing beside the tracks in the ebbing light near Washington, DC. Some wave, some salute, others cry. Some are dressed informally in summer clothes, women with their hair still in curlers; others wear suits, formal clothes or uniforms. Many hold flags with the stars and stripes, handkerchiefs or homemade banners, proclaiming: ‘So long, Bobby.’ Mirroring Fusco’s own recording of the journey, many make their own record of the funeral train on hand-held photographic and movie cameras. There is a sense in these photographs that there is more passing here than a man’s coffin. It is as if with the deaths of John and Robert Kennedy, a particular vision for America’s future which would break once and for all with the injustices and inequalities of the past, had also died. Robert Kennedy embodied an idealistic aspiration for a recasting of the American dream in a new image of itself. In his eulogy at Robert Kennedy’s funeral, Edward Kennedy quoted one of his brother’s often repeated invocations: ‘Some men see things as they are and say why. I dream things that never were and say why not.’ In Nothing Personal, the main body of photographs, arranged and edited meticulously to different scales and in studied juxtapositions, portray an eclectic mix of US citizens, both known and unknown (Figs 19.3–6). George Lincoln Rockwell, Commander of the American Nazi Party, standing in front of his saluting, uniformed recruits, sits alongside a large-scale naked portrait of Allen Ginsberg, one hand cupped beneath his navel and the other held up as though the Beat poet were about to swear allegiance to an unseen American flag. An imposing portrait of William Casby, ‘born in slavery’, occupies its entire page. On the facing page is a small, square portrait of Adlai Stevenson, ‘representative of the United States in the United Nations’. It becomes obvious as you turn the pages of the book that Avedon’s visual juxtapositions are based as much on political and social considerations as they are on aesthetic and pictorial ones: How is or should America be represented? Other portraits include those of Dorothy Parker (writer), Marilyn Monroe (actress), Bertrand Russell (philosopher), Jerome Smith and Isaac Reynolds (civil rights workers and students) and Killer Joe (dance teacher). Levels of discomfort and ill-ease increase as you move through the consecutive pages until you reach the portrait of Major Claude Eatherly. His head and shoulders

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Fig. 19.3 Richard Avedon, The Generals of the Daughters of the American Revolution, DAR Convention, Mayflower Hotel, Washington D.C. October 15, 1963. © The Richard Avedon Foundation. Courtesy of The Richard Avedon Foundation.

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Fig. 19.4 Richard Avedon, Malcolm X, black nationalist leader, New York City, March 27, 1963. © The Richard Avedon Foundation. Courtesy of The Richard Avedon Foundation.

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Fig. 19.5 Richard Avedon, Major Claude Eatherly, pilot at Hiroshima, Galveston, Texas, April 3, 1963. © The Richard Avedon Foundation. Courtesy of The Richard Avedon Foundation.

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bleed to the edges of the photograph. He squints, his hand held as if to shield his eyes and he looks off into the distance, beyond Avedon the photographer, beyond us the viewers. There is a disturbing vacancy to his gaze. A pilot at Hiroshima in August 1945, Major Eatherly appears disorientated and confused. Apparently, he suffered mental health problems and had been admitted to an asylum rather than prison after committing a petty crime. When Avedon met him at a motel close by the asylum after he had been discharged, Eatherly was entirely monosyllabic. He had marks on the side of his head and Avedon suspected that he had been given electric shock treatment.8 Avedon’s portrait of Claude Eatherly is quite literally a prologue to madness. It precedes the most disturbing images of all in the book: portraits of patients in a mental institution. Photographed over a number of days in East Louisiana Mental Hospital, Jackson, Louisiana, these images evoke the dark interior of the American nation. They are difficult photographs to look at, representing as they do the fact of madness and the physical space which contains and shelters from public view those for whom the line between illusion and reality has been completely obliterated. This harrowing sequence of images is followed by more photographs shot on Santa Monica Beach – a heavily pregnant woman whose partner touches her swollen belly; a mother and son holding each other tightly on the seashore; a man supporting the weight of his infant son in the palm of his hand. The line between sanity and madness, hope and oblivion sketched in this way by Avedon’s combination of images and by Baldwin’s words is a fine and precarious one: ‘The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.’9 It is no coincidence that the pictures in the East Louisiana Mental hospital were taken in the South. Some of the most striking of Avedon’s portraits in the book were shot there. Assisted by Marguerite Lamkin, a descendent of Robert E. Lee, and her vast network of family and friends in Louisiana, Avedon was able to secure introductions to and photograph, among others, the Generals of the Daughters of the American Revolution (a lineage membership organization established in the nineteenth century for women who can prove their descent from an ancestor who helped to achieve US independence) and Leander Perez (an unapologetic racist and antiSemite with his own private army from whom Avedon concealed his Jewish identity) as well gaining access to the East Louisiana Mental Hospital. It is in the Deep South where, according to Baldwin, the United States appears so visibly locked into its past, a prisoner of its history and therefore unable to assess or use it. It was, perhaps, in an attempt to unlock that past that Walker Evans took a series of photographs in the mid-1930s of neglected and abandoned plantation houses. Reminiscent of Atget’s haunting nineteenth-century photographs of depopulated Paris streets, Evans’ photographs of southern plantation architecture had been commissioned by a wealthy New York industrialist, Gifford Cochran, and were intended to illustrate a book which was never published. Shot in a number

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Fig. 19.6 Richard Avedon, Mental Institution, East Louisiana State Mental Hospital, Jackson, Louisiana, February 15, 1963. © The Richard Avedon Foundation. Courtesy of The Richard Avedon Foundation.

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of locations across the South including Louisiana, Georgia and Mississipi, Evans’ haunting black-and-white photographs focus on the derelict yet still imposing properties of Southern landowners. There is no trace in Evans’ photographs of any human presence and the buildings themselves are entirely devoid of any trace of their former inhabitants. The progressive decay in the fabric of the buildings and the dishevelled remains of trees felled by the wind are at odds with the controlled symmetry and order of the neoclassical forms of the plantation buildings. It is as if the combined effect of human neglect and natural decay had finally begun to erode the dominance of these silent, brooding protagonists in slavery and Civil War. Around about the same time, now commissioned by the government agency, the Farm Security Administration (FSA), Evans began another series of photographs, this time of Civil War Monuments. These melancholic statues of Civil War commanders and their foot soldiers are portraits of a very distinctive kind. Shooting close up, either face on or directly from below, Evans records these forlorn figures without any peripheral details, isolated from their surroundings. Frozen in their gallant poses and full military dress, these heroes of the American South appear as mute witnesses forever locked in the past. Significantly, all of Evans’ photographs of Civil War Monuments are taken in Vicksburg, Mississippi, which was besieged by Yankee troops and fell on the 4 July 1863. With the fall of Vicksburg, the fall of the South had been assured.

II The violence of strangers Avedon’s images and Baldwin’s text are shot through with intimations of violence and its effects from its perpetrators – knowing or unknowing accomplices like Leander Perez or Major Claude Eatherly – through to its victims like Cheryl Crane, daughter of Lana Turner (who murdered Johnny Stompanato, the gangster who had violently threatened and abused her mother) and Martin Luther King III, son of Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., the civil rights leader who would be murdered in Memphis, Tennessee two months before Robert Kennedy. Explaining his decision to publish the portraits of Cheryl Crane and King III on facing pages, Avedon told his assistant Marguerite Lamkin that they had similar eyes and similarly shaped faces. Aesthetic symmetry was certainly a consideration for Avedon in juxtaposing the two images but so too was the asymmetry of their experiences: the one, driven to murder to defend her mother from violence; the other, the child of a man who had adopted non-violence as a strategy to challenge the racism and violence of segregation in the South. Violence, and in particular, the recent murder of John. F. Kennedy cast a dark shadow over Nothing Personal, which, in turn, strangely seems to foreshadow the assassinations of other political leaders that followed. Referring to Kennedy’s assassination, Baldwin reflected on the fact that the murder had been attributed to strangers and barbarians:

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Quite apart, now, from what time will reveal the truth of this case to have been, it is reassuring to feel that the evil came from without and is in no way connected with the moral climate of America: reassuring to feel that the enemy sent the assassin from far away, and that we, ourselves, could never have nourished so monstrous a personality or be in any way whatever responsible for such a cowardly and bloody act. Well. The America of my experience has worshipped and nourished violence for as long as I have been on earth. The violence was being perpetrated mainly against black men, though – the strangers; and so it didn’t count. But, if a society permits one portion of its citizenry to be menaced or destroyed, then, very soon, no one in that society is safe. The forces thus released in the people can never be held in check, but run their devouring course, destroying the very foundations which it was imagined they would save.10 The legacy of murder and violence in the past which continues to haunt the American present is invoked in the epic landscapes of Richard Misrach’s Desert Cantos, a series of photographs which chronicles the deserts of the American West (Fig. 19.7). In the cultural imagination, the American desert remains an icon of the country’s myth of itself and its self-representation as an epic, frontier

Fig. 19.7 Richard Misrach, Dead Animals #001, 1987. © Richard Misrach. Courtesy of Fraenkel Gallery, San Francisco.

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nation, conquering its human and natural enemies to establish the foundations of the heroic nation. The desert represents a kind of theatre of fears and dreams for the burgeoning new nation but it also represents the killing fields of a country forged in violence and conflict. Misrach’s monumental colour photographs are compellingly beautiful but unromantic images of a landscape ravaged by natural and human interventions. His images bear the traces of those interventions: devastating desert fires, discarded military equipment, bomb craters and cattle pits. Unlike the cattle of Hollywood Westerns herded across miles of arid terrain by tenacious cowboys, the lifeless animals of Misrach’s work are piled high in vast pits, sick, mutilated or diseased, with several carcasses one on top of the other, surrounded by rancid liquid, discarded petrol cans, empty cardboard boxes and other human debris. Occasionally Misrach’s camera falls on a lone animal and in one of these photographs, the animal’s head is entombed and encrusted in sand creating a disturbing and elegaic memento mori. It is partly the fragility of human existence to which Misrach alludes and partly to the precariousness and inevitable demise of the American dream. Andy Warhol’s Electric Chairs can also be seen as a contemporary reworking of the memento mori and a reflection on the darker side of the American dream (Fig. 19.8). Contrasting with his

Fig. 19.8 Andy Warhol, The Electric Chair, 1971. Screenprint on white paper, 35½ x 48 in. © 2019, The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Inc./Licensed by DACS, London.

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glamorous celebrity portraits, Warhol’s Electric Chairs are portraits of a very different kind. Mutating through different colour combinations, the vacant electric chair in an empty execution chamber is violently vivid in some prints and barely visible in others. They are dark and haunting images, whose morbid subject moves in and out of focus. Warhol began using the image of the electric chair in 1963, the same year as the last executions were held in New York State. In the 1960s, the legality of the death penalty in America was being seriously challenged as a ‘cruel and unusual’ punishment and therefore unconstitutional under the Eighth Amendment. As a consequence, there was a voluntary moratorium in most states between 1967 and 1972 when Warhol made these silkscreen prints. There had, however, been other events in Warhol’s life which brought violence closer to home. On 3 June 1968, Warhol was shot in the stomach by an actress called Valerie Solanas, an occasional visitor to ‘The Factory’. Warhol was rushed to the operating room. Following his surgery, he learnt of the assassination of Robert Kennedy. Seen together, Misrach and Warhol’s images create a new visual vocabulary for representing the American nation, one less dependent on illusion and fantasy. Rather, they paint an exquisite yet bleak picture of the reality of America which is reminiscent of writers like James Ellroy and Cormac McCarthy, whose unrelentingly violent portrayal of America has sought to redress the balance of unbridled optimism with a deep pessimism. Whereas Misrach’s Desert Cantos have been photographed over a period of two decades in different locations and at various times of day, David Claerbout’s White House (2006) was filmed over a single day against the backdrop of a neoclassical house in southern France that is reminiscent of Walker Evans’ photographs of plantation houses in the American South. Over an interval of thirteen hours, the same events are re-played over and over again. Two men, speaking to each other in French, are in discussion. As they talk and move around in the shadow of the columned porch of the house, the camera moves also, observing them from different angles. There is nothing explicit or tangible to explain what happens next. Dissolving the boundaries between photography and film, Claerbout’s work frequently puts into question the reassuring stillness of the photographic image and the inevitable narrative progress of the cinematic image. His film and photography installations, tinged with melancholy, disorient the viewer by endowing still images with movement and by slowing or even halting the cinematic passage of time. In works such as Vietnam, 1967, near Duc Pho (reconstruction after Hiromichi Mine ‘Friendly Fire’), where the artist re-animates a historical photograph of a US fighter plane disintegrating in mid-air, his stated desire to ‘unfreeze the photograph’ can also be understood as a desire to unfreeze the past in a way which disturbs the present. Unlike his earlier works, White House breaks through the surface of the single, still photograph transforming the inert and fleeting representation of violence into a dynamic but seemingly endless repetition of events. The man hesitates briefly as he straddles the other and raises a heavy rock above the injured man. When the weight of the stone crushes his skull, the senseless and inexplicable violence of

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this act is somehow made worse by that brief moment of doubt. As the murderer walks away to the sound of Jules Massenet’s opera Werther blaring out of his car radio, there is no sense of catharsis or resolution. And then, the events are repeated again, and again, and again. The actors become sweaty and tired. The light changes as we move from dawn to dusk. The events are repeated seventy times over thirteen hours. As the scene is re-enacted, the viewer’s attention begins to take in other details in the narrative – the changing weather, subtle modifications in the actors’ appearance, the passage of time, the oppressive architecture of the white house in the background. Assaulted daily with images of violence that often remain unexplained and devoid of any context, Claerbout’s White House punctures our passive reception of these images and compels us to look again and, perhaps, get beyond the transient events of the present. Repeating its violent narrative seemingly endlessly, the work explores the relationship between trauma and memory – the way our minds act to transform a trauma in the immediate present which we register but are unable to process – into an experience or memory that is eventually processed and stored and therefore can be retrieved as a way to make sense of the present.

III Shadows of empire As the shadows lengthen across the white house of Claerbout’s work, the house itself becomes a kind of sundial which registers the gradual and progressive passage of time. The shadows, in turn, become a kind of metaphor for the way in which history repeats itself, a theme explored in Kara Walker’s disturbing new film 8 Possible Beginnings . . . or the Creation of African America (2006). Shadows have long been a tool for artists either to create a heightened sense of reality, to show what lies outside the immediate field of vision, or to manipulate the perception of people and objects through the subtle transformation of the shadows they cast. Mirroring the style of the earliest silent films at the turn of the twentieth century and even earlier fantastic shows of demons and hobgoblins in the sixteenth century, Walker presents a dark, episodic narrative, punctuated by slavery, rape and lynching. Walker is the impresario and puppet master whose cut-out figures enact this brutally vivid, short history of African America in eight parts. Putting aside the artifice of illusion and film-making, Walker appears as a protagonist/puppeteer in her own film, manipulating the strings of her puppets through the violent contortions of African American experience. There is something deeply disquieting about Walker’s use of puppetry, shadow play and the silent film genre to narrate these chronicles. A form of entertainment now associated with children, but historically associated with the representation of evil spirits and demons, Walker’s film is a recasting of American history through the prism of the nightmare experiences of African Americans.

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Kara Walker’s use of chiaroscuro in many ways echoes Orson Welles’ formal innovations and experimental strategies in film and theatre which were crystallized in his Mercury production company. Working with John Houseman (Director of the WPA’s Negro Theatre Project), Welles produced his own version of Macbeth in 1936 at the Lafayette Theatre in Harlem in New York with an all African-American cast. Relocated to nineteenth-century Haiti, Welles’ production of the play, which became known as Voodoo Macbeth, was inspired by the nineteenth-century Haitian king Henri Christophe and his cruel regime which provoked a revolt and culminated in his suicide. By setting the play on an island in the Caribbean in the 1800s, Welles was able to invoke the forces of darkness, substituting voodoo priestesses for Shakespeare’s witches and using drums throughout the play which sound the threat of violence and corruption. Welles was fascinated by the moral ambiguity of powerful men whose fantasies and delusions lead them to create autocratic empires which bear the seeds of their own demise (a fascination he was to pursue some years later in his film Citizen Kane, based on the life of the media tycoon William Randolph Hearst). Produced in the mid-1930s, during the same period when Walker Evans was photographing decaying plantation houses in the Deep South, Welles’ Voodoo Macbeth has to be seen also in the context of the threat of fascism and impending war in the other side of the Atlantic. A political allegory of sorts, Voodoo Macbeth gave voice to fears about the disturbing and malign political forces that had gripped parts of Europe. Almost forty years later, Walker Evans visited England (a confirmed Anglophile, Evans had visited England on previous occasions and taken photographs there). During this particular visit in August 1973, two years before his death, the photographer came to visit his long-standing friends Robert Lowell and Caroline Blackwood. Uncharacteristically intimate, many of Evans’ photographs are personal records of his friends at home in London and on the South coast but among the private snapshots are also images that reflect Evans’ distinctive preoccupations. Interspersed between the photographs of various examples of English architecture, from Georgian squares in London, Tudor-style cottages, country houses and the distinctive seaside buildings of Brighton, including the Palace Pier and Royal Pavilion, are tell-tale traces of Britain’s imperial past and present. Evans’ eye homes in, for example, on posters on a London news stand, reporting the discovery of an IRA bomb factory, a palm tree silhouetted against the minarets of the Royal Pavilion, or on a poster advertising an exhibition about ‘The British in India’. This latter sign sits behind a portrait of Xandra Bingley (the first wife of the Anglo-Irish Lord Grey Gowrie) of whom Evans took several portraits. Xandra was a friend of Caroline Blackwood, a maverick member of the Guinness family whose great-grandfather, Lord Dufferin, had been Viceroy of India. ‘London Bomb Factory Found’ reads the headline for the Evening Standard, recorded by Evans alongside the Evening News’ newspaper hoarding: ‘Stock Exchange Bomb Blast Casualties’. Arriving in Britain one year after the events of Bloody Sunday in which thirteen demonstrators had been shot by British troops in the Bogside District of Londonderry, Evans’ trip took place in the midst of an intensive and prolonged bombing campaign by the IRA on the British mainland.

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Not surprisingly, then, his photographs document an English landscape, which, like Evans’ American South, is littered with evidence of a past which continues to impose itself on the present. The English landscape is also the subject of Henna Nadeem’s work, which is installed in the gallery of Charleston Farmhouse, the former home of Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant. Conscientious objectors to the First World War, Bell and Grant moved to the countryside from London in 1916 and began living at Charleston in the rolling Sussex Downs. Over a period of half a century Charleston became the country meeting place for the group of artists, writers and intellectuals known as the Bloomsbury Group including the novelist E. M. Forster, economist John Maynard Keynes and art historian Roger Fry. Presenting a selection of works made for her artists’ book A Picture Book of Britain (2006), Nadeem has created delicate and playful collages, using as her source material photographs of the British landscape originally published by Country Life magazine between the 1930s and 1980s in a series of popular publications entitled The Picture Books of Britain. Whereas the Country Life images were intended to evoke the essential character of the British nation and its timeless landscape, Nadeem’s collages suggest a familiar but anonymous place, shrouded and screened by cut-out pattern templates drawn from a variety of non-Western sources. These patterns, which the artist uses to digitally blend the original Country Life images together, significantly alter the recognizable contours of the English countryside, and provide a mechanism for subtly combining two very different and opposed visual traditions. In the resulting works, Nadeem creates a new hybrid pictorial space which eclipses its primary sources. Projected outwards on to the main thoroughfare of central Brighton which separates the University of Brighton Gallery from the site of the Royal Pavilion buildings is Adel Abdessemed’s video God is Design (2005), accompanied by a specially-commissioned score by Silvia Ocougne. Made up of 3,050 individual drawings that come one after the other in quick succession, God is Design is an animated film which appropriates a number of visual motifs and references from cells in the human body, through Jewish and Islamic religious symbols to Western geometric painting and North African abstract patterns in a collision of codes and styles. The individual elements of Abdessemed’s animated film move so rapidly from one to the other that it is difficult to isolate or fix upon any distinct motif to the exclusion of another. Recalling his earlier work The Green Book, an artist’s book for which Abdessemed invited a number of people of different nationalities to write down the lyrics of their national anthem in their own hand, God is Design assembles an array of signs and symbols to build a kind of visual Esperanto, which subtly effaces any single regime of signification.

IV Prologue to madness There is a symbol to be found in the Forbidden City; this centre of the centre of the world. Locked inside was the emperor, direct link to the heaven, ruler and upholder of the Chinese

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empire, and simultaneously its prisoner. Locked outside was the world. A culture is always a palace and a prison. The migrant – I – must deal with questions of being inside or outside.11 In the gardens of the Royal Pavilion, after sunset, Fiona Tan’s film A Lapse of Memory (2006) imagines a solitary and lonely man shut up in the Pavilion, who talks to himself constantly, unable to discern past from present, reality from fiction (Figs 19.9). Henry is an eccentric, living in voluntary exile and completely oblivious to his luxurious and extravagant surroundings. It is unclear whether his rantings are the hallucinations of an opium eater or the effects of senile dementia. Henry’s identity is equally uncertain. Projected close by the distinctive architectural forms of the palace and its Indian-inspired minarets, Tan’s film exposes to public view the interior of the Royal Pavilion as well as the condition of Henry’s disturbed mind, as confused as the ostentatious décor of the building with its hybrid quotation of Indian, Chinese and Japanese styles. Like the protagonists of Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground and Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, Tan’s eccentric old man has been shaped irrevocably by the culture from which he is a recluse and which, perhaps, have been the cause of his delusions. Like Avedon’s portraits of patients at East Louisiana Mental Hospital, Tan’s work makes manifest those things usually hidden from public gaze. It is these unrepresented and, in some ways, ‘unrepresentable’ aspects of culture and society that Avedon and Tan disclose. Against the grain of the ubiquitous iconography of national and cultural identity, both artists have sought to represent what is usually perceived to be ‘beyond representation’ and to rupture those comforting representations of national culture with disquieting images. It is the capacity to hold in one’s mind the gulf between the self one invents and the undiscoverable self which, according to Baldwin, is the only way for the individual and the nation to keep in touch with reality: It is perfectly possible – indeed, it is far from uncommon – to go to bed one night, or wake up one morning, or simply to walk through a door one has known all one’s life, and discover, between inhaling and exhaling, that the self one has sewn together with such effort is all dirty rags, is unusable, is gone: and out of what raw material will one build a self again? The lives of men – and, therefore, of nations – to an extent literally unimaginable, depend on how vividly this question lives in the mind. It is a question which can paralyze the mind, of course; but if the question does NOT live in the mind, then one is simply condemned to eternal youth, which is a synonym for corruption.12

V Fantasy, identity and celebrity culture It is hard to tell from William Eggleston’s photographs whether Elvis Presley’s Graceland mansion on the outskirts of Memphis, Tennessee is a palace or a prison. However, viewed through the curved iron gates – composed of musical notes hanging on metal bars which wrap around the estate – Presley’s Memphis home seems more like the latter, more a sugar-coated

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Figs 19.9 Fiona Tan, A Lapse of Memory, 2006. Video projection, 24 mins 35 sec. Courtesy of the artist and Frith Street Gallery, London.

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prison than a pleasure palace. Eggleston was commissioned in 1983 to document the singer’s home, which had become a shrine and site of pilgrimage for fans of the American legend. A fellow Southerner (both Eggleston and Presley came from Mississippi), Eggleston’s intense dye transfers of Presley’s luxurious home (a sharp contrast to his humble beginnings in a shack in Tupelo) paint a very different picture of the South to the bleak, monochrome poverty which Evans and others had recorded almost fifty years earlier on behalf of the Farm Security Administration. The saturated colour photographs probe into the corners of Graceland’s interior spaces, falling on different objects from the brash and bizarre rooms of the house. The trophies which fill Graceland suggest a garish opulence at the apex of the American dream’s material accumulation: a gold piano, fur rugs and cushions, statuettes of classical Greek figurines and exotic animals, and portraits of the ‘King’ and his child bride. And in the corner of a sitting room, hung with gold drapes, is a small statuette of a cowboy, resting on a white television set. This palace, like the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, is dedicated to bolstering the celebrity and mythical status of the Memphis King, a shrine to fantasy, myth-making and the American dream. Growing up as a young man in Cairo, at the heart of the largest movie industry in the Middle East, the Armenian-Egyptian photographer Van Leo was obsessed with cinema, and particularly with Hollywood and its screen icons. From an early age, he collected cinema magazines and photographs of Hollywood stars, storing up a mental archive of images of glamour and celebrity. Van Leo would eventually establish his own photographic studio and create portraits of singers, actors, dancers and socialites that evoke the elegant and cosmopolitan lifestyle of Egyptian high society in the mid-twentieth century and its unruffled pursuit of leisure. But in the early 1940s, in the midst of the Second World War when he had set up a makeshift studio in his parents’ apartment, Van Leo’s primary subject was himself. During this time, he made hundreds of self-portraits that depict the photographer variously as prisoner, woman, bohemian, air-force pilot, Cossack prince, or in different film roles from femme fatale to gangster, from Sam Spade to Zorro, allowing Van Leo to indulge his fascination with fantasy, games and make-believe. Taken in pre-revolutionary Cairo and during the last years of the British occupation of Egypt, Van Leo’s images are self-absorbed and narcissistic but at the same time, he is intensely aware of the means of representation: several photographs portray him against the backdrop of his own images or holding the camera or camera lighting equipment or reflected in a mirror. One series of self-portraits depicts him in a number of different poses with a marble statue of an eighteenth-century woman: Van Leo embraces her, puts his arms around her, holds her tightly as if to kiss her, adjusts her shawl around her shoulders. At a time of massive social upheaval in Egypt and in the Middle East as a whole, Van Leo’s extraordinary self-portraits, which stretched the conventions of studio photography in his time, can variously be read as a means of turning away from the conflict and turmoil in the world around him into a world of illusion and make-believe which he could control and manipulate, or as a reflection of the multiple possibilities which faced a country like Egypt as it

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considered future post-war political scenarios whether monarchist, colonial, Islamic or modern democratic.

VI The limits of photography As artist-in-residence at the Design Council Archives, Gabriel Kuri’s intervention As Selected for the Design Centre, London (2006), presented across a number of public spaces in Brighton moves photography quite literally out of the archive and into the public arena (Figs 19.10). Taking as his starting point a pristine image from 1962 of domestic tableware, Kuri’s work reflects on the immaculate and unsoiled pictorial aesthetic that was characteristic not only of the Design Council’s post-war photography but also of an era of unbridled enthusiasm for modernity and progress. Reclaimed from local second hand shops forty years after they had been launched into the marketplace as paragons of Britain’s brave new world of modern design, the artist has installed identical sets of tableware in glass showcases in different sites across the city, three-dimensional simulacra of the original. Unlike the immaculate original, however, these three-dimensional replicas bear the traces of human consumption. Small stains and remnants of food have been left behind, evidence of the less than perfect domestic world that the Council’s photography so emphatically ignored. Kuri’s representations are like threedimensional photographs that have broken out of their two-dimensional frames and entered everyday life. No longer spotless and pristine, Kuri’s reproductions take the image of 1960s design idyll to its logical conclusion, bringing it into public circulation and usage. Keen to take forward the educational spirit of the Design Council’s founding mission, Kuri’s work completes the modernist project ‘with human imperfection’.13 There is a single photographic image in Alfredo Jaar’s installation The Sound of Silence (2006) and even this one image is only visible on the screen for a matter of seconds (Fig. 19.11). When you enter Jaar’s installation, you enter a story: it is a story about an individual photograph and its impact, but also a story about representation and its unequal effects. As the artist says: ‘It is a lamentation. It’s a poem that asks about the ethics of what we (photojournalists) do when we shoot pain.’14 Characteristically, Jaar is as concerned with why and how something is represented as much as with what is represented. Although photography is central to his practice, Jaar’s installations and public interventions cannot be defined by a particular medium or format. The aesthetic strategies he employs are based on responses to particular lived experiences, which he describes as a ‘series of exercises in representation.’ Jaar’s work frequently exposes the limits of photographic representation in the face of cataclysmic events, notably the genocide in Rwanda, which cannot be invoked purely through traditional pictorial means. Instead Jaar’s installations confront us with the inadequacy of photography as a vehicle for mediating human experience in any literal way.

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Figs 19.10 Gabriel Kuri, As Selected for the Design Centre, London, 2006. Installation view, Kensingtons, 1–2 Kensington Gardens, Brighton, Brighton Photo Biennial, 6–29 October 2006. © Gabriel Kuri. Courtesy of Sadie Coles HQ, London.

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Fig. 19.11 Alfredo Jaar, The Sound of Silence, 2006. Wood structure, aluminum, fluorescent tubes, LED lights, flashlights, tripods, video projection, 8 mins loop. Software design: Ravi Rajan. Overall dimensions variable. Courtesy of Goodman Gallery, Johannesburg/Cape Town, Galeria Oliva Arauna, Madrid, kamel mennour, Paris, Galerie Lelong & Co., New York, Galerie Thomas Schulte, Berlin, Museum of Contemporary Art, Chicago, Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, and the artist, New York.

Access to The Sound of Silence is carefully controlled. As you enter the installation space, you are confronted with an unsettling narrative that again raises questions about what can and should be represented and of the responsibilities not only of the individual photographer but also of those who control the circulation and dissemination of the photographic image: He positioned himself for the best possible image. He waited 20 minutes. He was hoping the vulture would spread its wings. But it did not. He took his photographs. And chased the bird

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away. He watched as the little girl resumed her struggle. He sat under a tree and lit a cigarette. Talked to God. And cried. Kevin. Kevin.15 Jaar’s work asks us searching questions about photography’s political implications. In a context where reality television shows and webcasting purport to democratize the means of representation, Jaar’s practice is a timely reminder of the gulf that exists between representation in a political sense with its attendant expectations of power, civil liberties and freedom of speech and the democratization of the media which allows for greater individual participation but stops short of enabling us to be agents of significant change. Separated by four decades, Jaar’s The Sound of Silence and Avedon and Baldwin’s Nothing Personal, nonetheless, share a common desire to create a space for reflection and critique that stands apart from the representations of Hollywood, television, politics and the media. And it is this critical, creative space that allows us to disentangle fact from fiction, and illusion from reality. It is also the space that can potentially unlock the past so that it is not endlessly replayed over and over again in the present. As Baldwin writes, ‘When a civilisation treats its poets with the disdain with which we treat ours, it cannot be far from disaster; it cannot be far from the slaughter of the innocents.’16 The final image in Nothing Personal is shot in Atlanta, Georgia. A smartly dressed group of young people of different ages, both black and white, some holding placards, look directly at the camera. They are members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee of Atlanta and have an air of quiet determination about them, a confidence in their capacity to bring about change. A quiet storm had been brewing in the American South now for several years. Ever since the landmark ruling on segregation in May 1954 by the Supreme Court in the Brown v the Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas, the Civil Rights struggle in America had entered a new phase. It was followed by the Montgomery bus boycott in which a young Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. had led black residents in Montgomery, Alabama in a boycott of public buses over a year and then in 1957 by the case of Little Rock High School in Arkansas where black children had to be accompanied into school by American paratroopers to avoid mob violence form white segregationists. The group in Avedon’s photograph recalls the thirteen black and white young people who in May 1961 embarked on a Freedom Ride from Washington, DC, to New Orleans, travelling on Greyhound and Trailways buses to challenge segregation on public transport in the Deep South. Following in the footsteps of King’s strategy of non-violent protest, the Student Non-Violent Co-ordinating Committee of Alabama appear to be the vanguard for massive social and economic change. The photograph, like the book as a whole, can be read as a call to action, an invocation to change rather than to murder. For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have.17

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Notes 1 James Baldwin in Richard Avedon and James Baldwin, Nothing Personal, New York: Atheneum, 1964. 2 Susan Sontag, ‘The Photographs are Us’, New York Times Magazine, 23 May 2004: 26–7. 3 Ibid. 4 Baldwin, in Avedon and Baldwin, Nothing Personal. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. 7 Norman Mailer, ‘The Promise’, in Paul Fusco, RFK Funeral Train, New York: Magnum Photos, in association with New York: Umbrage Editions, 2000. 8 Unpublished conversation with Marguerite Lamkin, 2006. 9 Baldwin, in Avedon and Baldwin, Nothing Personal. 10 Ibid. 11 From Fiona Tan, ‘May You Live in Interesting Times’, documentary film, 1997. 12 Baldwin, in Avedon and Baldwin, Nothing Personal. 13 Unpublished correspondence with the artist, 2006. 14 Alfredo Jaar, quoted by Patricia C. Johnson, Houston Chronicle, 17 March 2006. 15 Text from Alfredo Jaar, The Sound of Silence, exhibition, 2006. 16 Baldwin, in Avedon and Baldwin, Nothing Personal. 17 Ibid.

20 Telling tales Keith Piper’s relocating the remains

James Baldwin published Just Above My Head in 1979. Set against the background of the civil rights movement in America in the 1960s, it is the story of a gospel singer called Arthur Montana; or rather, it is the story of how Arthur Montana is remembered through the prism of his brother’s memory. The story begins with Arthur’s death. It begins at the end, meanders through the beginning and concludes somewhere in the middle. In Just Above My Head, Baldwin not only dispenses with a linear narrative for his novel but he substitutes a deeply flawed and partial recollection of an individual’s history for an authoritative, ‘impartial’ narrative account of Arthur’s life. And Arthur’s personal history weaves in and out of the histories of other individuals and of the history of the civil rights movement. Towards the end of the novel, Hall Montana, the novel’s narrator, relates the encounter in Paris between Arthur and Guy, a Frenchman. In the final day of their brief love affair, Arthur begins to wonder about Guy’s previous boyfriend, an Algerian man called Mustafa, and the inescapable fact that both Guy and Arthur, in very different ways are bound inextricably to their respective histories or rather as Baldwin puts it that history ‘is clinging’ to them: To overhaul a history or to attempt to redeem it – which effort may or may not justify it – is not at all the same thing as the descent one must make in order to excavate a history. To be forced to excavate a history is, also, to repudiate the concept of history, and the vocabulary in which history is written; for the written history is, and must be, merely the vocabulary of power, and power is history’s most seductively attired false witness. And yet, the attempt, more, the necessity, to excavate a history, to find out the truth about oneself is motivated by the need to have the power to force others to recognise your presence, your right to be here. The disputed passage will remain disputed so long as you do not have the authority of the right-of way – so long, that is, as your passage can be disputed: the document promising safe passage can be revoked. Power clears the passage, swiftly: but the paradox, here, is that power, rooted in history, is also, the mockery and the repudiation of history.1 229

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One of the central concerns of Keith Piper’s Relocating the Remains and, indeed, of his work over the past fifteen years has been to do with interrogating history, excavating the remnants of the past (Figs 20.1). Piper has also been questioning the very nature of history in terms of both its form and its content. His work does not rewrite history or map out an alternative, unambiguous historical narrative but rather seeks to problematize the very notion of a coherent, linear historical trajectory. The complex layering of image, sound and text which Piper exploits so eloquently in his work through his use of multimedia technology, does not seek to explain or resolve the gaps and fissures which are exposed by ‘official’ histories. As we apprehend the fleeting images, sounds and texts in Relocating the Remains, we are not presented with any answers but rather a sense of the parallel, intersecting narratives which make up what is called history. Piper presents us with a palimpsest of narratives; layer upon layer of images, sounds and texts which intersect and overlap. There are fragments here of Western history and art history, of Piper’s own history as a black man and as an artist. They are all inextricably linked. Relocating the Remains is an artistic project which challenges the fundamental rules of the art historical game. It is a ‘retrospective’ project but one which does not follow a clear chronological line. Over a period of fifteen years, the artist has revisited key themes time and again and images, even works, are constantly reworked and re-presented. A conventional retrospective was impossible, not least because so many of the artist’s early works have been damaged, disappeared or have been dismantled. Nothing remains of the works which once existed except photographs. And Piper has quite literally ‘relocated’ the remains of his own practice as well as relocating the remains of a number of complex, intersecting fragments of different historical narratives. Piper is both artist and archivist, relocating history according to his own categories: UnRecorded; UnMapped; UnClassified. Relocating his artistic past according to his own categories, Piper allows you to follow a ‘timeline’ of his artistic oeuvre except that this ‘timeline’ leads you sideways and diagonally, in and out and across time. The artwork acts as an archive of a living past, one through which each viewer navigates their own path; a collection of fragments which you can piece together into your own story but which never makes up a single, coherent linear narrative. Despite the revolutionary claims made on behalf of new technology that it will fundamentally alter our lives and empower us in radical new ways, the digital dreams of an utopian cyberspace have yet to be realized. But it is what is happening in the gaps and fissures of this new digitalized hegemony which is the most interesting. In music, film and the visual arts, artists and writers have taken up new technology because it has come to be viewed as the representative form for articulating the diasporan experience. Fragmented, dissonant, layered and non-linear, cyberspace appears to be the quintessential diasporan space.

Notes 1 Baldwin, Just Above My Head, p. 522.

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Figs 20.1 Keith Piper, Stills from Relocating the Remains CD-ROM (from the project Caught Like a Nigger in Cyberspace), 1997. © Keith Piper. Courtesy of the artist.

21 Sweet oblivion

One day he was looking for the small anvil that he used for laminating metals and he could not remember its name. His father told him: ‘Stake’. Aureliano wrote the name on a piece of paper that he pasted to the base of the small anvil: stake. In that way he was sure of not forgetting it in the future. It did not occur to him that this was the first manifestation of a loss of memory, because the object had a difficult name to remember. But a few days later he discovered that he had trouble remembering almost every object in the laboratory. Then he marked them with their respective names so that all he had to do was read the inscription in order to identify them. When his father told him about his alarm at having forgotten even the most impressive happenings of his childhood, Aureliano explained his method to him, and José Arcadia Buendía put it into practice all through the house and later imposed it on the whole village. With an inked brush he marked everything with its name: table, chair, clock, door, wall, bed, pan. He went to the corral and marked the animals and plants: cow, goat, pig, hen, cassava, caladium, banana. Little by little, studying the infinite possibilities of a loss of memory, he realized that the day might come when things would be recognized by their inscriptions, but no one would remember their use. GABRIEL GARC ÍA M Á RQUEZ, ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE .1

We wander through our city centres, weaving a path through the A to Z of street names and the tourist trail of ceremonial buildings and statues whose significance we as city-dwellers have long forgotten. Beyond the magical realism of García Marquez’s fiction, in the here and now of the real world, the day has already come when we recognize places and monuments by their inscriptions but no longer recall their original function. The source of street names like ‘Black Boy Hill’ and ‘Whiteladies Road’ in the heart of Bristol has become obscured by the clinical banality of a street index. Placed in alphabetical order, assigned a page and grid reference and consigned to the back page of a city map, these semantic traces of the city’s past are now no more than geographical markers, evacuated of historical meaning. A ‘white blanket of forgetfulness’, as one writer elegantly put it, has been drawn across the material remains of slavery and empire in Britain’s once glorious cities like Bristol and Liverpool.2 232

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Just like granules of sugar dissolving without trace in a sea of tea leaves, the legacy of Britain’s imperial history has all but disappeared from popular consciousness. We would rather succumb to the lure of sweet oblivion than linger over bitter remembrance of things past and now forgotten. Forgetting has become the condition of contemporary life in the metropolitan centres of Europe’s former imperial nations. Everything depends upon it. Journalists and politicians rely upon our forgetfulness to promote their own versions of the past which invariably go unchallenged in the public arena. What Noam Chomsky has christened ‘political incorrectness’ in a witty but strategic inversion of the now familiar term is precisely this revision of history whereby we put history under wraps or else eliminate the ‘discordant notes from past and present history’.3 In the late twentieth century, it has become a matter of political necessity to forget the uncomfortable and disturbing elements of our past in public life. And, of course, forgetting in no way precludes nostalgia. On the contrary, we persist  – as we have for so long  – in nostalgic revisitations of idyllic, often invented versions of our history. Nostalgia is itself a kind of forgetting. It substitutes a rose-tinted version of times gone by for the reality of lived experience to the extent that we come to draw on a common pool of shared memories irrespective of whether we lived that particular past or not. Through a veil of nostalgia, we come to designate as history those fictional and invented narratives which are reconstructed and played out on our film and television screens. We indulge in fond recollections for the heat and dust of an imperial lifestyle that belonged to someone else – if it existed at all. Indeed, what we mistake for historical continuity and age-old tradition, as Hobsbawn, Ranger and others have shown, is often nothing more than an invention of the nineteenth-century created to lend renewed power and legitimacy not only to European ruling elites in decline but also to the rule of empire.4 Against this background, Trophies of Empire can be seen in political terms as a project about forgetting and remembering. Collecting and re-collecting the discordant notes from past and present history, artists retrace the historical lines of slavery and empire in the fabric of contemporary life. The word ‘trophy’ itself invokes these two essential and Janus-like aspects of memory: forgetting and remembering, absence and presence. For ‘trophy’ not only refers to the existence of a material object in the here and now (the very object whose function it is to be an aide-memoire or trigger to memory), but also to the absence of the event or happening for which the trophy is a symbolic trace. In works like those created by South Atlantic Souvenirs and Trouble for The Trophy Cabinet, the evidence of the past is quite literally inscribed upon the everyday world. Repackaging banal consumer goods like sugar cubes, tea bags and sweet cigarettes in the wrappings of their own history, they invert the process of ‘inventing tradition’, substituting for the fabrication of the past, the revelation of a forgotten history, namely the human cost of slavery and imperial trading. In

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this context, the words ‘souvenir’ and ‘memento’ which fuse together the contingent spheres of history and memory, are invested with a particular inflection which has less to do with sentimentality and nostalgia than with a critical interrogation of the past and its legacy. As works of art, these ‘products’ and the souvenir set of picture cards and booklet which South Atlantic Souvenirs and Trouble advertise as ‘a memento which you and your loved ones will treasure for years to come’, are collectable items not unlike the spoils amassed by imperial nations in their museums and trophy cabinets; and, at the same time, disposable, ephemeral objects which may be lost or discarded in the same way that strands of history are relegated to the margins of contemporary lived experience. Edwina Fitzpatrick’s Terra also contests the established definition of historical continuity and the careless assumption that ‘things have always been like this’ (Figs 21.1). Fixed and contained within its static, transparent orb, the terrarium which is the centrepiece of the work, can be seen as a metaphor for the historical traces which populate our everyday lives in the shape of habitual objects such as this whose original function we have already forgotten. The lines which thread their way out from the central orb to the smaller satellite shapes laid out upon the ground mark out the lines of connection (perhaps navigational lines of longitude and latitude, trade routes or even patterns of thought) which tie this unremarkable household ornament to the historical transportation of seedlings across the world and hence to European imperialism. The contradictory status of the terrarium, a living microcosm frozen within glass walls, is underscored by the title of the work, ‘terra’, and the ambivalence of this word which can refer to a single grain of soil or to the entire globe and which approximates to the word designating fear and intimidation. The sanitized space of the terrarium can be seen to stand for the arena of contemporary life which has been emptied of historical meaning, arresting the past in an artificially constructed and stagnant sphere. Here, ideas, remain fixed and unchanging, at odds with the notion of progress (travel, science, technology, trade) seemingly encapsulated in the terrarium. History and memory inevitably cannot be divorced from language with which they are intimately related and the nature of this intricate relationship is explored in a number of other works in Trophies of Empire. In Donald Rodney’s installation Doublethink (1992), the crowded shelves of sporting trophies stacked one on top of the other, each inscribed with a different caption, for example, ‘Black people are not intellectuals’, ‘Black people live in derelict parts of the city’,‘Black people are sexually obsessed’,‘Black people live in a world of confusion and conflicting feelings’ identify the fundamental role of language in determining our relationship to the past and present. Each trophy marks a single achievement or conquest (Rodney purposefully maintains the ambivalent status of the trophy) (Fig 21.2). This is not simply a physical or territorial gain but an intellectual and conceptual victory of language over reality. History (and memory), Rodney seems to suggest, is made up of a series of fragments which, viewed in isolation, are slightly discomforting but singular incidents. Seen as a whole, layer upon layer,

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Figs 21.1 Edwina Fitzpatrick, Terra, 1992. Terrarium and 14 lightboxes. © Edwina Fitzpatrick. Courtesy of the artist.

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fragment upon fragment, these single strands make up a dissonant orchestra of Britain’s imperial legacy which continues into our present lives. It is worth recalling here the extract cited earlier from One Hundred Years of Solitude, where García Marquez acknowledges the significance of language but also its futility. It is all very well to remember a word or name but what value do these fragments of knowledge have if they exist in isolation, divorced from their original context and meaning? It is, in Rodney’s work, as if words (and, by extension, language) were the objects of collection in this strange cabinet of curiosities. Fastened to the base of their trophies, they remain fixed in time and space like the golden sportsmen above. The fragmentary and often abstract rendering of history is evoked in Keith Piper’s Trade Winds installation which comprises a series of recurring visual and linguistic fragments which are apprehended through twelve television monitors encased in rough timber shipping crates. The viewer is compelled to gaze into the body of these crates one at a time (the only way to see all the monitors at one time is suspended from a height above the gallery space so that a total, global view is effectively placed outside the realm of everyday experience). The physical raw materials of maritime trade through time are re-united in the present in Piper’s work. Countering

Fig. 21.2 Donald Rodney, Doublethink, 1992. Mixed media installation. © Donald Rodney. Courtesy of Estate of Donald Rodney.

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the notion that history is a coherent, sequential narrative, Piper paints a picture of the past as a series of overlapping, disconnected fragments which, like disjointed memories, penetrate our consciousness intermittently but repeatedly. The human body and mind (which the physical structure and imagery of the work constantly invoke) provides the framework for Piper’s investigation into the Atlantic Slave Trade and its legacy. It is the human scale of reference, Piper implies, which should of necessity furnish the measure of history and our interpretation of it. Interweaved into the montage of images, the artist introduces passages of text, some less legible than others, like the handwritten fragments of slave ships’ log books, invoices and bills of sale for human cargo. As with history, we can choose to unravel the inscriptions of the past and our implications in the text or wrap it in a shroud of collective forgetfulness. The tension between personal memory and public memorial plays a critical role in Carole Drake’s Commemoration Day installation. The body of a man, hanging, casts a dark, ominous shadow over an old photograph of a school event, projected onto the gallery wall. The artist’s childhood recollection of a Colston’s Girls’ School Commemoration Day in Bristol, has been inscribed retrospectively with historical meaning. The shape cast by the bronze souvenir effigy of the Bristolian philanthropist Edward Colston (1636–1721) provocatively evokes the racist lynchings of black men in America’s southern states, circumscribing the triangular relationship which binds sixteenth-century Bristol to twentieth-century America, philanthropy to slavery, and private memories to shared histories. A bed of chrysanthemums laid out beneath Colston’s suspended figure slowly wilts and withers to the sound of a girls’ school choir which accompanies the symbolic disintegration of Colston’s image as a public hero in the mind of the artist. In this as in other works in Trophies of Empire, remembering can be seen as a political act on the part of the individual, often in defiance of officially sanctioned acts of public commemoration and of what Drake calls the collective amnesia of Western culture in relation to imperialism and slavery. Death and forgetfulness are closely affiliated in Commemoration Day and are contingent in turn on the notion of absence which is evoked vividly in Shaheen Merali’s Going Native. The vacant deckchairs which line the edge of this imaginary shore are peopled with images. Like ghosts they flicker across the deserted seascape made by the artist. The viewer cannot stand outside, but is compelled to enter the space of Merali’s installation: at once, spectator and spectacle in the trajectory of Goa’s continuing imperial story. We are witnesses, not to history in the making (as news programmes and papers frequently claim) but to history made and being made all at the same time. The past and present appear equally as both fiction and reality as the pre-colonial aspirations of European missionaries in Goa dissolve into the post-imperialist fantasies of today’s holidaymakers. Here again, it is within the realm of everyday things  – deckchairs, holidays, Coca-Cola machines, movie theatres – that the artist locates the traces of empire, even as these things hold the promise of transporting us beyond the everyday. It is affirmatively from the archive of Europe’s present that Sunil Gupta constructs his giant visual montages that bear witness to the continent’s steadfast forgetfulness. The series of

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photographic triptychs that make up Trespass testify to the historical and continuing non-European presence in the heart of the imperial metropolis, a presence consistently denied in the narratives of social and cultural history. Gupta’s eight mural-size images physically resist notions of purity and originality, constructed as they are by means of commercial printing processes and digital image technology. The pure field of a single image is disrupted by Gupta, just as he disrupts the myth of a pure cultural history which is contingent on a denial of the enduring legacy of Europe’s imperium. Appropriating tools of construction and reconstruction, the artist manipulates the representation of Europe’s past and present, making his own revisions to create an alternative narrative. The very fabric (and fabrication) of these images contests the fiction of a new Europe where past histories and present realities are erased in order to sustain an exclusive and hegemonic European discourse. The year 1992 was born carrying the heavy weight of expectation around the creation of a new, supra-national Europe freed from the contingencies of its own history. The year 1992 also marked the anniversary of Colombus’ fateful arrival in the so-called New World, five hundred years earlier. In Europe and across the world, diverse acts of commemoration, television programmes, books and films heralded a very public invocation to recall the past and its inheritance. And yet, it seemed as if the celebration and commemoration of conquest had replaced a critical interrogation of its continuing impact on our lives. Fiction substituted history and the past was staged like an epic Hollywood movie, utterly removed from contemporary experience. As each year brings with it yet another anniversary (each anniversary eclipsing the previous one), the process is repeated and another episode of history is re-enacted, revised and reinvented as the West fuels its own grand narrative of itself. Divorcing the past from our present in this way, reviewing history as a series of isolated incidents which we revisit like a favourite film, vaguely remembered but removed from our everyday life, we are condemned not only to forget but to repeat history inexorably without learning the lessons of the past or the value of its traces inscribed in the fabric of our everyday lives: Then he was more explicit. The sign that he hung on the neck of the cow was an exemplary proof of the way in which the inhabitants of Macondo were prepared to fight against the loss of memory: This is the cow. She must be milked every morning so that she can produce milk, and the milk must be boiled in order to be mixed with coffee to make coffee and milk. Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the value of the written letters.5

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Notes 1 Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solicitude, London: Picador, 1978, pp. 45–6. 2 Bernard Smith cited in Ian McLean, ‘White Aborigines: Cultural Imperatives of Australian Colonialism’, Third Text, Spring 1993: 21. 3 See Noam Chomsky, Year 501: The Conquest Continues, London: Verso, 1993. 4 Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds), The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993. 5 García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude, p. 46.

22 Godville Interview with Omer Fast

Gilane Tawadros (GT) What inspired you to make your new video piece Godville? Omer Fast (OF) I think I was looking for a place that could simultaneously connect some pretty disparate, admittedly vague, interests I have: historical representation and time travel, theme parks and suburbs, war and the media, split personalities and hybrids, tourism and tourists, performance and acting, America and Americana. I started by contacting re-enactment groups. These are people who meet on a regular basis in order to rehearse or perform a historical event, usually a battle of some sort, according to historical record and in period dress. I was hoping to join them as an unofficial observer or to complete the tableau by participating as a war re- enactment photographer. I wrote to several and was roundly rejected. Still, I prefer to do these things with permission. Since I had not lived in the States for almost three years at the time, it was not practical to fly over and hope for spontaneous cooperation. Also, the longer the military occupation of Iraq was continuing, the less interested I’d become in representing combat, especially as it is performed by people in drag shooting blank bullets at each other on weekends. In retrospect, this might have actually turned up something interesting, but soon after I was more drawn to living-history museums, where I hoped to find people who were somehow in a more advanced, if less ecstatic, state of deliberate disorientation. After a period of correspondence, followed by visits and meetings, I was rejected by the first three places in the northeast. The fourth and biggest of all, Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia, generously agreed. GT

Can you say a little more about this ‘state of deliberate disorientation’? This seems to be a

continuous theme in your work. The viewer is repeatedly made disorientated by the disjuncture between what he/she sees on the screen and the text or voiceover on the film. In the case of Godville, the viewer’s reading of the work is continuously jarred by the slippage between past 240

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and present: the character- interpreters slip seamlessly between the colonial past of Williamsburg and contemporary reality (Figs 22.1 and 22.2). OF

A part of what makes a time machine like Colonial Williamsburg work is the mutual

consent it requires. The performer puts on a costume, emulates an accent and deliberately forgets the last 200 years whenever a visitor is around. The visitor also participates by stepping into the time and space of the performer, not only activating the machine through his/her presence but by talking and asking questions, steering the conversation, often having to speak and behave in a way the character being portrayed would understand. This isn’t just about interactivity though. What’s more interesting is what happens to reality in the process. Both performer and visitor are complicit in maintaining the illusion created between them. At the same time, both are also aware of the present and the impossibility of fully escaping from it. They might choose not to acknowledge it, but the present is always there, within reach, just on the periphery of their dialogue. It’s the measure against which anything said between them is tested. Like a memory, it can be referred to, repressed or recovered through a game of avoidance, allusions and double entendres. How much something like this happens depends of course on the persons involved. One performer told me he uses his eighteenth-century character, an avowed subject of King George who is nevertheless beginning to find fault with His Majesty’s policies, to make a point about what he sees around him today, where being a patriot increasingly means not being critical. He portrays his character, a ‘founding father’ and signer of the Declaration of Independence, not as the maverick revolutionary he believes the visitors were taught to expect, but as a British subject struggling to define his duties and rights within the framework of citizenship. This particular performer tries to avoid escapism and deliberately alludes to contemporary issues when re-enacting the past with his guest. At other times, if either party is just looking for a spectacle, the same interaction just leads to a pornography of the past, an affirmation of the present, or what that same performer called ‘fast-food ancestor worship’. During the shooting of Godville, I deliberately tried to engage the two centuries that converge in Colonial Willamsburg. In the beginning of each interview, I spoke to the performers as an ideal visitor would. I asked them about the town they live in, what’s going on around them, their eighteenth-century life. At some point though, I stopped the illusion and started asking some of the same questions out of character. As expected, a strategy of this sort can sometimes be interesting or revealing, sometimes it just seems contrived. In any event, what I ended up with was a double portrait of one person, speaking about his or her life in two centuries. Back in the studio, I decided to use the material indiscriminately. Instead of sorting out the illusion of the historical character being performed from the reality of the contemporary person performing, I used the entire interview as an inventory which could be freely adapted. This means not only jumping between historical time and the present, but in a literal sense, jumping around the interview: cutting together entire statements, chopping and mixing sentences, even editing

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Fig. 22.1 Omer Fast, Godville, 2005. Production still, showing the character Richard, 2005. © Omer Fast. Courtesy of the artist.

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Fig. 22.2 Omer Fast, Godville, 2005. Installation photograph, KW Institute for Contemporary Art, Berlin, 2006. © Omer Fast. Courtesy of the artist.

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together words never spoken during the interview from consonants and vowels. It also means not only dissolving the two personalities of the interviewee into a hybrid, but eventually also blurring the distinction between myself and that person, between what I want to pull out of the interview and what was actually said. Sometimes the characters go on long tirades, accusing me (or the viewer) of hypocrisy, of personal failing, of left-leaning prejudice, of turning them into clichés. None of this was said in the interviews, but the narratives are edited as smoothly as possible so that they’re convincingly fluent. It is only by seeing how the person speaking is edited that the proper sense of time (and order) is restored, albeit one that is artificial and fractured. GT

The idea of the time machine is a very interesting one. It is a long-standing theme of science

fiction from TV programmes like Doctor Who to films like Back to the Future. The fantasy is that we can travel in time and know definitively what it was like. Yet, knowing the past in that pure and authentic way is impossible and probably less important than understanding how our past shapes present realities and how we could use that knowledge productively. Is this your view? OF

Of course. Having said that, I think my work reflects a notion of time that is not so fixed or

stable. It’s more about describing this instability, trying to find ways of articulating it, than prescribing a way of dealing with it. To the persons who appear in my work, or rather in the narratives that I make out of them, this lack of determinacy is a source of both pleasure and pain. In Godville, for example, there is a long unedited segment in which a woman recalls the loss of three of her sons. All three died in the War of Independence, over 200 years ago. They are actually the sons of her character. Still, this recollection appears to be the least manipulated, most credible part of her narrative. She cries, wipes her eyes and the editing starts whirling around her again, bringing back the present tense, along with doubt and denial. In the end, she is unable (or isn’t allowed) to make sense of the loss in a contemporary context and the emotional moment appears almost quaint and drawn out compared with the bursts of fragments that follow. These kinds of real-life parallels don’t usually happen to me but I remember editing this woman’s segment at a time when there was a debate over publishing the images of American coffins coming back from Iraq. GT Your work makes us conscious of our deep-seated desire to sustain the illusion that we can suspend the present and enter the past. I’m thinking here about other of your works like Spielberg’s List. Could you say something about the relationship between Godville and Spielberg’s List? Among other things, are these works a critique of ‘fast-food ancestor worship’ and is this exclusively an American past time? OF

For Spielberg’s List, I interviewed people in Krakow who worked as extras during the

shooting of Schindler’s List in 1993. Some of them were old enough to have also experienced the events depicted in the movie earlier on in their lives. Others just speak vividly about something

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that is very real but is, nevertheless, a kind of a copy. The difference between their recollections is repressed though, and the work inconspicuously cuts between these persons’ first-hand experiences: between memories that were lived through and memories produced by the cinema. The presence of the movie-event as a kind of public archive that both complements and corrupts the individual memory is therefore a theme that runs through this work. I started working on Godville a year after finishing Spielberg’s List. The two videos are obviously closely related. Still, for me, there are a few significant differences. To begin with, Godville doesn’t revolve around an ‘event’, be it historical or cinematic. Its setting is both broader and reaches farther back in time than Spielberg’s List does. More explicitly put, Godville’s historical context does not immediately hark back to a singular trauma. This allows the performers, at least the ones doing the white characters, more latitude to be ‘normal’ – to be more anonymous and paradoxically even more contemporary  – than the Spielberg/Schindler survivors ever could. I tried to exploit this by editing much more of the present into Godville and the work seems, at first perhaps, to be looser and more immediate. The second main difference is that Godville doesn’t mourn the blurring of re-enactment and life the way Spielberg’s List does. Somehow, I think this difference stems from the languages spoken in the two works. Even though I heard quite a bit of Polish early in life, I had to rely on a translator throughout my stay in Krakow. The more interviews we did together, the more sensitive I became to the role of this person. The dependency on a third party was often a rich source of frustration for me, but it also allowed for a certain distance from the people I interviewed and from their weird stories. This distance was useful in forestalling any reaction to what they were saying: I only had access to their body language, to their act of remembering. Only after a pause and the ensuing translation would the content arrive, with all its contradictions. Eventually, instead of sorting through the details and separating fact from film, I decided to pass the responsibility along to the viewer. In Godville, on the other hand, the difference between re-enactment and life is suppressed and the two are literally mixed into a whole. The erosion in its characters’ credibility, their loss of historical perspective, is not presented so much as a loss per se, nor as a challenge to sort through. It is presented as something intoxicating, especially in the work’s most direct moments, when the characters become self-aware and lash out but their speech is totally artificial. Despite all this, the two works clearly have a lot in common. Both look into the past through the perspective of persons who participate in its re-enactment. Both rely on these persons’ experience and report from a first-hand point of view. Coming back to the time machine though, both works also misuse their subjects and derail in their bid to get at the past. I don’t think that either work could be characterized as critique. I like to think of them more as portraits. They are portraits whose subjects are obviously splintered. They are also portraits in a modernist sense in that they foreground the surface and erode the distinction between artist and sitter. In that sense, they are self- portraits.

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23 Going global 4th International Istanbul Biennial

The small, white labels hanging beside each artist’s work at the 1995 Istanbul Biennial were discrete but poignant reminders of the continuous, criss-crossing movements and migrations of individuals across the globe: ‘Tiong Ang, born in Surabaya, lives in Amsterdam; Yufen Qin, born in Shandong, lives in Berlin; Mohammed El Baz, born in Morocco, lives in Lille; Jyrki Siukonen born in Tampere, lives in Leeds; Ghada Amer, born in Cairo, lives in Paris; Anish Kapoor, born in Bombay, lives in London; Alfredo Jaar, born in San Diego, lives in New York, Zvi Goldstein, born in Transylvania, lives in Jerusalem.’ It is ironic but perhaps not unexpected that at the same time as an increasing number of individual lives are being shaped by these global displacements, calls for strengthening (and, in many cases reinventing) the traditional values of religious and national identity are becoming louder and more vociferous. While the organizers of the 4th International Istanbul Biennial proclaimed Istanbul to be a player on the stage of the international art world, Istanbul’s municipal government in the hands of the Islamic Welfare Party, preferred to invoke Istanbul’s Ottoman past as a legacy of its continuing Islamic cultural traditions. At that moment, Istanbul seemed to exemplify the irreconcilable tension between the forces of the transcultural, progressive and modern on the one hand, and the monocultural, retrospective and anti-modern, on the other. From a liberal, Western point of view, the choice seems clear: a culture must either ‘go global’, embracing modernity, democracy and internationalism, or else sink back into a regressive and despotic fundamentalism. On the edge of the Bosphorus, with Rome to the West and Tehran to the East, the choice seemed less clear-cut. Poised between ‘East’ and ‘West’, North and South, Istanbul has occupied a unique position for the last millennium both strategically and culturally. As the Turkish artist Murat Isik says, ‘Turkey is like a decompression chamber in between the West and the East . . . Both the Western and the Eastern cultures (specifically the Islamic culture) are experienced to their ultimate points simultaneously.’ But having been catapulted into modernity by Ataturk’s comprehensive 249

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programme of modernization in the early years of the century, Turkey is now wondering whether it threw the proverbial baby out with the bathwater in its bid to keep up with its Western European neighbours. Consequently, Süleyman the Magnificent has become the standardbearer of national pride in a distant Islamic past. But the ‘East’ is not alone in invoking a continuous, national past in the face of a rapidly changing present. Even Istanbul’s Western neighbours, it appears, are trying to preserve their national identity against foreign linguistic penetration and the spectre of a swelling tide of (non-European) immigrants. But while the French Academy may contest the recent infiltration of anglophone words into the French language, conjuring up a mythically pure and unchanging cultural identity expressed in and through language, countries like Turkey are reacting against a cultural synthesis which has been part of their metropolitan experience for several hundred years. This is not to say that the tension between Western and Eastern (and particularly Islamic) cultures has not been experienced before, but rather that in recent years it has been experienced in a radically different way. Rapid developments in communication technologies have dramatically altered the balance of cultural power in the eyes of ordinary people in the southern hemisphere. Global travel, mass tourism and television have been contributing factors to this shift in cultural hegemony which is now visible and tangible in a way that it has never been before in the everyday lives of Turks, Egyptians, Algerians and many others. What has become increasingly evident to them now is that ‘going global’ in most instances simply means ‘going Western’. Reluctant to relinquish the specificities of their cultural, religious and national identity for a so-called internationalism which too often takes the form of the West imposing its own cultural priorities on the rest of the world, a significant majority in Turkey is seeking to re-establish a continuity with its pre-Ataturk past and assert a distinctly Islamic Turkish identity. In European countries a parallel development has been emerging with a gradual but significant shift in focus from international and even national politics to local politics on a grassroots level. In both East and West, the broader picture seems to be giving way to the specific, the global to the local as individuals become increasingly disenchanted with their diminishing autonomy and sense of identity. But is the ‘local’ inevitably just another name for parochial narrow-mindedness or even ethnic absolutism? Far from being aloof from such political concerns, art is at the centre of the battle for hearts and minds in the war between the local and the global. And the battle-lines have already been drawn: global culture vs national culture; progressive art forms vs traditional ones; modern art vs historical art. Into the arena have stepped a number of contemporary artists who have been making works which explore the possibility of reconciling different cultural traditions, while at the same maintaining the specific character of an individual culture. In Murat Isik’s paintings Hergé’s young European adventurer Tintin encounters various aspects of Turkey’s cultural past

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and present, united by the flat planes of colour and cartoon style of the original drawings. In one painting entitled At the Meeting Point (1995), Tintin meets his peer equivalent from Ottoman times on one of Turkey’s beaches; in another painting called Impossible (1995), Tintin and Snowy express their disbelief at Turkey’s Islamic heritage: ‘Impossible!’ exclaims Tintin, ‘Turkey is part of the European Union.’ Encountering Islamic culture within a European context, Tintin can only comment upon the impossibility of cultural difference. Another artist Huang Yong Ping, who was born in China but has lived in Paris since 1989, has tried to ‘resolve’ this problem of dialogue between East and West by washing two books of Chinese and Western art histories in a washing machine (Fig. 23.1). He displayed the end result of washed-out, illegible paper pulp in mounds in front of the empty washing machines which had erased all trace of cultural identity or art history from their original sources. The inevitable consequence of a crude internationalism, implies Huang Yong Ping, is the erasure of specific cultural histories and identities. Other artists like the young Bulgarian artist Pravdo and the British artist Mona Hatoum have commented on the fragility and transience of national and religious identities. Pravdo’s parade of anonymous mud flags – fabric flags caked in mud which obscures their specific colours and marking – are like tragic souvenirs of war whose individual ethnic or national identities have been wiped out in a muddy battlefield. Hatoum’s Prayer-Mat

Fig. 23.1 Huang Yong Ping, Reptiles, 1989. Papier maché, washing machines, 700 x 400 x 300 cm. © ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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Fig. 23.2 Mona Hatoum Prayer Mat, 1995. Nickel-plated brass pins, brass compass, canvas and glue, 1.5 x 67 x 112 cm. © Mona Hatoum, 2019. Photo: Edward Woodman. Courtesy of the artist.

(1995) made of a bed of nickel-plated brass pins into which she has inset a small brass compass, may assist the diligent Muslim to locate the direction of Mecca, birthplace of the prophet Mohammed, but frustrates his/her capacity to pray without physical pain and discomfort (Fig. 23.2). As A. Sivanandan once said, ‘There is no point in finding out who I am if I do not know what to do with that knowledge.’ Hatoum’s point, perhaps, is that it is all very well to know the direction of Mecca but what use is that information without the essential element of intellectual critique and self-analysis which has always been a vital part of Islam. No identity, whether it be national, religious or cultural can be painless but where does this leave the possibility of establishing some kind of international dialogue in the cultural realm and, more specifically, in the visual arts? As we approach the next millennium, the most important question – social, political and cultural – which faces us all is how we as individuals can speak from a particular place, a particular time and a particular experience but not be limited by that particularity. Like the encounter with an unfamiliar work of art, the encounter with a different culture offers one of

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two options: either to dismiss the artwork and turn away, or to attempt to negotiate the space between ourselves and the work to find a common point of reference – some quality in the work which triggers a memory, an experience of our own. The question of how we can hold onto the specificity of our identity, our specific location and experience and at the same time get beyond that experience to speak to other experiences, locations, identities is the overriding cultural and political issue of our time.

24 Detonations Jonathan Hernández and the Rongwrong series

Jonathan Hernández describes his complex and finely wrought collages as ‘detonations’. Exploding images from the everyday world into a kaleidoscope of collisions and juxtapositions that are surprising, illuminating and often disconcerting, Hernández’s assemblages are exquisite works fabricated from found press photographs, collected and reused by the artist in an ongoing series entitled ‘Rongwrong’ (Fig.  24.1). Taking their name from Marcel Duchamp’s journal Rongwrong of 1917 (the magazine was originally to be called ‘Wrongwrong’ but became ‘Rongwrong’ as a result of a printing error which appealed to Duchamp’s love of chance happenings), Hernández’s collages are assembled from an archive of press photographs that the artist has been amassing over a period of time: In the beginning I did not have a particular purpose but after some time this exercise [of collecting press photographs] turned into a series of editorial projects (books) . . . the first one that I accomplished was You are under arrest (2003) and after that Vulnerabilia (2005) . . . following on from those containers/albums/mosaics I felt the will to work directly with some of the photographic contents of daily newspapers. More or less at the same time, I discovered the engravings of Albert Durer about the Apocalypse and for a long time I have felt attracted by the collages of Rodchenko . . . in a way the series Rongwrong evolves from the intertwining of an obsession to produce (and to process afterwards) a personal photographic file of everyday life on the one hand, and that series of engravings by Durer and a dozen collages by Rodchenko on the other.1 Certain images recur across the different photo collages in the series – footballers, athletes and sportsmen/women celebrating victory; political leaders, past and present; assorted weaponry and explosions; games; sporting stadia and other distinctive architectural buildings and structures such as pyramids and sphinxes; various means of transportation and of 254

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Fig. 24.1 Jonathan Hernández, Rongwrong IV, 2005. Collage, 100 x 80 cm. © Jonathan Hernández. Courtesy of the artist.

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communication. In Rongwrong III (2005), a host of gesturing figures – some triumphant sportsmen; others haranguing politicians – have been reconfigured into a surreal family tree at the top of which stands a footballer, spinning a ball like a globe on a single index finger. In Rongwrong VII (2006), an assemblage of victories and disasters are balanced precariously against each other: one photograph leaning against another photograph; one image holding up an adjacent image in a complex network of interrelationships and dependencies. These collages are not a mirror on the world, reflecting it unambiguously in a literal way. Rather, they are mixed up and thrown together in incongruous and odd couplings that mask the artist’s labour in creating these subtle detonations and that compel the viewer to find connections and meanings between the disparate elements that make up the collage. For Hernández, the process of observing, analysing, distilling and editing the world around us lies at the heart of the artistic process that operates at a discrete distance from the ‘scenaries in which we live and circulate’.2 With the Rongwrong cycle of collages, Hernández has fabricated a sequence of kaleidoscopic fictions that hint at the darker side of modernity, progress and globalization and its banal circularity and interdependency, like a domino of actions and reactions that threaten to topple effortlessly one onto the other in a malign chain reaction: I consider reality or realities to have a strong content of fiction to begin with . . . it is no news that reality can be a great source of fiction. . .I think this is what happens in the Rongwrong collage series . . . they are a catalyst of daily events displayed like the genealogical trees of the Apocalypses . . . the kind of Apocalypses we create every day . . . this explains why I consider press photographs as the only and exclusive raw materials for these collages. And from here I go back to the beginning: a mirror that detonates itself.3

Notes 1 From an unpublished interview with the artist, March 2007. 2 Ibid. 3 Ibid.

25 Modern Europeans

When we think of nation-states we think first of those which make up the mythical concept of ‘Europe’. It is those which make the essential internationalism that we have known. Thus nationalism comes as a defensive strategy one of against the others, like Mafia families. This internationalism is in the first instance competitive, like the Venice Biennale, and in the second, fearful and hermetic. Now Europe-the-myth attempts to re-create itself as a concrete ‘community’ wherein competition is more ordered. The current debate about who might be allowed into this community, and who might be forced out, exposes the roots of internationalism. If internationalism is a requirement for civilisation, what nation is civilised enough to participate?1

The exhibition and publication Unpacking Europe emerges at a moment when national identities are in a state of constant turbulence, unsettled from below by the complex, transnational identities of Europe’s shifting citizenship and, at the same time, overshadowed from above by the forces of globalization that stride across the world’s continents with little regard for the discrete borders of nation states. In Brussels, the constitutional heart of the European Union, politicians continue to debate and negotiate the boundary between the national and the supra-national, ring-fencing national identities as distinct entities that converge or diverge from the collective interests of an increasingly federalized Europe. And yet, the nationalism of states is gradually being eroded on the one hand, by what Salah Hassan and Iftikhar Dadi describe in their introduction as the ‘localized experiences of urban life where heterogeneity, cross-cultural influences, and hybridity have long been the living norms’, and on the other, by a profound shift in political and economic power from the governments of nation states to multinational corporations. As Noreena Hertz writes in her study of global capitalism: Propelled by government policies of privatisation, deregulation and trade liberalisation, and the advances in communication technologies over the past twenty years, a power shift has taken place. The hundred largest multinational corporations now control about twenty per cent of global foreign assets; fifty-one of the hundred biggest economies in the world are now 257

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corporations, only forty-nine are nation-states. The sales of General Motors and Ford are greater than the GDP of the whole of sub-Saharan Africa; the assets of IBM, BP and General Electric outstrip the economic capabilities of most small nations; and Wal-Mart, the US supermarket retailer, has higher revenues than most of Central and Eastern European states including Poland, the Czech Republic, Ukraine, Hungary, Romania and Slovakia.2 Unpacking Europe proposes to elaborate on the reality of Europe as an unsettled and fluctuating political, economic and cultural entity whose past, present and future can no longer be seen as settled and secure, nestling in the comfort of invented traditions and imagined communities but has to be recognized as ‘fluid, constructed and dynamic’. It challenges the assumption that Europe’s diverse populations merely embellish the fabric of a continuous European identity and culture; or, that they flutter above the surface of European society and culture with an ‘in-between’ status that does not qualify them as true citizens of the United States of Europe. And yet, this space between departure and arrival is, in many ways, the distinctive domain of the twenty-first century – geographical, intellectual and cultural. It is the space that circumscribes modernity, a space that is traversed and intersected by different cultures, languages and histories and one that we all inhabit to differing degrees as a consequence of a process of globalization that began at least many centuries ago. In moving between the place of departure and the place of arrival, the modern European is inevitably transformed by their journey but so, too, is their place of arrival, irrevocably. The unsettling of what appeared, or at least has been presented as being, settled, continuous European culture and identity has given rise to xenophobia and racism right across the continent. As at other times in recent European history, minorities and migrants are being blamed for socioeconomic changes – unemployment, the loss of social welfare and the drop in educational standards.3 It has also given rise to what Sarat Maharaj has termed ‘multicultural managerialism’;4 in other words, the management and regulation of cultural difference that has become a function of European government policies equally within the arena of ‘managing’ migrants, refugees and asylum-seekers as in the sphere of cultural policy. Multiculturalism and racism have been increasing, as Stuart Hall points out, at one and the same time.5 The celebration of cultural difference, its assimilation into governmental thinking at European and national levels, and the proliferation of images of cultural diversity  – the ‘Benetton effect’  – within advertising and popular culture paradoxically has gone hand in hand with the rise in racially motivated violence. In other words, the increasing cosmetic prominence given to Europe’s diverse populations has not been matched by an equal shift in their political, social and economic standing in European life. Perhaps, as Unpacking Europe suggests, it is only through a sustained engagement with the complex cultural and historical contingency of Europe and its others that we can come closer to realizing the potential of contemporary European culture and society as it is and is becoming, rather than as it was or as it has been constructed.

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But what of the aftermath of the tragic and shocking events of September 11 and the implications of these for the project of ‘unpacking Europe’? Race (or ethnicity) and nation have frequently defined the way in which culture and society has been understood and yet over the past two decades supranational structures, networks and alliances have played an increasingly prominent role in all our lives: through international governmental structures such as the European Union, the World Bank and the United Nations; through multinational corporations like Microsoft, McDonalds or BP, whose impact on every aspect of our existence grows daily; or through transnational movements like the climate change and environmental campaigns which have connected up people’s experiences across different continents. The most recent phase in the process of globalization has not dispensed with the categories of race and nation as defining identity within the public and private realms (far from it) but it adds another layer to the intricate construction and experience of individual identity. Despite the calls of political leaders in the aftermath of September 11 to be ‘with us or against us’, the reality is that many of us now occupy the grey expanse that is international, interracial and interlinguistic. European Muslims may be Belgian, French, Austrian or Dutch as well as being European; they may have family and friends in Morocco, Nigeria, Egypt, Indonesia, Algeria, Tunisia, Senegal or Indonesia; they are likely to speak a number of different languages and see themselves as part of a religious community that extends across all the continents of the globe. European Christians may be German, Italian or British as well as being European; they may have family and friends in Sudan, Turkey, Jamaica, Lebanon, Ghana or Martinique; they are likely to speak a number of different languages and see themselves as part of a religious community that extends across all the continents of the globe. The complexity and interdependency of contemporary lived experience continues to confound those who, for their own political and economic ends, wish to mark a clear, unambiguous line in the sand between the past and present, between European and non-European, between North and South. Recent events can only lead us to conclude that such arbitrary distinctions are far removed from the reality of most people’s lives. Our futures depend on the creation of new political, economic and cultural structures that justly represent all the different cultures, religions and races of this world. But in order to do this, we have to begin by ‘unpacking’ our historical and cultural assumptions and asking some difficult questions as do the artists and writers included in Unpacking Europe.

Notes 1 Jimmie Durham, ‘A Friend of Mine Said that Art is a European Invention’, in Fisher (ed.), Global Visions, p. 114. 2 Noreena Hertz, The Silent Takeover: Global Capitalism and the Death of Democracy, London: Random House, 2001, p. 7.

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3 See Attitudes towards Minority Groups in the European Union, Vienna: European Monitoring Centre on Racism and Xenophobia, 2001. 4 Sarat Maharj, ‘Modernity and Difference: A Conversation between Stuart Hall and Sarat Maharaj’, Iniva Annotations 6: Modernity and Difference, London: Iniva, 2001, p. 46. 5 Stuart Hall in Stuart Hall and Sarat Maharaj, Modernity and Difference, Iniva Annotations 6, London: Iniva, 2001, p. 19.

26 Slipping away (or uncompliant cartographies)

Like clean, sweet-smelling laundry, Mona Hatoum’s Projection (2006) configures a pure cartography, unsullied by borders or delineations of nation states. Fabricated from cotton and abaca, Hatoum’s world map, based on the Peters projection, registers the traces of depressions and elevations in different continents without the limitation of territories or frontiers. Her hemp-and-cotton map collapses borders, erases place names, and reimagines the globe as a neutral, white, uninscribed configuration of spaces. Fabricated from abaca, the land masses are thin and transparent, sinking and dissolving into the surrounding oceans of thick cotton. The artist’s choice of media suggests hard work and resilience to both time and change: cotton is one of the world’s oldest textiles, while abaca, or manila hemp, is prized for its strength, buoyancy, and resistance to saltwater damage. Laborious to extract and fabricate, these organic materials attest to the resilience and creativity of human nature. Projection is, perhaps above all, an act of creative defiance. It resists the established protocols of cartography, with the latter’s measured distances, delineated boundaries, and labels assigned to discrete parcels of space. Projection is also a world map evacuated of all colour. Gone are the fields of red, yellow, green and blue that once designated territorial possession by different colonial powers. All particularities have been erased from Hatoum’s map, transformed into abstract patterns onto which we can project our own imaginative geographies (Fig.  26.1). Projection can also be read as a bleak reimagining of the globe in its future state, its continental contours eroded by the corrosive effects of global warning. With Projection, Hatoum makes manifest successive efforts to demarcate geographical space according to political contingency, and compels us to reflect on the provisional and contested nature of physical geography. The work confounds our efforts to name, to define, to circumscribe geography, hinting at the difficulty of corralling a multitude of histories and cultures into a single geographical designation: ‘Middle East’, ‘Orient’, ‘North Africa’, ‘Fertile Crescent’, ‘Near East’, ‘Levant’. Subject to the vagaries of history, politics and chance, the geography of people’s 261

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Fig. 26.1 Mona Hatoum, Map, 1999. Installation view at Casino Luxembourg. Glass marbles. Dimensions variable, marbles each 1.4 x 1.4 x 1.4 cm. © Mona Hatoum, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

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lives and experiences eludes us every time we try to fix it or name it, even tentatively. Geography’s tendency to slip away from our grasp just as we attempt to describe it comprises the subject of this essay, which presents some provisional thoughts and reflections on artistic practice, geography and identity. The Middle East, to deploy the most contemporary designation of this geographical space, is a problematic label that has cultural and political connotations beyond its reference to a specific topography. It is, according to Derek Gregory, following Edward Said, an ‘imagined geography’, subject to cultural and political projections that have their origins in the nineteenth century, but endure into the present.1 Gregory refers to Juan Cole’s book Napoleon’s Egypt, subtitled ‘Invading the Middle East’, which points to the juncture in European history when the term began to gain currency: Later in the nineteenth century, ‘Middle East’ was used by the British Indian Office to refer to Persia and its surrounding areas, which were considered of strategic importance to the security of the colonies in the Subcontinent. During the First World War, Sir Mark Sykes – intent on ‘cutting out the cancer’ that was the faltering Ottoman Empire and thus release those suffering under the Turkish yoke – advocated the use of ‘Middle East’ . . . this was done to undercut Lloyd George’s persistent reference to a ‘Near East’, which implied a continued recognition of Istanbul as a centre of political gravity. Winston Churchill put the region on the map through the abrasive interventions of his recently established ‘Middle East Department’ (within the Colonial Office), which was basically responsible for the political geography we still know today.2 In the aftermath of 9/11, with the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan, through the ongoing conflict between the Palestinians and Israelis and in the wake of the Arab Spring, the region we refer to as the Middle East continues to exercise our political and artistic imaginary, and remains as contested as ever. Our understanding of the Middle East and the contingencies of power and culture persist in what Gregory describes as the colonial present, and it is this relationship between the politics of space and the artistic imagination that I want to explore further. There is a tendency to regard art exhibitions and artworks as though they were free-floating entities removed from everything else around them, but, of course, exhibitions and artworks are constructions, fabricated from the ideas, materials and experiences derived from the world in which they circulate. Outside of Hatoum’s defiant cartography, there is no blank canvas or pure space unpolluted by the flotsam and jetsam of history and politics. A map, perhaps more than any other projection, reflects the assertion of politics and power over physical space. The mapmaker’s spatial constructions create, as much as reflect, the possession and control of territory. The mapmaker has the power to shape physical geography with his markings and delineations, defining who owns which parcels of land. Without the mapmaker’s interventions to fix borders and boundaries, designating

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ownership and title, geography could not be subordinated to colonial possession and control. Without maps, as the Palestinians discovered in their negotiations with Israel, the balance of power shifts from the dispossessed to those who are able to make cartographic claims. As Said observed of the tactics deployed in the Oslo Process, which ultimately failed to bring about a negotiated settlement between Palestinians and Israelis: The device itself was to redivide and subdivide an already divided Palestinian territory into three subzones, Areas A, B, and C, in ways entirely devised and controlled by the Israeli side since, I have pointed out for several years, the Palestinians until quite recently had neither any maps of their own nor, among the negotiating team, any individuals who were familiar enough with actual geography to contest decisions or to provide alternative plans.3 Hatoum’s Projection recognizes the cartographic convergence of representation and reality, and of past and present colonial realities, which are often separated. By evacuating her map of the cartographer’s markings and colourings, Hatoum rejects the colonial impulse to circumscribe, name and occupy space by force. Here, the artist assumes the power of the cartographer to represent a different reality, in which all boundaries and borders have been erased. In Hatoum’s imagined cartography, everyone has been dispossessed of land, nation and identity, and colonial territories and nation states have been unilaterally dissolved. Hatoum has made other maps as well, returning time and again to mapmaking in different forms as an integral part of her artistic practice. In 2008–9, she completed the installation 3-D Cities, composed of a trio of printed maps of Beirut, Baghdad, and Kabul, mounted on tables linked by wooden trestles. Round craters and mounds cut out of the maps in concentric circles mark out areas of destruction and reconstruction, existing alongside each other in these conflict zones. In some ways, this work could be seen as an attempt to recalibrate the representation of these cities, which invoke seemingly endless images of danger and destruction. Emblematic of the representation of the region as a whole, the maps contest the singular, monotonous narratives that surround the Middle East, focused on conflict, female oppression, Islamic extremism, civil war and, most recently, protest and revolution. Hatoum’s 3-D Cities also resist the flatness and two-dimensionality of conventional maps. Their elevations and depressions capture the ups and downs of human experience, neither universally positive nor relentlessly negative. Rather, they reflect the nuanced, varied, and changing gradations of a lived geography, as distinct from its mediated, uniform representation. Said has warned eloquently against the false separation of past and present, of culture and politics, through which ‘culture is exonerated from any entanglements with power, representations are considered only as apolitical images to be parsed and construed as so many grammars of exchange, and the divorce of the present from the past is assumed to be complete’.4 The 2003 exhibition Veil: Veiling, Representation, and Contemporary Art, which I co-curated with the

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artists Jananne Al-Ani and Zineb Sedira and the curator David A. Bailey, effectively illustrates that point. Conceived before 9/11, Veil collided with its political aftermath, attracting the attention of the local authorities in Walsall, England (the site of the first venue of the show), who censored the artworks by the Russian artistic collective AES that were to be included in the show. The two works in question were digitally enhanced images from the group’s series The Witnesses of the Future: Islamic Project (1996–2003), one featuring New York’s iconic Statue of Liberty veiled, and the other depicting an Arab market on the bridge facing London’s Houses of Parliament. Although these and other images from AES’s Islamic Project had been circulating on the Internet for a number of years, they were now deemed ‘unpatriotic’, at a time when British and American forces were preparing to invade Iraq. The imagined geographies of the AES artists thus seemed to transgress a political imaginary that had already decided the outcomes of military invasion and territorial possession and rejected what Gregory might call an ‘uncompliant cartography’. Here, then, a fictional geography collided with the political reconfiguration of the geography of the Middle East post-9/11. In this context, artistic interventions in the mapping of space and geography could not be separated from political and military intervention in the region. In development for some years prior to the events of September 11, Veil emerged out of the concerns of a number of contemporary visual artists, most notably Jananne Al-Ani and Zineb Sedira, the project’s initiators. In conceiving the exhibition, Al-Ani and Sedira sought to bring together artworks that went against the grain of didactic and unambiguous representations. According to Al-Ani, the works in Veil were: generated, often with wonderful humour, by artists with an intimate knowledge of both Western and Eastern cultures and some of whom operating under the codes of Islamic law. Through their work, the artists have helped to broaden the debate on representation and the veil in a complex and provocative way and to sow doubts about the facts of the past, by looking at something we think we know and understand.5 Both Al-Ani and Sedira had been exploring the concept of the veil in their respective artistic practices. Sedira deployed the veil as both visual motif as well as referent for the ‘less visible effects of veiling’, which she describes as ‘veiling-the-mind’. Sedira explains: I refer to veiling-the-mind in order to explore the multiple forms of veiling in both Western and Muslim cultures. I find myself asking how to ‘represent the unrepresentable’ and my artistic interventions reveal my desire to open up the paradoxes, ambiguities and symbolism of the veil.6 It is this desire to move away from fixed assumptions, unambiguous certainties, and the conviction that certain cultures are both knowable and representable in a literal sense, that prompted Al-Ani and Sedira to investigate questions of identity and representation through the concept of the veil.

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In the aftermath of 9/11, Veil inevitably became entangled in the struggle among competing, polemical depictions of the Middle East that the project had sought to problematize and critique. Perhaps because of its very insistence on multiple, ambiguous readings and interpretations, no venue in London or New York would even entertain the idea of showing the exhibition. Veil ultimately opened in 2003 at the New Art Gallery, Walsall, and the two AES works removed from the show turned up on the front pages of the local newspaper as full-colour illustrations. Veil became a talking point in Walsall pubs and cafés, attracting 35,000 visitors over the course of its two-and-a-half month run. Many saw Veil as being in some way prescient or prophetic of future events and debates concerning political Islam, religious difference, and the veil and veiling within public and political discourse. Rather than prophetic, however, I would argue that the very process of researching, creating artworks for, and curating the exhibition constituted a means of reading the world through the prism of the visual. Furthermore, the conceptual framework of Veil was one that amplified paradoxes and ambiguities, emerging as it did from the preoccupations of two artists whose practice resolutely avoids fixity and closure. Such is not always the case. Indeed, in recent months, in response to the Arab Spring, a plethora of exhibitions both in the Middle East and elsewhere have sought to capture the spirit of upheaval and protest occurring in the region, through revolutionary artworks and presentations. The difficulty with these projects  – which the writer Negar Azimi has dubbed ‘radical bleak’ – is that they self-consciously seek to act as the barometer of the times, deploying artworks and exhibitions as figurative and literal representations that aspire to mirror the present conjuncture. As regards the situation in Egypt, where, Azimi notes, ‘officially sanctioned art events  – from the Cairo Biennale to the city’s annual Youth Salon  – have historically been festooned with bloated political themes from the Palestinian intifada to American imperialism’, the language and iconography of revolution has displaced earlier political themes to dominate contemporary curatorial initiatives. Azimi writes: In the aftermath of the uprisings, which began on 25 January 2011 and which climaxed with the fall of president-for-life Hosni Mubarak, that relationship to politics has remained largely intact – though the dominant narrative is now concentrated squarely on a singular dramatic mode: the heroism of the revolution. A state that was scrambling to hold on to power has now, predictably, co-opted the very narrative that threatened to dismantle it . . . The revolution, in a sense, has offered itself up as a readymade; it has become an engine for producing artistic flotsam that, for the most part, looks like lobby art for the United Nations and mines the language of consensus (for how can one argue against art that represents such a historic moment?).7 Both in the Middle East and internationally, efforts to fix the present by holding up a mirror to current events demand a literal equivalence between artworks and the world around them that inevitably forestalls any possibility of open-endedness in the artistic process. By contrast, projects like

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Veil – both the exhibition as a whole, and the artworks included in it – invoke the untranslatable, the ‘resistant remainder’, as Stuart Hall terms it: that which is not said, not represented, and which has thus far ‘escape[d] representation’. In this instance, the ‘untranslatable, resistant remainder’ was the ambiguity of the veil as a visual motif, defying efforts to fix it as a metonym for political Islam, female oppression, or as symptomatic of non-Western religious traditions. For years prior to 9/11, the veil had already functioned as a symbolic battleground for divergent and seemingly incommensurate ideologies that the exhibition sought to disrupt. It is this seemingly paradoxical tension between the visual as a form of representation of the world around us and the world from which it draws that comprises the ‘displaced zone’ that Hall identifies, and that gives rise to representations and hence artworks that go beyond the figurative, the literal, and the present moment.8 It is in this displaced zone between the artwork and the world that meaning is created: a reading of the world that is constructed through the materials of representation that make up the toolkit of the artist. But, unlike the cartographer’s constructions, which depend upon (apparently) definitive readings of physical geography, these are not fixed readings or singular interpretations, but, rather, remain open-ended and equivocal. The artistic imaginations of artists like Hatoum, Al-Ani, and Sedira are informed by a postcolonial geography that has shaped their experience and their reading of the world. Moving between one cultural and political space and another, these artists – like the artworks they produce – resist fixity and closure. Sedira describes eloquently how her postcolonial geography has marked her practice as an artist, with the discontinuities of her own experience prompting her desire to create work that accommodates multiple readings and ways of seeing: My identity has been formed by at least two seemingly contrasting and sometimes conflicting traditions. On the one hand, I grew up in the Paris of the 1960s and 1970s, partly educated by and socializing in the dominant secular and Catholic tradition of France. Yet simultaneously, my family and immediate community were Arab Muslims. In addition, London has further shaped my identity and, for the last seventeen years, I have lived away from the North African community. The differences between England and France, particularly their contrasting attitudes to cultural difference, have also contributed significantly to my rethinking representation and identity.9 For Sedira, both identity and representation are distinguished by discontinuities and displacements that resist being filtered through a singular, interpretative schema premised on a fixed, unchanging worldview. Sedira recognizes that identity can often be messy, provisional, and contingent. Yet there persists a stubborn impulse to define and fix identity, particularly in relation to artists from the Middle East and the Middle Eastern diaspora, for whom writers or curators often wish to assign a direct relationship between an artist’s identity and her work.

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Mona Hatoum is frequently asked to characterize the relationship between her identity and her work in an unequivocal manner: I am often asked the same question: what in your work comes from your own culture? As if I have a recipe and I can actually isolate the Arab ingredient, the woman ingredient, the Palestinian ingredient. People often expect tidy definitions of otherness, as if identity is something fixed and easily definable.10 Writing about Hatoum’s work in 2000, Edward Said captures eloquently the elusive relationship between identity and representation in her work: [It] is the presentation of identity as unable to identify with itself, but nevertheless grappling with the notion (perhaps only the ghost) of identity to itself. Thus is exile figured and plotted in the objects she creates. Her works enact the paradox of dispossession as it takes possession of its place in the world, standing firmly in workaday space for spectators to see and somehow survive what glistens before them. No one has put the Palestinian experience in visual terms so austerely and yet so playfully, so compellingly and at the same moment so allusively.11 Hatoum’s works defiantly resist fixed identities and compliant cartographies, insisting on a more nuanced, contradictory, and elusive view of the world and human experience. Hatoum’s Projection exemplifies her resolutely uncompliant cartography. The work draws attention to the human interventions that have drawn and redrawn borders, and assigned different names and ownership to the same contours of land at various junctures in history. At the same time, the artist has defiantly erased these markings, rendering the globe in its constituent natural materials, able to withstand the impact of change and the passage of time, but, simultaneously, left open to imaginative reinterpretation. Hatoum’s maps make manifest Said’s insight that, far from being fixed and enduring, geography is shifting and malleable. Another map work – simply entitled Map (1999) – is made up of hundreds of glass marbles arranged in clusters on the floor to form a large map of the world. Installed without the usual museum enclosures, visitors inadvertently stumble upon the piece, disturbing the configuration of continents and dispersing South America and Europe into disconnected fragments. As they collide into the contours of Canada and stumble over Siberia, the map’s contours disintegrate into new configurations. Hatoum’s map is impossible to fix in time and space, vulnerable as it is to the movements of people and their stumblings and collisions with the artwork itself. The installation eloquently underscores the precarious, volatile, and hazardous occupation of mapping, which is always susceptible to unpredictable human intervention. Hatoum has always understood art as a slippery entity that defies fixity, remaining open-ended and ambiguous. Her work reminds us of art’s slippery, uncompliant nature. It calls on us to resist the political and cultural contingencies that consistently seek to impress us with singular and seemingly immovable representations of the world and human experience.

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Notes 1 Derek Gregory, The Colonial Present, Malden, MA, Oxford and Victoria: Blackwell Publishing, 2004, pp. 17–20. 2 Derek Gregory, cited in Carool Kersten, ‘Contemporary Art in the Middle East’, Critical Muslims, 24 January 2009. 3 Edward Said, From Oslo to Iraq and the Roadmap, London: Bloomsbury, 2005, p. 12. 4 Said, Culture and Imperialism, p. 57. 5 Al-Ani, ‘Acting Out’, p. 106. 6 Zineb Sedira, ‘Mapping the Illusive’, in Bailey and Tawadros (eds), Veil, pp. 58 and 63. 7 Negar Azimi, ‘Radical Bleak’, in frieze, No. 144, January–February 2012. 8 Hall, ‘Assembling the 1980s’, in Bailey, Baucom and Boyce (eds), Shades of Black, p. 19. 9 Sedira, ‘Mapping the Illusive’, p. 58. 10 Mona Hatoum, interviewed by Janine Antoni, New York, Spring 1998, reprinted in the exhibition catalogue Mona Hatoum, Centro de Arte de Salamanca, Salamanca, and Centro Galego de Arte Contemporanea, Santiago de Compostela, 2002. 11 Edward Said, ‘The Art of Displacement: Mona Hatoum’s Logic of Irreconcilables’, in Mona Hatoum: The Entire World as a Foreign Land, London: Tate Gallery, 2000.

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27 Interruption in four acts, or disappearing irises, brokendown buses and ceramic Citroens

There is no consensus about whether an interruption is a positive or a negative act. Even the Oxford English Dictionary seems undecided about making a judgement about the moral or ethical dimensions of interruption. To break the continuity of (an action, event, etc.) or hinder (a person) by intrusion. When potential catastrophes are prevented from taking place, is that a bad thing? When wars and revolutions rupture the continuous flow of everyday life, is this a good thing? When a paradigm or status quo is broken, opening up the space for new ideas and ways of thinking, is this a bad thing? There is a hint of violence in the act of interruption and the possibility that what is interrupted may never be resumed and even if it is resumed  – the conversation restarted, the broadcast carried on, the machinery of everyday life re-continued – the temporary cessation and its memory will always be there. The act of interruption breaks the continuity of time and space, separating what happened in the past from what will happen in the future. An interruption creates an interval which frequently elicits the desire for the narrative to be continued and at the same time provokes the possibility that things may not continue in the same way as they have done before. The artists in Transmission Interrupted, in different ways, intervene in the continuous narrative that surrounds us  – the unyielding rhetoric of politicians, the changing, short-lived preoccupations of the news media, the fastmoving rhythm of modern life  – opening up spaces that disturb the continuity of everyday life and reframe the way in which we see and understand the world. The artworks in Transmission Interrupted are like interjections, breaking the flow of a discussion and, in doing so, changing the direction of the conversation, re-routing it into different territory. But, while there is a politic embedded in these works – in the archaic sense of the term, that is, a concern 273

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with how we conduct our lives – they resist the political in a literal or didactic sense, preferring instead to open up a space of interruption which is by turns, poetic, lyrical and unexpected.

I Interjection Jimmie Durham describes his favourite political act as Jean Genet’s report of the 1968 Chicago Convention, where Genet fantasizes about being arrested and longs for the hairy legs of the attendant policemen (Fig. 27.1). Overturning the usual demarcation line between police and protesters, Genet transgresses the traditional battle-line between ‘them’ and ‘us’ by rendering the policemen objects of desire, subject to the same human impulses as the demonstrators that they have been instructed to control. The image that Genet conjures in our mind interjects into our usual way of picturing relations of power, it breaks into the traditional narrative, sowing the seed for a different way of seeing our relationship to those we have assumed have power over us. Jimmie Durham’s artworks can also be seen as interjections of a kind, disturbing the unbroken narrative of modernism and modernity. Often utilizing the discarded leftovers of modern life  – broken glass, discarded snakeskins, unwanted scraps of fabric, cast-off pieces of wood – Durham pushes these remnants into the arena of contemporary art like uninvited guests at an exclusive dinner. They question the logic of inexorable progress that seduces us into thinking that democracy and development has resolved any outstanding questions. For both Genet and Durham, the possibility of violence is triggered by the suppression of difference, by the maintenance of the status quo, by the desire to sustain the unbroken continuity of liberal democracy and economic development. Their interjections derail us; they force us off the tracks of conventional thinking and reroute us onto an altogether different path. In earlier photographic works, Yto Barrada has explored the Strait of Gibraltar as a site of rupture and violence.1 As the main gateway for illegal immigrants from the south, bound for the north, Tangier has become a city of transition creating a ‘condition of constant departure without actually going anywhere’, a space of interruption where people have been abandoned by the state and their presence obscured in ‘a city full of holes’. In the Iris Tingitana series (2007–9), Barrada maps out another kind of ambivalent space, suspended between present and future. Vanishing flowers like the iris tingitana are to be found in abandoned or forgotten spaces in the city, in the cracks between modern urban development and the historical architecture of Tangier (Fig. 27.2). They are, as Barrada describes them, ‘the canaries in the coal mine’, warning of the perils of urbanization and its suppression of indigenous life but they are also shoots of resistance, interceding in the path of modernization and interrupting its unhampered progress and claim to control the environment. It is as if, for Barrada, the incidental blooming of these fragile flowers carries with it the defiant possibility of refusal and challenge which might slow down, overturn

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Fig. 27.1 Jimmie Durham, Various elements from the actual world, 2009. Mixed media assemblage in 5 parts. 3 panels, each 126 x 150 x 12 cm; 1 panel 126 x 100 x 12 cm; 1 panel 126 x 30 x 13.5 cm. Installation view: Varios y diversos/kurimanzutto, Mexico City, 2013. © Jimmie Durham. Courtesy of the artist.

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Fig. 27.2 Yto Barrada, Couronne d’Oxalis (Oxalis Crown), 2006. Chromogenic print, 125 x 125 cm. Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Polaris, Pace Gallery and Sfeir-Semler Gallery.

or even halt the prevailing forces of modernization. In an unexpected artistic turn, Barrada instils the disappearing species of iris native to Morocco with the power to sabotage the trajectory of economic development. Michael Rakowitz’s installation The invisible enemy should not exist (recovered, missing, stolen series) (2007) makes visible objects that have already (probably irretrievably) disappeared or, more accurately, been stolen from the National Museum in Baghdad in the wake of the invasion of Iraq in 2003 (Fig 27.3). Fabricated from Arabic-language newspapers and packaging from Middle Eastern foodstuffs, Rakowitz’s replicas are exhibited on a long table and accompanied by museum-style labels that comment on the pillaging of Iraq’s museum and archaeological sites.

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One of them, written by film-makers Micah Garen and Marie-Hélène Carleton, describes the looted cultural artefacts as ‘negative spaces in history’: we register their absence as shadows of things that have disappeared, probably forever. The complex and multilayered elements of Rakowitz’s installation are poignant reminders of the repeated breaks and disturbances in the narratives of ordinary peoples’ lives through occupation, war, immigration, exile and displacement. The historical treasures of the Iraqi National Museum have been transplanted from their place of origin to another unknown destination; the newspapers and foodstuff packaging out of which the artist has fashioned these reproductions bear witness to the movement of peoples from one place and culture to another; the soundtrack which accompanies the installation relocates cover versions of Deep Purple heavy metal tracks to an Iraqi context, rendered by the former Director of the National Museum Donny George who moonlighted in a cover band called 99%. Rakowitz’s own self-conscious interventions as an artist draw attention to the unanticipated, uncontrolled and unscheduled interventions that disrupt normal life, severing the continuity of memory, belonging and identity so that it can only be reconstructed through fragments and second-hand recollections that approximate to the originals which have been irretrievably lost.

II Interruption Jimmie Durham talks about the process of making art as the intervention of things that he does not know and hence an interruption in his own planning, taking him down an unknown path. Jem Cohen speaks of his own artistic practice as a film-maker in similar terms, as an assemblage of images and sounds gathered together without any set plan or destination in any particular work. In the course of making NYC Weights and Measures (2006), Cohen recorded disparate moments on, above and below the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn on his spring-bound 16 mm Bolex, including ‘a ticker-tape parade for a returning astronaut, winter dusk from a Manhattan rooftop, views from the elevated train, a nodding sleeper seen from my Brooklyn window, an expiring building on 42nd Street’ (Fig  27.4). Cohen’s experience as a push-cart vendor on the streets of New York has made him conscious of the aspects of the city (like street vendors) that become invisible to its inhabitants. Lingering on these neglected facets of urban life, his films quietly interrupt our accustomed field of vision with fragments of everyday life that we consistently overlook. But Cohen’s archive of the neglected and invisible was itself interrupted by events that reframed his film in unexpected ways. Filming through a train window in 2005, the artist’s film was confiscated and turned over to the Joint Terrorism Task Force and the FBI, intruding upon the artist’s own artistic process in such a way that the film unexpectedly acquired new associations unintended by the artist. In the aftermath of 9/11 and new restrictions on photography and film-making in public spaces in New York, the work acquired

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Fig 27.3 Michael Rakowitz, The invisible enemy should not exist (recovered, missing, stolen series), 2007. Installation view, Istanbul Biennial, 2007. Middle Eastern packaging and newspapers, glue, digitally recorded soundtrack, dimensions variable. © Michael Rakowitz. Courtesy of the artist.

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Figs 27.4 Jem Cohen, NYC Weights and Measures, 2006. Film stills, 16 mm film, 5 mins 30 sec. © Jem Cohen. Courtesy of the artist.

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an additional layer of meaning, provoked by an altogether different kind of intervention made on the grounds of state security which proscribes previously innocent activities like filming in public spaces. Like Jem Cohen’s films, Lia Perjovschi’s Timeline: Romanian Culture from 500 bc until Today (2006) requires us to suspend momentarily the flow of everyday life and observe aspects of the world that are invisible, out of sight or otherwise peripheral to our vision (Fig.  27.5). Perjovschi’s Timeline compels the viewer to become a detective, examining the evidence of what has taken place in the past, piecing together the fragments of individual episodes to fabricate a narrative of ‘General Culture’, ‘Romanian Culture’ or ‘Art from Modernism until Today’. Perjovschi’s Timeline and her more recent Knowledge Museum (1999 to the present) construct narratives and histories that do not exist elsewhere and in doing so insert stories, experiences and ideas that have been left out from the prevailing canon. But, where the established canon transmits a closed and self-contained account of past events, Perjovschi’s archive is open to varied analyses and multiple interpretations. The catalogue of people and events provokes questions about why things happen the way they do and of why things are the way they are. In Perjovschi’s work, memory is the intruder, imposing its presence on the telling of political, social and art histories through her meticulous assembling of evidence that corroborates a more complex and contingent narrative in which we are suspects, perpetrators and witnesses all simultaneously. If Perjovschi’s archive attempts to map different people and events in time, Simryn Gill’s assemblage of photographs entitled May 2006 (2006) is a collection of tiny fragments of time, like insects in amber’ that the artist has captured on very slow film. Having acquired thirty rolls of black and white Kodak Technical Pan film after it had been discontinued, Gill adopts the discontinued film stock and its May 2006 expiry date as the premise for recording ‘the time of its own demise on the film’s own body’. In the first week of 2006, Gill started walking around in her Sydney neighbourhood having set herself the task of taking 36 pictures each day ‘of texture and detail and everyday-ness’ (Figs 27.6 and 27.7). Day by day, Gill built up a catalogue of more than 700 images of small everyday things: windowsills and coffee cups; doorways and parked cars; pitted paving stones and discarded newspapers. For Gill, the interruption, or rather the end of production of Technical Pan film and its imminent demise provided the opportunity for Gill to intervene in her own relationship to her neighbourhood and to reconceptualize it. She began, as she says to understand place as a verb rather than a noun, requiring her to engage actively rather than to occupy passively. In the process of walking around her neighbourhood, of talking to her fellow residents and of actively engaging in her locality as she took her photographs, Gill placed herself in her surroundings like a question inserted in a conversation. As the artist herself notes, it is not always necessary to answer the question but merely to pose it and to recognize that it is an important question.

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Fig. 27.5 Lia Perjovschi, Romanian Culture Timeline Research, 1997–today. © Lia Perjovschi. Courtesy of Christine König Galerie, Vienna and the artist.

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III Obstruction Sislej Xhafa’s broken-down bus refuses to move, obstructing traffic and getting in the way of other vehicles and pedestrians (Fig.  27.8). It must be pushed along the road excruciatingly slowly. Its mirrored windows conceal the identities of any passengers that may be inside the bus looking out, and instead, reflects back the landscape through which it travels painstakingly through the city centre. elegant sick bus (2001/09) obliges us to contemplate its breaking down, its slowing down, its getting in the way, preventing us from resuming our progress, inconvenienced and hindered by its faulty mechanics. Pushed along the street by unemployed men, Xhafa’s ‘sick bus’ is a defective monument to a catalogue of political and economic breakdowns: the absence of employment opportunities; the fallacy of tourism as sustainable development; a city’s blindness to its own failures. The female protagonist of Pilar Albarracín’s Viva España (2004) dressed in a vivid yellow coat is being serenaded by a brass band as she walks along the city street (Fig 27.9). As time goes by,

Fig 27.6 Simryn Gill, May 2006, 2006. Installation view. 817 black-and-white photographs, each 5 x 7 in. © Simryn Gill. Courtesy of the artist.

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Figs 27.7 Simryn Gill, May 2006, 2006. Detail. 817 black-and-white photographs, each 5 x 7 in. Simryn Gill. Courtesy of the artist..

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Fig. 27.8 Sislej Xhafa, Elegant Sick Bus, 2001. Lambda print on Plexiglas, 100 x 150 cm. Performance during Istanbul Biennale, 2001. © Sislej Xhafa. Courtesy of Galleria Continua, San Gimignano/Beijing/ Les Moulins/Habana.

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Fig 27.9 Pilar Albarracín, Viva España (Long Live Spain), 2004. Film stills. © Pilar Albarracín, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019. Courtesy of the artist and Galerie Georges-Philippe & Nathalie Vallois, Paris.

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she seems to become increasingly agitated by the serenading band that follows her every step. She walks more quickly but the band also quickens its pace, enveloping her in a circle of brass. She starts to run but the band maintains its pursuit. As the film unfolds, the brass band’s apparent gesture of adulation and love is gradually reconfigured into a sinister and suffocating action. Obstructing her free movement, the band’s intimidating behaviour simultaneously interrupts our reading of what we are seeing and also the meaning that we derive from what we see. Albarracín compels us to redirect our first reading of the situation and contemplate a more menacing interpretation of events. Here then it is the superficial appearance of actions and motives that the artist displaces to introduce a very different understanding. It is difficult not to interpret Albarracín’s film as a commentary on contemporary Spain and its celebration of the casting-off of the remnants of Franco’s dictatorship. Albarracín’s work raises questions about whether the process of securing freedom and democracy is altogether as complete as it might appear. Julia Meltzer and David Thorne’s documentary film It’s not my memory of it: three recollected documents (2003) concentrates on another form of obstruction, namely bureaucratic concealment, government security and record-keeping. Documenting three different ‘classified’ incidents in US foreign relations, the film meditates on various forms of state obfuscation that differentiate between distinct categories of knowing and not knowing, of ‘real’ and ‘protocol’ secrets, of confirmed and unconfirmed records, and of classified and unclassified information. Reflecting on the ambiguous zone of knowing/not knowing, Meltzer and Thorne’s work reflects on the bizarre logic of official secrecy which confuses the line between fact and fiction and between the visible and the invisible.

IV Disruption Like Jimmie Durham’s assemblages, Adel Abdessemed’s burned-out Citroen car seems equally out of place within the pristine white walls of the gallery. Fashioned from black clay Practice Zero Tolerance (2006) is a mute witness to the riots that took place in the working-class districts of Northern Paris in 2005 (Fig.  27.10). The life-size ceramic car dominates the gallery space, an unavoidable obstruction parked uncompromisingly within the walls of the museum,Abdessemed’s work refuses to stay in the periphery of our vision, marginal to our consciousness and is an uncomfortable reminder of the French citizens (immigrants and their children) who remain relegated to a space outside France’s definition of its own national identity and culture. It represents what cannot be assimilated or submerged beneath a blanket of sameness. The blackened structure of Abdessemed’s terracotta Citroen, like a beached whale deposited unexpectedly on sand dunes, is both immobilized and fragile. Above all, it is a monument to dissent. Mircea Cantor speaks of the role of art as a reminder, perhaps of something profound buried in the past or of something in recent history. It is unclear or otherwise undetermined what art is

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Fig. 27.10 Adel Abdessemed, Practice Zero Tolerance, 2006. Terracotta, 120 x 365 x 165 cm. © Adel Abdessemed, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019.

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recalling precisely. The significance of the artistic act lies rather in the trigger, the provocation to remember something that has slipped beyond memory. In his sculpture Monument for the End of the World (2006), Cantor has constructed a scale model of an anonymous city. It is simultaneously any city and no city in particular. A reminder of a place you may have visited in the past or may visit at some point in the future. The indeterminacy of Cantor’s monument is by turns both reassuring and unsettling and wholly inappropriate for a monument whose function after all should be to recall specific events, places and moments in history. Hanging from a massive crane above the model city are wind chimes that accompany the installation with an eerie and ominous sound, like an early warning disaster signal. Suspended between the past and the future, between the specific and the universal, Cantor’s disturbing Monument for the End of the World suspends our frame of reference without offering any certainties but rather raises more questions: What city is this? Is its demise inevitable? Does its end signal the end of the world as a whole? Are the chimes ringing in the impending disaster? How can one memorialize complete annihilation? Yara El-Sherbini poses questions in an altogether different context (Fig. 27.11). Appropriating the format of the pub quiz in which teams compete to answer general knowledge questions, El-Sherbini has made up her own questions which disrupt the ‘neutrality’ of the pub quiz by inserting questions which interrogate the respondents’ perspective on race, religion, art and

Fig. 27.11 Yara El-Sherbini, A Carpet Bomb [as seen in A Demonstration], 2005. © Yara El-Sherbini. Courtesy of La Caja Blanca and the artist.

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politics. The ‘impartial’ environment of the pub quiz is transformed into a forum for political and ethical questions that rarely surface in the context of social evening entertainment. El-Sherbini’s playful disruption of the patterns of the traditional pub quiz is echoed in Ernesto Salmeron’s oil paintings which deploy the changing colours of the Sandinista Popular Revolution. Salmeron’s canvases entitled Guerra Colorida (Colourful War) (2009) use graffiti slogans reminiscent of the Nicaraguan military in the 1980s, sending messages to colleagues as well as enemy soldiers except that here Salmeron’s communications do not convey political propaganda but the artist’s own diary entries. In a process of writing and erasure, Salmeron’s messages are erased and overpainted with various combinations of colours that represent different stages in the history of the Sandinista political project. By rebranding and repainting the revolutionary project at different conjunctures, the Nicaraguan political leadership have effectively written the dominant political narrative and then erased it on consecutive occasions. These successive incursions into public memory, suggests Salmeron, constitute a deliberate strategy to manipulate ordinary people for political ends. Many of the artworks in Transmission Interrupted themselves take the form of incursions of various kinds. Some are obstructions, intervening in the museum space or the public sphere physically and conceptually like Sislej Xhafa’s ceramic Manhole (2000–5) that materializes unexpectedly on the gallery floor or Rakowitz’s obtrusive exhibition table on which are displayed the missing artefacts from the Iraqi National Museum. Others encroach on our consciousness like Yto Barrada’s disappearing irises and Simryn Gill’s diary of everyday things, drawing our attention to what so often remains peripheral to our vision or even invisible. Others again like the works of Jimmie Durham and Pilar Albarracín derail our received perceptions and assumptions about the world in unpredictable ways. Xhafa’s artistic practice has been described as ‘a politics of interruption’, a definition that can be extended to all the artists in this exhibition, whose approach to making art interrupts our ways of seeing, overturns our presumptions, obstructs our accustomed trajectory but, most importantly of all perhaps, provokes questions about how we live our lives and organize our world.

Notes 1 See Yto Barrada, ‘A Life Full of Holes: The Strait Project’, London: Autograph ABP, 2005, p. 59.Figs

27.3a–d Continued.Figs 27.6a–d Continued.

28 Egypt at the Venice Biennale 1967 and the year that changed everything

There was no Venice Biennale in 1967. That is to say, there was no Biennale of Art. Taking place as it does every two years and having done so for over seventy years since the inauguration in 1895 of this international exhibition of contemporary art in the Italian archipelago, it is hardly exceptional or noteworthy. There was a Biennale of Art in Venice in 1966. By the time the Biennale came round again in 1968, straddling the gap year and missing out 1967 entirely, everything had changed. The year 1968 is often defined as a political and cultural turning point in Europe. For Egypt and its neighbouring states, 1967 was the year whose momentous events would have an enduring impact in the Middle East for other reasons which would reverberate throughout the world in the following decades. This essay reflects on the 1966 and 1968 editions of the Venice Biennale and Egypt’s participation alongside Britain with whom Egypt was locked in a colonial relationship for over seventy years until 1952. In 1966, the British pavilion in the Venice Biennale hosted an exhibition of five young British artists, disarmingly entitled Five Young British Artists.1 Of the five, Richard Smith and Robyn Denny were most vocal in their desire to break away from the previous generation of British artists. Influenced by American popular culture and the potential to create a more dynamic relationship between artwork and spectator, they wanted to dismantle the lofty remoteness which they perceived in the work of an older generation of artists and bring artworks back to earth. In spite of the transatlantic influence, however, and as critics at the time observed, the works of these artists retained a certain parochial Englishness or what Bryan Robertson, Director of the Whitechapel Art Gallery at the time, described in terms of artistic nationalism expressed as a ‘militant form of provincial insecurity’.2 Mapping Britain’s participation in the Venice Biennale over more than a century is a relatively easy task. The British Council’s website hosts a timeline of the British Pavilion in Venice, 291

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spanning a period of a hundred and twenty years. The timeline is immaculate, pristine and comprehensive, documenting every exhibition in the British Pavilion in Venice’s Giardini with separate entries on each artist, noting the works they exhibited and other British artists featured elsewhere in the Biennale. The timeline constructs a history of British artistic participation in Venice that has been painstakingly researched, mapped, contextualized and cross-referenced. The timeline makes forgetting impossible. Or at least it frames and fixes an annotated and partial institutional history which stands as a constant reference point, bridging the past and the present, to create a continuous, unbroken narrative history which can be recollected, replayed and revived at any point. Tracing Egypt’s participation in Venice is an altogether more difficult task. An initial search established Egypt’s presence in Venice in 1966 but none was recorded in 1968. Perhaps the traumatic events of the intervening period had compelled Egypt to withdraw from the exhibition? Even the library of the Venice Biennale initially could find no record of Egypt participating in the Biennale in 1968 until the Biennale’s archive confirmed that Egypt had indeed participated that year. In contrast to the comprehensive nature of the documentation of Britain’s presence, the records of Egyptian artists in Venice are partial, fragmented and difficult to find. The absence of Egyptian artists on the international scene turns out, after all, to be the absence of accurate documentation. When they do exist, archival records and critical reviews can often be contradictory or incorrect. The inauguration of the Egyptian Pavilion in Venice’s Giardini is frequently cited as having been in 1952, situating it as a monument to Egyptian nationalism, erected in the year of Egypt’s revolution and the overthrow of its incumbent monarch King Faruq together with the last vestiges of British colonial rule.3 Egypt is the only African nation state to have a permanent structure amongst the twenty-nine pavilions in the Giardini. The Egyptian Pavilion is located between the former Yugoslavian, now Serbian, Pavilion to the left and the Polish Pavilion to the right, looking over towards Brazil across one of the wide avenues which intersect the gardens. The desire to link the erection of the Egyptian Pavilion with the coup d’état by young Egyptian army officers in July 1952 underscores the way in which the national pavilions in the Venice Biennale are seen as playing out narratives of cultural nationalism. Whether in the British or Egyptian pavilions, exhibition-making in this context is frequently perceived as an extension of foreign policy and public affairs. In reality, the Egyptian Pavilion was founded in 1938, fourteen years before the military coup in Egypt which connects it to the struggle for independence and self-determination by the Wafd Party that led the way to the revolution but not to the revolution itself. The slippage in dates between pre-revolutionary and post-revolutionary Egypt can even be read into the fabric of the building: while the word Egitto [Egypt] is inscribed on the right of the main entrance, the letters ‘RAE’ which stands for Repubblica Araba Unita [Arab Republic of Egypt] are engraved above the lintel of the entrance. A few years after the 23 July Coup of 1952, the military government

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now led by Gamal Abdel Nasser not only renamed the streets of Cairo but the country itself following the union with Syria (and confederation with North Yemen) in 1958, which created the short-lived Arab Republic of Egypt.4 Egypt did not participate in the Venice Biennale in 1940 and 1942, presumably following in the steps of Britain’s withdrawal in 1940 after the outbreak of the Second World War and then its abstention in 1942 (during this period, Egypt was still a British protectorate). Egypt’s participation then continued uninterrupted (when the Biennale resumed after the end of the war, in 1948) with the exception of the years 1974 and 1978. Salah Kamel, Director of the Egyptian Academy of Fine Arts in Rome, was the Commissioner of both the 1966 and the 1968 exhibitions in Venice but the tone and content of the two years are strikingly different. Kamel’s introduction in the 1966 Biennale catalogue is confident and expansive. Featuring fourteen painters and two sculptors, Kamel’s text reflects the optimism of a newly independent nation state and he offers up an exhibition that ‘reflects the keen artistic ferment of [Egypt], engaged, among other things in the work of social and cultural renewal, unparalleled in its long and civilised history’.5 In 1968, Kamel’s tone is altogether more sombre and hesitant as he describes the ‘estrangement’ between Egyptian and European intellectuals. The Free Officers coup became the July Revolution and for the first time in over two thousand years, since Pharaonic times, Egypt was ruled by Egyptians. The Egyptian Revolution eradicated the aristocracy, redistributed land, nationalized key sectors of the economy and introduced free education for the masses. Active patronage of the arts was seen as a key component of national, postcolonial development. This was the work of social and cultural renewal to which Kamel refers alongside significant economic development. Industrialization was a major plank of the new military regime and when the United States withdrew its funding in a very public way from a massive project to build a High Dam in Aswan (in an effort to humiliate Nasser and Egypt after he turned to the Soviet Union and Czechoslovakia to buy arms), Nasser nationalized the Suez Canal and announced that he would use the income from the Canal to finance the High Dam. The majority of Egyptians saw the battle for control of the Suez Canal as a struggle for national autonomy, whilst the construction of the High Dam (built to control the unpredictable fluctuations of the Nile’s water levels) created a potent symbol of Egyptian self-determination. The heroic ambition of the High Dam project is evoked in Effat Nagi’s The High Dam (1966) with its modernist geometry and muted palette (Fig. 28.1). Ragheb Ayad’s Assouan (1964) with its mass of labourers ascending towards the sky invites comparisons with ancient Egyptian feats of monumental construction (Fig.  28.2). Both paintings reflect the marriage of ardent nationalism and modernist cultural expression in post-revolutionary Egypt. Nasserism changed the way Egyptians perceived themselves and their country and the new iconography of postcolonial Egypt was manifested in all aspects of cultural life including cinema, dance, music, literature, theatre as well as the fine arts.

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Fig. 28.1 Effat Nagi, The High Dam, 1966. Acrylic on wood, 120 x 120 cm. Courtesy of Barjeel Art Foundation.

The so-called Suez Crisis was a watershed in the formation of Egyptian nationalism in much the same way as were the the Dinshaway massacre in 1906 or the anti-British demonstrations in 1919. Inji Efflatoun, who was included in both the 1966 and 1968 Biennale exhibitions, conjures up a brooding and menacing world in her intense black-and-white ink drawings of the 1940s and 1950s. One drawing, in particular, Mathabahat Dinshawai (The Dinshaway Massacre) from the 1950s re-enacts a turning point in Egypt’s colonial history (Fig. 28.3). Dinshaway is a small village in the Nile Delta, where British officers used to go pigeon-shooting, to the dismay of the local villagers who made a living selling the pigeons. When the officers returned the following year, the villagers attacked and disarmed them. One of the officers managed to escape but died of heatstroke in the August midday sun. The villagers were arrested and tried at a special court

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Fig. 28.2 Ragheb Ayad, Assouan (Aswan), 1964. Oil on board, 155 x 55 cm. Courtesy of Barjeel Art Foundation.

martial. Four men were sentenced to be hanged for the death of the British officer by sunstroke, whilst others were given long prison sentences or sentenced to flogging. The entire village was forced to witness the executions and floggings. Efflatoun transforms us from viewers into involuntary witnesses of colonial violence by framing the scene of the execution through a doorway (or gallows), which we see over the heads of British soldiers who are lined up at the bottom edge of the picture. A member of the Art and Freedom group of revolutionary artists and intellectuals, Efflatoun was a devoted Marxist and feminist who was imprisoned for her activism by Nasser between 1959 and 1963. Although she came from an affluent background, Efflatoun’s travels through Egypt in the 1940s brought her into direct contact with the lives and struggles of ordinary Egyptians, which became the subject matter of her painting.

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Fig. 28.3 Inji Efflatoun, Mathbahat Dinshawi (The Dinshaway Massacre), c. 1950s. Ink on paper, 63.5 x 49.3 cm. Courtesy of Barjeel Art Foundation.

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Efflatoun exhibited ten canvases in the Egyptian Pavilion in Venice in 1968. The titles of the works reflect the artist’s abiding concern with rural and working-class life: The Village (1966), Harvesting the Corn (1966), The Refugees (1967), The Gardener (1968), Red Sea Fishermen (1968). The figure of the Egyptian fellah (peasant) had long been a signifier of Egyptian nationhood, exemplified by Mahmoud Mokhtar’s monumental sculpture Nahdat Misr (Egypt Awakening) (1928) and which became a trope of Nasserist cinema and a vehicle for romantic national imaginings. A pioneer of Egyptian modernism, Mokhtar was one of the first to enrol as a student at the newly established École Égyptienne des Beaux-Arts when it opened in 1908, together with Youssef Kamel, Antoine Haggar, Mohammed Hassan and Ragheb Ayad, they represented an avant-garde generation of Egyptian artists who would become known as Al-Riwad Group (the Pioneers Group). It was Ayad who had first proposed the idea of creating an Egyptian Academy in Rome on the model of other foreign art academies in the city. He won a scholarship to study there in 1925 and took the opportunity to travel around Italy, visiting the Venice Biennale in 1926. Twelve years later, Ayad exhibited his work in the inaugural exhibition of the Egyptian Pavilion in Venice in 1938. In the intervening years between the two editions of the Venice Biennale in 1966 and 1968, the bright promise of postcolonial freedom and political renewal which had reached its apogee with the defeat of British, French and Israeli forces in 1956 resulting in the nationalization of the Suez Canal, had dimmed in the face of events in the mid-1960s: the collapse of the Arab union; Egypt’s costly entanglement in the civil war in Yemen, the economic downturn, and an increasingly repressive regime which imprisoned its opponents in growing numbers – above all, the war with Israel in 1967, in which Egypt suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of the Israelis who destroyed three-quarters of its air force and killed 12,000 Egyptians in a period of six days. Whilst elsewhere in Europe and America, 1968 represented a year of revolution and challenge to the status quo, in Egypt, it marked the turn away from the promise of revolutionary change to the trauma of military defeat and shattered postcolonial dreams. The 35th edition of the Venice Biennale in 1968 was marked by dissent and many of the pavilions were forced to close due to student protests. Artists from different countries took part in the demonstrations and covered up their work in solidarity with the students. In the British Pavilion that year were the artists Phillip King and Bridget Riley whose controlled and minimal installation was praised by The Spectator’s Paul Grinke as offering ‘a welcome oasis of calm’ in the ‘chaos’.6 In 1968, the Egyptian Pavilion hosted the work of only six artists, giving each more space to exhibit between ten and fifteen works.7 In his text for the catalogue of the 35th edition, Salah Kamel reflects on the thirtieth anniversary of the first participation of Egyptian artists at the Venice Biennale and emphasizes the need above all to ‘care deeply about all the intellectuals of the Arab world, of whom the Egyptian artists represented here may feel legitimate representatives’,

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and holds up Egypt’s participation as a reaffirmation of the importance of cultural cooperation between Arab and Egyptian artists and intellectuals, and their European counterparts. The melancholic tone that infuses Kamel’s catalogue text in 1968 expresses an enduring tension in the work of twentieth-century Egyptian artists and intellectuals, seeking to negotiate a deeply felt sense of Egyptian nationhood and self-determination and an active engagement with European culture. As Director of the Egyptian Academy of Fine Arts in Rome, Commissioner of the Venice Biennale and Egypt’s Italian Cultural Attaché, Kamel was well placed to articulate this tension: Arab intellectuals, and Egyptians in particular, [. . .] know that collectively they are heirs to a culture which, even symbolically, is capable of operating with the limitless force of classical civilisation, and which they also know to be linked necessarily to all the work and research that European culture has experienced and is experiencing. In this spirit, our intellectuals, our artists offer up to this international cultural exhibition, a proposal to continue to work on a shared discourse which can only be beneficial to collective practice and understanding.8

Notes 1 Robyn Denny, Harold Cohen, Bernard Cohen, Anthony Caro and Richard Smith. 2 Bryan Robertson, in John Richardson and Bryan Robertson, Harold Cohen: Paintings 1960–65, London: Whitechapel Art Gallery, 1965, p. 7. 3 See, for example: http://www.contemporaryand.com/blog/magazines/counting-the-years-numbering-theartists/. 4 For example, Ibrahim Pasha Street became Sharia El Goumhouria (Republic Street) and Midan Ismail (Ismail Square) became Midan El Tahrir (Liberation Square). 5 George El Bahgoury, Hassan Soliman, Hamed Nada, Khadiga Riad, Mostafa Ramzi, Salah Taher, Moustafa Ahmed, Mostafa El Razzaz, Mostafa El Arnacuty, Fouad Tag Eldin, Adnan Hinen, Salah Abdel Kerim, Al-Hussein Fawzi, Gamal Mahmoud, Hamdi El-Attar, Saleh Reda. 6 Paul Grinke, quoted by Tom Overton, 2009, at: http://venicebiennale.britishcouncil.org/people/reference/ philip-king. 7 In 1968, the six artists who exhibited in the Egyptian Pavilion were: Refaat Ahmed, Inji Efflatoun, Omer El Nagdi, Fuad Kamel, Saad Kamel and Abbdel Wahab El Said Morsi. 8 Salah Kamel, catalogue of the 35th edition of the Venice Biennale, 1968, p. 127, translated from the Italian by the author.

29 From zero to infinity The work of Adel Abdessemed

Silent and motionless, their eyes fixed on the horizon, a line of young men and women dressed in black look out to sea. Protesting at the police killing in June 2010 of a young Egyptian man called Khaled Said, this haunting political demonstration transmitted across the world as a video on Youtube invokes a number of themes in Adel Abdessemed’s work: the interplay between politics and poetry, the intersection of a circumscribed boundary and the infinite, the intimation of recent or imminent violence, and the interplay of image and sound. Entitled Silent Warriors, the works assembled for Abdessemed’s exhibition at the Parasol Foundation display a quiet defiance in the face of something which has recently taken place or is anticipated imminently. The exhibition takes its title from a new work exhibited here and made up of hundreds of masks fashioned from empty tin cans that once contained food stuffs or toxic materials. Manufactured from containers holding both sustenance and poison, Abdessemed’s silent warriors are not hesitant or taciturn protagonists. They are raw and passionate in their silence. They reject polite demonstration in favour of direct action. This is not the silence invoked by the writer Marguerite Duras as a form of silent resistance but rather the silence described by another writer, Kateb Yacine, as ‘silence with the force of a scream’.1 Abdessemed’s works compress the past and the future violently together to expose naked truths much like the Large Hadron Collider forces particles to smash into each other in order to discover the origins of the universe. In Abdessemed’s dramatic installation piece Habibi (2004), the portrait of the artist is rendered as a 17-metre skeleton suspended in the air and propelled by an aeroplane engine turbine (Fig. 29.1). Neither standing nor seated, this self-portrait presents the artist propelling himself into space, suspended somewhere between life and death, motion and stillness, noise and silence: I do not live between two cultures. I am not a postcolonial artist, I am not working on the scar and am not mending anything. I am just a detector, I plunge into the void, into the dark or 299

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Fig. 29.1 Adel Abdessemed, Habibi, 2003. Resin, fibreglass, polystyrene, and airplane engine turbine. Sculpture length 1700 cm, overall length 2100 cm. © Adel Abdessemed, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019.

something else, it doesn’t matter: I plunge without knowing. In the public sphere, I use passion and rage. Nothing else. I don’t do illusions. I have left ideologies behind and am not going back there.2 Adel Abdessemed’s works (although perhaps they would be better described as ‘acts’) are frequently enigmatic but dynamic interventions which disturb the established order of things: a lemon crushed by the weight of the artist’s bare foot (Fig. 29.2); a handwritten note pinned to a ladder in the exhibition space announcing that the artist has resigned; or, a neon sign which simply spells the word ‘exile’ in yellow, fluorescent light above a doorway exit (Fig. 29.3). The artist’s economical visual vocabulary builds into a distinctive artistic language which articulates defiance, nonconformity and subversion of the status quo. Dynamic gestures which are open to different interpretations, Abdessemed’s works are certainly not neutral. They demand attention. They provoke a response. They incite the viewer to engage as an active participant, rather than a passive consumer of the work. The artist confesses that he detests neutrality, preferring instead to test the boundaries of legality and illegality in ways that draw attention to the pervasive and oppressive nature of religion, morality and the law. Works such as Oui (2000), in which the artist fabricated a star from cannabis, or Chrysalide, ca tient à trois fils (1999), a video work in which a woman, veiled from head to foot in black wool is gradually unravelled to expose her

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Fig. 29.2 Adel Abdessemed, Pressoir, fais-le, 2002. Video projection, 3 sec. (loop), colour, sound, dimensions vary (aspect ratio 4:3). © Adel Abdessemed, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019.

naked body, challenge the institutional limits of censorship and representation in different cultural contexts: I hate the word performance. For me it tastes of CAC40, Nasdaq, of the stock exchange and the whole cult surrounding it. I think I prefer to call my pieces ‘acts’. The act is in motion, it is direct . . . To use the word ‘performance’ these days is meaningless, too commonplace . . . I prefer to say ‘act’, I know what it is, the word has a very political meaning . . . I am an artist of acts, not a conceptual artist, I do not exhibit the Coke can, I crush it. I have to crush the Bourek plane and turn it into something else. I am not going to appropriate a burnt-out car and bring it into the field of art: I need to make it, which includes having it made, whether it means preparing the mold or removing the clay from the mold, drying or firing.3 Abdessemed’s burnt-out Renault car seems out of place within the pristine walls of the gallery. Fashioned from black clay Practice Zero Tolerance (2006) is a mute witness to the riots that took place in the working-class districts of Northern Paris in 2005. Abdessemed’s work refuses to stay in the periphery of our vision, marginal to our consciousness, and is an

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Fig. 29.3 Adel Abdessemed, Exit, 1996–2009. Yellow neon, 9 elements, dimensions vary. © Adel Abdessemed, ADAGP, Paris, and DACS, London, 2019.

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uncomfortable reminder of the French citizens (immigrants and their children) who remain relegated to a space outside France’s definition of its own national identity and culture. In this respect, the artwork represents the leftovers of difference, of what cannot be assimilated or submerged beneath a blanket of sameness. The blackened structure of Abdessemed’s terracotta Renault is a monument to dissent. Drawing on an artistic lineage that extends back at least to Marcel Duchamp and Georges Bataille, Abdessemed describes himself as a ‘criminal romantic’. His artistic practice contravenes established conventions and norms through playful and subversive works that are not, however, anarchic or nihilistic. Often humorous and deceptively simple, Abdessemed’s creative acts put artistic practice on a par with political action and human struggle. For Abdessemed, artistic creativity is an integral part of the human condition and the desire for social transformation: ‘The essential thing is to act, to fight and to create in order to transform the world.’ In an interview with Elizabeth Lebovici in 2006, Abdessemed reflected on his exodus from Algeria in the wake of the 1991 elections when the Islamic Front won 47 per cent of the vote and the incumbent government rejected the outcome, instead declaring ‘all-out war on terrorism’, which resulted in terrible violence and massacres in Algiers and other, mainly urban, areas: I left Algeria when hope was killed. The curfew, the attacks, the students killed, the car bombs: they were very dark days, very tough. People were drinking a lot. I saw colleagues turn into alcoholics, others were literally driven mad. When you see brilliant colleagues eating out of dustbins, you come to a stage when you stop thinking, you attack. Most of the fine-art students had real political awareness, they were diehard radicals. ‘Silence is death, if you say nothing you die, so speak out and die’, said the writer Tahar Djaout before he was executed.4 In his own work, Abdessemed flatly refuses to choose between speech and silence but melds them together to dramatic effect. In his installation Exit (1996), the artist created a yellow neon sign spelling out the word ‘exile’ in French. Located discreetly at the exit of the exhibition space, the work plays with the idea of the limit or threshold where one departs, without any guarantee of return, into a space of exile unbounded by the limits of time or geography. For the exhibition Witnesses at the Fundacion NMAC, Abdessemed constructed a ring out of 16 kilometres of barbed wire entitled Salam Europe (2006). It is difficult to tell whether this structure is a prison, constructed to prevent escape or a protective cell, defending its occupants from attack. The ambiguous status of national territory and the nation state is a theme which has recurred before in Abdessemed’s work. In 2002, the artist made The Green Book, a book in which he collected

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1,000 national anthems, transcribed by hand by a different person in their own language. The polyphony of different national songs and languages contained in The Green Book defies the symbolic value of a homogeneous nation or world. In Salam Europe, Abdessemed invoked the equivocal nature of territorial borders. Do they exist, like social laws and conventions, to protect us or to restrict and hamper our freedom of movement and thought? The loop and the spiral are recurring motifs in Abdessemed’s oeuvre, creating the conditions for an infinite to ‘shape and build itself ’.5 For the video work God is Design (2005), accompanied by a specially commissioned score by Silvia Ocougne, Abdessemed assembled and animated hundreds of drawings which flash onto the screen, one after the other, in quick succession. To create the 3,050 individual drawings, the artist appropriated a number of visual motifs and references from cells in the human body, through Jewish and Islamic religious symbols to Western geometric painting and North African abstract patterns in a collision of codes and styles. The individual elements of Abdessemed’s animated film move so rapidly that it is difficult to isolate or fix upon any distinct motif to the exclusion of another. Like The Green Book, God is Design insists upon difference and particularity as a condition of humanity. In the aftermath of 9/11, Judith Butler reflected on ‘the media’s evacuation of the human through the image’ so that some deaths are worth counting, having been judged ‘a grievable death’, a death worth mourning, and others not. While acknowledging the need for images which approximate to reality and truth, for images that ‘convey the full horror and reality of the suffering’, she rejected the notion that reality could be conveyed by finding the right and true image.6 For Butler, the human is conveyed though the impossibility of representation, in the gap between reality and its representation. ‘For representation to convey the human,’ writes Butler, ‘then, representation must not only fail, but it must show its failure. There is something unrepresentable that we nevertheless seek to represent, and that paradox must be retained in the representation we give.’7 With his massive installation Habibi, conceived in the wake of 9/11, Abdessemed seeks to represent the unrepresentable: the passage and the threshold between life and death. This work, perhaps more than any other, articulates the artist’s engagement with the paradox of the human condition as both stillness and motion, both bounded and infinite. Abdessemed’s works consistently seek to elevate art above the material and the superficial to a heightened level of visceral engagement and political agency. Like his self-portrait Habibi, Abdessemed is an artist in a permanent state of readiness to engage and take action through his artwork: I have often said that Habibi was a self-portrait because I like to think when I am lying on the floor, unlike Giacometti’s Man Walking, or Rodin’s Thinker or a Buddha. I do my thinking laid out flat on my stomach in a position that resembles taking off or hovering.8

From Zero to Infinity

Notes 1 Yacine, Le Poète, p. 180. 2 Adel Abdessemed, in conversation with Eliasabeth Lebovici, Adel Abdessemed: À L’Attaque, Zurich: JRP Ringier, 2007. p. 111. 3 Ibid., pp. 126–7 and 145. 4 Ibid., p. 97. 5 Ibid.,p. 132. 6 Judith Butler, Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence, London and New York: Verso, 2004, p. 147. 7 Ibid., p. 144. 8 Ibid., p. 165.

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30 Reading (and curating) from right to left

Is the balance of power – political, economic and cultural – moving to another place? Are we witnessing the ending of one conjuncture and the beginning of another? All the signs seem to be pointing that way. The proliferation of biennials across the globe from Istanbul to Guangzhou, from Sharjah to Singapore, and the development of new museums emerging across the southern hemisphere suggests that we are witnessing the disintegration of cultural hegemony in one part of the world as it cedes its influence to other parts of the world that are beginning to take the lead in defining the parameters of cultural-economic-political space. If this really is the end of one conjuncture and the beginning of another (and it might be too early to say), then this will not be a clean break. We would be foolish to anticipate the categorical end of Western modernist values, punctuated by a full stop, only to announce the fresh articulation of a new set of unconnected values, meanings and agendas from the Middle East, China, India, Brazil and elsewhere. The present remains doggedly connected to the past and the so-called ‘developing’ world remains irrevocably linked to the ‘developed’ world through shared histories and narratives. Perhaps all we can safely say at this particular moment in time is that the northern hemisphere (mainly Europe and North America) senses that its authority and its artistic and intellectual capital is less secure than it once was; its footing on the mountainside that roped Picasso and Braque together ‘like mountaineers’ in the early years of European modernism decidedly less secure. There is a tendency for us to see exhibitions and artworks as though they were free-floating structures removed from everything else around them but of course exhibitions and artworks are constructions, fabricated from the ideas, materials and experiences derived from the world in which they circulate. There is no such thing as a blank canvas or a pure space, unpolluted by the flotsam and jetsam of history and politics. We all start in a crowded room, full of other peoples’ expectations and ideas, informed by the present and the past simultaneously. Take, for example, the category of ‘contemporary art from the Middle East’ (or, indeed, contemporary art 306

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from India or China). The very notion of the ‘Middle East’ is a proposition that inevitably brings with it a weight of expectations and assumptions that has its roots in the geo-political dynamics of power and representation that go back at least to Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt in 1798. The ‘Middle East’ – itself a colonial and military construction which persists dynamically into the present – and its representation(s) are hotly contested. There are many who wish to see art and artistic production liberated from the weight of its political context and freed from the shackles of the literal, the documentary and the descriptive. Is this not the optimism of romantic longing winning over the pessimism of lived experience? Even the most abstract and poetic artworks derive from somewhere; from a particular time and a particular place? They are shaped by that historical and geographical conjuncture just as they contribute to its formation. This is not to deny the potential of artworks to speak to other cultures, places and times. It is merely to insist on the overlapping terrain of culture and geography and of the influence of real and imagined maps in the way that we see and curate the world. Of course, artists and curators have the right to expect that their work should sit within the wider context of contemporary art and ideas without being pinned down and fixed like a military satellite picture within a relentless narrative of conflict, violence and religious extremism that in many ways distorts the everyday reality of peoples’ lives. Power and representation remain inextricably linked, perhaps more so in the Arab world than anywhere else at this present time. How then is it possible to see and read the artistic production of that region as free-floating images? Even before the artwork has left the artist’s studio in Amman, Cairo, Tehran, Beirut, Ramallah, Algiers, it is caught within a frame of representation which has been painstakingly fabricated over centuries. There is inevitably room for misunderstandings and misreadings. We have a tendency to assume that we all start from the same place and yet English is read from left to right and Arabic from right to left. Our starting points (and hence our bearings) can often be diametrically different, opening up the possibility of multiple misreadings, mistranslations and misunderstandings. We end up with more questions than answers. How can the questions left hanging and unresolved be answered? How can a deeper, more complex series of conversations be initiated, framed, proposed? But before we go there, perhaps it’s necessary first to articulate the discomforts and disturbances and give them a name. Everyone will have their own moments of awkwardness and uneasiness but here are some of mine: the lack of fluency in a foreign language which undermines one’s sense of authority and others’ perception of it; the fact of difference expressed in the variegated articulations which belie the idea of a homogenous, undifferentiated contemporary art world; the impossibility of generalizing about the physical conditions of such dramatically different cities, countries, economies, cultures under a single rubric and yet the points of continuity and connection shaped by their historical (and colonial) formation; the desire to talk about art and ideas and yet knowing that whenever we do we will be tripped up by the politics of representation; suppressing the image and bringing

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the politics of power and representation to the fore, after all they are always there like silent mandarins shaping and influencing the outcomes of our exchange even if we don’t want to acknowledge them; suppressing the politics and pretending that artists and intellectuals from the ‘developing’ world occupy a level playing field with their European and American counterparts and that context (and politics) is irrelevant; privileging the visual and creating a shopping list of ‘hot’ artists and curators and artistic projects which will be snapped up as part of a global shopping expedition which acquires artworks without the more burdensome and demanding requirement to rethink the intellectual and conceptual paradigm of an institution or collection. The fact of difference, like the experience of an unfamiliar and challenging artwork, compels us to occupy a space which is uncomfortable, awkward, disturbing and incommensurate, on many levels, with our perception of the world. Do we have any option but to try to negotiate difference – not by assimilating it or by neutralizing it or by exoticizing it – but by engaging with difference as an ongoing process which acquires depth and complexity, yet is never the same? If this historical moment does indeed turn out to be the end of one conjuncture and the beginning of another, then we need to come to terms with the implications of this shift and reorientate our bearings. Where once we read (and curated) from left to right, perhaps we now need to start reading from right to left?

31 Dissonant divas Sonia Boyce, sound and collaboration

A breathless, halting male voice breaks the silence with his stuttering sounds and deep grunts, perhaps he is clearing his voice before he begins to speak and then, almost as suddenly, he pauses. The harmonious sounds of choral voices start up and then stop. Grunting, guttural noises emerge struggling from the throat of the incongruous figure who stands in front of the altar, still apparently unable to form words or melodies in response to the choir. His silver, space-age attire serves only to accentuate his strange other-worldly presence which seems entirely out of place in this setting of a fifteenth-century chapel. The sacred chorus starts up once again. More grunting noises evolving into what could be an attempt to sing, to join the choral refrain. The harmonious strains of Renaissance music rise in response. The soft strains of the sacred mass grow and gently rise in unison, amplified by the architecture of the chapel. A buzzing sound emerges from the soloist’s mouth, then short staccato sounds, looping into a murmur, at first inaudible and then forming into breathless, staccato phrases: ‘Sing-to-me, sing-to-me, singto-me, sing-to-me . . .’ Finally, the forced guttural sounds of the intruder begin to mesh with the voices of the chorus, weaving in and out, still separate and different but now interspersed between the chorus’ lilting harmonies, strangely accommodated into the intervals of the sacred music. The three-screen installation For you, only you (2007) is one of three works that made up the exhibition Scat  – Sonia Boyce: Sound and Collaboration, presented by Sonia Boyce and the Institute of International Visual Arts (Iniva) at Rivington Place in London between June and July 2013 (Fig. 31.1). All three works use image and sound in strikingly different but related ways to collaborative works made by Boyce over a period of several years. The three-screen installation For you, only you (2007) is a complex work, commissioned by Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art, University of Oxford, for which Boyce orchestrated the collaboration between the early music conductor David Skinner and his choir Alamire and the contemporary artist Mikhail Karikis, to create a dramatically original and effective work. The process of making the work and its content are closely intertwined: markedly different 309

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Fig. 31.1 Sonia Boyce, For you, only you, 2007. Production stills. Photo: Stuart Bunce. © Sonia Boyce. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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protagonists encounter each other and enter into a dialogue to create something new and entirely distinctive. Boyce acts as a catalyst for this encounter and, in the process, moves herself into unfamiliar terrain, ‘trespassing’ in her words into ‘another’s world’. Making reference to Michel Serres’ book, Boyce characterizes her role in the process as that of a parasite, moving playfully from one situation to another.1 She resolutely resists the role of the artist as authoritative and directorial, preferring instead to work collaboratively, allowing artistic possibilities to emerge from the dynamic of human interaction and exchange. The resulting multiscreen installation For you, only you is composed of three screens that echo the different perspectives and artistic personalities convened to create the piece. Forged exquisitely out of this meeting of incongruous elements, Boyce’s work resonates with the surreal beauty of Comte de Lautréamont’s imagined ‘chance encounter on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella’. The musical starting point for the work is Josquin Desprez’s Tu solus qui facis mirabilia (c. 1470), a piece of sacred late medieval/early Renaissance music that is itself a reworking of an existing idea by an earlier composer Johannes Ockeghem. A pioneer who introduced humanism into music, one of Desprez’s key contributions to the repertoire of Western music was to restructure fifteenth-century music ‘into something that was a little more humanistic where text was paramount and the arrangement of individual vocal lines made beautiful artistic sense’:2 There are many ways in which Josquin manipulated text so that it could become more intelligible in music. One was close imitation; taking one voice and having another voice enter with the same melody and the same text. Other techniques included antiphonal writing where a group of singers might do the same thing and homophony – chords moving together with the lower voices repeating the same phrase. Another noteworthy thing was Josquin’s economical use of musical ideas: he would take a small phrase and repeat it over and over again, playing on that very basic human desire for repetition and familiarity.3 In For you, only you, the serene chords of Despresz’s Tu solus are interrupted by Karikis’ animallike sounds which interject into the harmonious phrases of Desprez’s sacred music until eventually Desprez’s sound world is ‘warped’ and rendered ‘crooked’ by Karikis’ manipulation of the score, fragments of which have been altered in pitch and tempo. As the piece develops, the vocal incursions of the stranger who confronts the choir render the familiar and repetitive musical text of Tu solus dissonant and unfamiliar. Where Desprez’s music strives for intelligibility and familiarity, Karikis’ intervention unravels the score, only to reconstitute it as something entirely new, composed of its rearranged and altered constituent parts: For you, only you imagines a dialogue between two characters: the voice of an old master and a contemporary troubled voice. The work begins with the soloist’s attempts to find a way to

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call out and communicate with the master. He clears his throat and attempts to vocalize; he holds his breath, coughs and stutters. The choir’s response to his struggle is the serene introductory phrases of Josquin Desprez’s Tu solus qui facis mirabilia. The material presented through call and response forms the opening of the work and develops in the final section . . . [in which] the choir sings fragments of sounds that are loosely organized according to the parts of the body and the resonating cavities where they are produced and reverberate. This material evolves into a dance and the work climaxes with the choir and soloist bringing their different themes together in a lively repetition of a celebratory chorus.4 Roland Barthes’ treatise on unrequited love, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, provided the subject of a dialogue between Boyce and Karikis during the making of the work. For Karikis, Barthes’ text is at the core of his collaboration with Boyce and Skinner. According to Karikis, his text ‘is about trying to communicate and not being able to communicate, about trying to address someone and to express and verbalize a feeling that is impossible to express’.5 Barthes’ account of the frustrated and painful attempt to speak and communicate with the other is restaged by Boyce in For you, only you as a dramatic enactment of the agonizing struggle to communicate without speech. In 1997, ten years before the making of For you, only you, Boyce travelled to Cuba with a group of artists as part of an international residency programme organized by the Triangle Arts Trust. An experience in Havana gave rise to new work that anticipates For you, only you in its exploration of the relationship between word, image and voice as well as the painful disjuncture between voice and speech, and between speech and communication: On one of the afternoons in Havana, I decided to part with the group and returned to my hotel. As I was entering the hotel lift a man jumped into the lift with me and began shouting at me. I thought he was trying to rob me, but despite my persistent attempts to say ‘I don’t speak Spanish,’ he continued shouting. It took me a while to realize that he was a security guard, and that he assumed I was a prostitute ‘working’ in the hotel. Later, while discussing the incident with some Cuban artists, I was told that women of African descent in tourist hotels are either assumed to be cleaners or prostitutes. The security guard was certainly perplexed as to how I had become a guest in the hotel, and was very angry that I didn’t (couldn’t) speak Spanish.6 Boyce’s response to the incident was to create a series of drawings entitled Travel Writer (1997). She invited her fellow artists, who came from different parts of the world and spoke a number of languages to write the sentence ‘I don’t speak Spanish’ repeatedly in different languages. Part performance, part collaborative drawing, the work returned Boyce back to the practice of drawing. While the medium was key to her early works of the late 1980s and early 1990s, Boyce’s return to drawing in the late 1990s surfaces in a very different way: no longer a singular expression of the artist’s creative intent, Boyce deploys drawing in Travel Writer as a collective,

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group activity instigated by the artist in response to a specific social situation. In both Travel Writer and For you, only you, Boyce interrogates the host’s response to the stranger in their midst, embedding the politics of difference in the very structure and execution of the work: I often talk about [For you, only you] as being quite utopian. Utopian in the sense that in the beginning of the film, each performer has their space which is separate, but they are in the same space. There is a shift where they start to sing together, and take on each other’s voice to a certain extent. It makes me think about the question of the stranger. How society deals with the stranger, those who are different, in its cruellest term: the alien. I’m interested in how we have experienced successive waves of difference, and how that difference has been felt and dealt with. At the end of For you, only you, the proposition is that one moves from a stranger to a neighbour . . . I think about For you, only you, with the utopian idea that we can live with difference and it can be ecstatic.7 Alongside Travel Writer, Boyce’s residency in Havana, Cuba spawned another body of work. Tongues (1997) is a series of four monumental black and white photographs of the underside of tongues. Frozen between silence and speech, the massive anonymous tongues are caught at different stages of movement. It is difficult to tell whether they represent four different mouths or one freeze-frozen at different moments. In one image, the tongue curls up to touch the roof of its mouth; in another, it gently grazes its lower teeth; and in yet another, a tongue emerges like a predatory animal emerging from its cave. Karikis’ guttural, animalistic incursions into Desprez’s Tu solus, interspersed with silent interludes, recall Boyce’s colossal tongues, unable or perhaps refusing to speak in a deliberate act of defiance: John Cage says that syntax is the rule of language and functions like an army, so to choose to break the rules and produce nonsense is a form of demilitarizing language. I would go so far as to suggest it is like throwing shit at language – vocal excretion, the abject made aural. We also associate sounds like that with states of ecstasy, madness or possession – becoming who we are (usually) not.8 Part of the Sanctus of the mass, Desprez’s Tu solus was written to be sung when the congregation and the clergy came to witness the elevation of the host and the transubstantiation, literally transforming bread into the body of Christ. Tu solus was written then to accompany the ultimate Christian symbol of transformation and more importantly of taking the ‘other’ into oneself. An audience also bears witness to the encounter between Karikis and Skinner’s Alamire choir in the Renaissance chapel of Magdalen College. But more significantly, as Karikis points out, they bear witness to the politics of difference in a physical and sensual way. Boyce refers to the significance of bearing witness in the context of the African-American church, which extends beyond the witnessing of an individual’s faith before God to that of bearing witness to acts of racist violence. The audience in For you, only you dissolves the separation between artwork and audience,

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between the audience for the performance and the audience for Boyce’s work, all of whom are called upon to bear witness to the ecstasy of difference: When I clear my throat once, I clear my throat. When I clear my throat twice, I am asking the audience to be quiet. I clear my throat again and I am using it as a delaying technique to remember the words. The fourth time I clear my throat the audience grow suspicious. By the fifth time the listeners are nervous, uncomfortable or embarrassed. My vocal gesture is singular but the audience’s psychological shifts are dramatic . . . The moment one stands before an audience and opens one’s mouth, there is this expectation to hear him/her say or sing something. The phrase ‘sing to me’ subverts this expectation; it confronts the audience with their expectations of me, and becomes my demand of the choir/audience to sing to me. These subvert the relationship between audience, performer, listener and speaker.9 Oh Adelaide (2010) is the second film piece in the Scat exhibition, a single-screen projection made in collaboration with the sound artist Ain Bailey, also known as DJ Miss Bailey (Fig. 31.2). The work recovers a performance of Creole Love Call by the early-twentieth-century jazz singer Adelaide Hall which Boyce discovered while trawling the Internet. Boyce has manipulated the archival film footage into a ghostly, ethereal film where dazzling blasts of whiteness threaten to obliterate the performer and her piano accompanist. Ain Bailey’s haunting soundtrack provides an aural assemblage of different musical genres that Bailey has cut and rewound to create a sonic environment that is hard to decipher. Fragments of the song are barely audible and Hall’s

Fig. 31.2 Sonia Boyce in collaboration with Ain Bailey, Oh Adelaide, 2010. Video stills. © Sonia Boyce. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage, 2019.

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performance is difficult to discern through the distortions and remixing that Bailey and Boyce have applied to their source material. As a result, Oh Adelaide consistently defies the audience’s attempt to read the image or fix the sound. In fact, Boyce and Bailey so distort the film and its soundtrack that the original cannot be re-presented as an accessible and legible document from an earlier era. In this way, the work reflects Boyce’s engagement with the archive as a living entity rather than a passive collection of historical documents waiting to be retrieved and effortlessly reclaimed. Indeed, the disturbing nature of the archival material that she encounters comes to shape Boyce’s treatment of the black-and-white footage of Hall’s performance. Having rejected a reverential attitude toward the past, Boyce empowers herself to manipulate and alter the original film with artistic licence: Being troubled by the past’s imagery became a moment of epiphany. Just the very act of putting something in the archive, suggests its future use is beyond the control of the past . . . We don’t have to settle for the past as it is presented. The past is not fixed. This question of playing with history comes out of not settling . . . I decided that it was perfectly legitimate to treat this digital footage as pure material to be played with, as something elastic. So light and dazzling whiteness becomes the material presence that reveals and threatens to obliterate everything in its path, which Adelaide Hall and her accompanying pianist emerge and disappear within. As the audience, we’re urged to fight to keep track of her – to capture her.10 The accompanying pianist is probably Duke Ellington, with whom Hall recorded Creole Love Call in 1927. An American jazz singer and performer, Hall moved to England in the 1930s, where she lived until her death in 1993. Adelaide Hall first features in Boyce’s work in an earlier project called The Devotional Series, which is the third work presented in the Scat exhibition. Developed for over a decade, The Devotional Series began as a collaboration with a community group in Liverpool, called Liverpool Black Sisters. Boyce asked the group to record the names of black British female performers they knew. When the group failed to remember any performer other than Shirley Bassey, Boyce set them the task of researching more names. What was originally intended to be a six-month project became The Devotional Series. Through word of mouth, the list of names grew to over 200 performers, dating from the nineteenth century to the present day. Eventually, Boyce accrued a substantial collection and archive consisting of records, tapes, record and CD covers, testimonials and ephemera. A selection of this archive has been installed in one of the spaces dedicated to the exhibition. One wall of the space was covered with white wallpaper. On closer inspection, the paper is revealed to carry a text which has been blind-embossed. The words which are invisible when you first enter the space, are derived from a lover’s rock song from 1970, originally written and performed by Susan Cadogan. A variation of Reggae music, Lovers Rock emerged as a distinctive creation of black British culture in the 1970s and 1980s. The lyrics of Cadogan’s Hurts So Good carry disturbing intimations of sadomasochistic love and even domestic violence. Like Oh Adelaide

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and The Devotional Series, Lovers Rock (1997) suggests that the recovery of the past is an ambivalent activity which brings in its wake a darker, more equivocal history than we usually ascribe to it. The original film footage of Hall performing Creole Love Call includes images of minstrels. Cadogan’s song is indelibly linked in the artist’s mind with her teenage years, growing up in a diverse community that included white working class, Asian and Afro-Caribbean contemporaries but it was only when Boyce decided to transcribe the lyrics in her studio years later that the ‘troubling content’ surfaces which had ‘somehow remained hidden in the sweet melody’.11 Like Cadogan, Hall was also a musical pioneer. Together with Ella Fitzgerald, Hall played a part in inventing jazz scat, an improvisational form of wordless, often nonsensical singing that transforms the voice into an instrument. Hall’s performance of Creole Love Call has been mashed up and recut by DJ Miss Bailey together with the music of other performers from the archive of The Devotional Series. In her deliberate resistance to making sense, Boyce positions Oh Adelaide and For you, only you in a tradition of modernist artistic practice which draws on Dadaist poetry, the work of John Cage and black British female performers who disrupt our expectations of the relationships between word, image and sound. Like the stuttering black bartender in Blonde Venus, these dissonant divas reclaim inarticulacy and nonsense to assert other histories and experiences which are situated at the very centre of our own lived experiences of the world.

Notes 1 Sonia Boyce, in Paul Bonaventura (ed.), For You, Only You: A Project by Sonia Boyce, Oxford: Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art, University of Oxford, 2007, p. 26. 2 David Skinner, in Bonaventura (ed.), For You, Only You, p. 25. 3 Ibid. 4 Mikhail Karikis, in Bonaventura (ed.), For You, Only You, p. 19. 5 Ibid., p. 41. 6 Sonia Boyce, inaugural professorial lecture, Middlesex University, unpublished, 27 June 2013. 7 Sonia Boyce in Scat – Sonia Boyce: Sound and Collaboration, exhibition leaflet, London: Iniva, 2013, p. 18. 8 Karikis, ibid., p. 18. 9 Ibid., p. 20. 10 Sonia Boyce, interviewed by Sally Frater, in ‘Fluid Locations: Discussing Archives and Representation with Sonia Boyce’, at: http://nomorepotlucks.org/site/fluid-locations-discussing-archives-and-representationwith-sonia-boyce-sally-frater. 11 Boyce, inaugural professorial lecture, Middlesex University.

32 A thousand and one

Sweating, fucking, sleeping, dreaming. Blue and green butterflies hover above the archipelago of sweat and semen stains on the soiled mattress whose pale pink material has faded only slightly. The mattress is a dumb object, mute witness to the actions that once took place over it and the people who occupied it. It bears the dirty traces of the mingling of blood and sweat and semen as well as more mundane bodily functions. The itinerant artist, a Brazilian by the name of Eduardo Padilha, has stitched some words into the fabric like clumsy handwriting scrawled onto a hasty note Fig. 32.1. From a distance, it reads: Abstinence conundrum. Sweating, fucking, sleeping, waking up to a nightmare. I remember him pacing up and down, from Marble Arch to Oxford Circus handing out his leaflets for eleven pence each, ‘Less Protein for Less Lust’, ‘Less Meat, Eggs, Nuts’.

Fig. 32.1 Eduardo Padilha, Abstinence Conundrum, 1997. Mattress. © Eduardo Padilha. 317

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A man with a mission carrying his handmade plaque, day in and day out, come rain or shine. Was he the last Christian soldier taking the battle onwards up Oxford Street? Continued abstinence But if everyone had abstained, the race would have been wiped out a long time ago. Pure desire mixed up the races to produce a motley but happy breed. ‘The progeny of a white and negro is a mulatto, or half and half,’ explained Frederick Marryat’s Peter Simple at a fancy-dress ball in Barbados in the early nineteenth century: Of a white and mulatto, a quadroon, or one-quarter black, and of this class the company were chiefly composed. I believe a quadroon and white make the mustee or one-eight black, and the mustee and white the mustafina, or one-sixteenth black. After that, they are whitewashed, and considered as Europeans [. . .] The quadroons are certainly the handsomest race of the whole; some of the women are really beautiful [. . .] I must acknowledge, at the risk of losing the good opinion of my fair country-women, that I never saw before so many pretty figures and faces. Back at home, Jane Austen’s heroines were travelling from one corner of the South-east to the other, beginning and ending their narratives in one or another of a handful of home counties. This is England. No Ireland, no Scotland, no Wales or any Celtic fringe. This is England but only a small corner of our sceptred isle. A map of parochialism and denial. The filthy grime of industrialization does not sully the picnics on Box Hill and Mansfield Park can manage perfectly well [albeit in an uncontrolled way] while Sir Thomas Bertram sees to business in far-away Antigua. Back to basics and to Englishness now that we have shrugged off our Celtic fringe. We are as pure as Normandy butter. This island should be called, ‘New Normandy like New York,’ said Jimmie Durham. It could be the semantic badge of our origins if not our originality. pure adj. 1 Unmixed unadulterated. 2 of unmixed descent. 3 mere, simple, nothing but. 4 not corrupt ‘Stranger rests in a strange land,’ reads another mattress text. Dispersed across the floor, Padilha’s mattresses map a makeshift, unmade landscape. They bear the traces of countless couplings. They have borne witness to a thousand and one dreams, and nightmares endlessly repeating: sleeping, waking, sleeping, waking, sleeping, waking, sleeping. Unlike Kuitca’s mattresses imprinted with the maps of real places and false names, these mattresses guard their anonymity. Second- or third- or even fourth-hand hand-me-downs, they are a million miles away from the pristine down-at-heel designer chic of Habitat home style, sampling other cultures like they were going out of fashion. ‘Will you be the stranger to my native?’ she said. ‘Pretend that I’m Kuchuk Hanem and you’re my Flaubert.’ Dallying in Oriental robes, Flaubert smoked his hookah and wrote home from Cairo in the winter of 1850:

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‘The little bells on the dromedaries are tinkling in your ears, and great flocks of black goats are making their way along the street, bleating at the horses, the donkeys and the merchants. There is jostling, there is argument, there is sweating of all kinds, there is shouting in a dozen languages. The raucous Semitic syllables clatter in the air like the sound of a whiplash [. . .] it is delightful.’ Having tasted the delights of Cairo, Flaubert sailed up the Nile to Upper Egypt, where he met his priestess in the flesh, Kuchuk Hanem, a dancer exiled from the capital. She gave him Salammbo. He gave her syphilis. Swamping, flooding, swamping, flooding Like a swarm of locusts, a plague of refugees. Swamping and flooding Brixton, Soho, Brick Lane. What was he thinking of, London’s lone bomber with his sad plastic bag exploding with hatred? Did he think he could wipe the slate clean and make England pure again? Did he think he could turn back the clock with his deadly ticking device? Pure white. Pure cube. Pure white cube. Pure modern. Pure. But England was never a green and pleasant land. And the English have always been a mixed-up race.

Endnotes

Part One The leftovers of translation Chapter 1 ‘But What is the Question? Art, Research and the Production of Knowledge’, was originally presented as a keynote speech at a seminar entitled Beyond Text that was organized by the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) at the Royal Society for the Arts in London in 2007. At that time, the AHRC was considering how to evolve its definition of research to encompass contemporary visual art practice. Chapter 2 ‘Extra-Extra: Interview with Raul Ortega Ayala’, was published to coincide with the solo exhibition Extra-Extra of the artist Raul Ortega Ayala which was curated at DACS, 33 Great Sutton Street, London EC1 (16 June–31 July 2010). Chapter 3 ‘Dissonant Chorus’, was first published in Recent Sonia Boyce: La, La, La, Douglas F. Cooley Memorial Art Gallery, Reed College, Portland, Oregon, 2001. It was published on the occasion of the artist’s solo exhibition curated by Susan Fillin-Yeh and Marcus Verhagen at Douglas F. Cooley Memorial Art Gallery (17 April–17 June 2001). Chapter  4 ‘Shen Yuan: The Leftovers of Translation’, was first published in Shen Yuan, London: Iniva, in collaboration with Arnolfini, Bristol, 2001. It accompanied the first major exhibition of Shen Yuan’s work in the UK which was shown at Arnolfini, Bristol, and Chisenhale Gallery, London, in the summer and autumn of 2001 and subsequently at the Bluecoat Gallery, Liverpool, in winter 2001–2. Chapter 5 ‘Voices Off: Interview with Susan Hiller’, is based on an interview recorded with the artist Susan Hiller on 11 August 2017 in her West London studio. In 2002, the curator David A. Bailey and Gilane Tawadros visited Hiller in her apartment in East Berlin, where she was living whilst on a DAAD artist’s residency.

Part Two The banality of difference Chapter 6 ‘We are the Martians’, was co-written with John Gill and first published in John Gill, Jens Hoffmann and Gilane Tawadros (eds), Alien Nation, London: ICA and Iniva, and Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz Verlag, 2006. The publication, which also includes contributions from Greg Tate, David Alan Mellor, Cylena Simonds and Clare Fitzsimmons, accompanied the exhibition of the same name. Initially conceived by Gilane Tawadros when she was Director of Iniva, the project was further developed in collaboration with curators Gill and Hoffmann. The exhibition opened at the ICA in London in November 2006 (17 November 2006–14 January 2007) and subsequently toured to Manchester Art Gallery, Manchester (17 March–7 May 2017), and the Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts, Norwich (2 October–9 December 2017). Participating artists were: Laylah Ali, Hamad Butt, Edgar Cleijne, Ellen Gallagher, David Huffman, Hew Locke, Henna Nadeem, Kori Newkirk, Marepe, Yinka Shonibare, Eric Wesley and Mario Ybarra Jr.

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The exhibition opened not long after the 2004 Madrid train bombings and 2005 London bombings. Nearly simultaneous, coordinated bombings on the commuter-train system of Madrid took place on 11 March 2004, three days before Spain’s general elections, and the explosions killed 192 people and injured around 2,000. Just over a year later, on 7 July 2005, the London bombings, also referred to as 7/7, were a series of coordinated terrorist suicide attacks in London which targeted commuters travelling on the city’s public transport system during the morning rush hour. Chapter 7 ‘Van Leo: Self-Portraits’, was first published in Photoworks magazine, Autumn/Winter, November/ April 2006/7 and is reproduced with the kind permission of Photoworks. Chapter  8 ‘Shirana Shahbazi: The Banality of Difference’, was first published in Alex Farquharson (ed.), The Citibank Private Bank Photography Prize 2002, London: The Photographers’ Gallery, London, 2002. Shahbazi had been shortlisted for The Citigroup Private Bank Photography Prize 2002 (organized by The Photographers’ Gallery, London), alongside Roger Ballen, Elina Brotherus, Philip-Lorca diCorcia and Thomas Ruff. Chapter 9 ‘A Case of Mistaken Identity: Notes from the Scene of the Crime’, is based on a paper presented at the ‘Shades of Black’ conference at Duke University, Durham, North Carolina, 9–22 April 2001. Other participants in the conference included Stuart Hall, who delivered the keynote address, Richard Powell, Sandy Nairne, susan pui san lok, Deborah Willis, Shaheen Merali, Zineb Sedira, Isaac Julien, Keith Piper, Sutapa Biswas, Ingrid Pollard, Judith Wilson, Kobena Mercer, Diana Yeh, Niru Ratnam, Janice Cheddie, Leon Wainwright, Lubaina Himid, Dawoud Bey, Allan deSouza, Yong Soon Min, Stanley Abe, Barbara Hunt, Mark Sealy, Naseem Khan, Lola Young, Rasheed Araeen and John L. Moore III. The papers from the conference were subsequently published in David A. Bailey, Ian Baucom and Sonia Boyce (eds), Shades of Black: Assembling Black Arts in 1980s Britain, Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press, 2005, in collaboration with Iniva and the Aavaa. Chapter 10 ‘Electrifying Eve’, was first published in frieze magazine, 4 March 2007, and is reproduced with kind permission of frieze magazine.

Part Three Re-siting the city Chapter 11 ‘The Real Me’, was first published in Rob Bowman and Jens Hoffman (eds), London in Six Easy Steps, London: ICA Exhibitions, 2005. It accompanied the exhibition London in Six Easy Steps (16 August–25 September 2005), for which six London-based curators, including Gilane Tawadros, were invited to represent their interpretation of the current artistic and cultural life of London. Each curator was asked to organize a week-long exhibition in the Lower Gallery of the ICA, identifying the shifting realities that make up the city from their particular perspective. ‘The Real Me’ was the fifth exhibition and was presented at the ICA, London between 13 and 18 September 2005. Participating artists were: Rasheed Araeen, Black Audio Film Collective, Sonia Boyce, Mona Hatoum, Barbara Kruger and Robert Mapplethorpe. The other exhibitions were ‘Emblematic Display’, curated by Catherine Wood (16–21 August 2005); ‘Real Estate: Art in a Changing City’, curated by B+B (23–28 August 2005); ‘Even a Stopped Clock Tells the Right Time Twice A Day’, curated by Tom Morton and Catharine Patha (30 August–4 September 2005); and ‘Anywhere in the World: David Medalla’s London’, curated by Guy Brett (6–11 September 2005). Chapter 12 ‘Vladimir and Estragon are Still Waiting’, was first published in Henry Rogers and David Burrows (eds), Making a Scene: Performing Culture into Politics (Birmingham: ARTicle Press in association with Ikon Gallery, 2000). It was presented as a paper at the conference, ‘Performing Culture into Politics: Performativity and Performance in Contemporary Politics and Art Practice’, University of Central England in Birmingham, 5 June 1999.

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Chapter 13 ‘Alfred’s Favourite Tree’, was first published in Jo Stockham: If not now, then when? (Bermondsey Artists’ Group, London, 1999), which coincided with an exhibition of the same name by Jo Stockham at Dilston Grove, Southwark Park, London SE16 (3 November–5 December 1999). The exhibition was the first in a programme of three commissions as part of the process of capital refurbishment of the Café Gallery in Southwark Park. Jo Stockham’s work related to her research into the history of the Beautification Committee set up in the 1920s to green what has become the London Borough of Southwark. It drew on the films made by the Bermondsey Borough Council in the 1930s to advertise its rebuilding programmes, which included slum clearance and the Public Health Progamme. Chapter  14 ‘The Leopard’, was first published in Hou Hanru and Gabi Scardi (eds), Wherever We Go: Art, Identity, Cultures in Transit, Milan: 5 Continents Editions, 2006, which accompanied the exhibition of the same name at Spazio Oberdan, Milan (17 October 2006–28 January 2007). Chapter  15 ‘Maps of Desire’, was presented as a keynote speech at the conference ‘Turning the Tables’ at Camerwork Gallery, Bethnal Green, London, in July 1992, and subsequently at a lecture at Glasgow School of Art on 10 February 1995.

Part Four Studies in a postcolonial body Chapter 16 ‘The Revolution Stripped Bare’, was first published in Gilane Tawadros and Sarah Campbell (eds), Fault Lines: Contemporary African Art and Shifting Landscapes, London: Iniva, in collaboration with the Forum for African Arts and the Prince Claus Fund, 2003. The book was published on the occasion of the exhibition Fault Lines: Contemporary African Art and Shifting Landscapes, presented as part of the 50th International Art Exhibition, La Biennale di Venezia, Dreams and Conflicts: The Dictatorship of the Viewer (12 June–2 November 2003). Participating artists were: Laylah Ali, Kader Attia, Samta Benyahia, Zarina Bhimji, Frank Bowling, Clifford Charles, Rotimi Fani-Kayode, Hassan Fathy, Salem Mekuria, Moshekwa Langa, Sabah Naim, Moataz Nasr and Wael Shawky. Chapter 17 ‘Studies in a Postcolonial Body’, was written following Gilane Tawadros’ first visit to South Africa on the occasion of the Second Johannesburg Biennial in 1997. A major international art show seemed to make little sense in this still racially segregated and economically divided country. It seemed to underline the futility of contemporary art in a context where there were so many other pressing social, political and economic issues. This impression was reinforced when Gilane Tawadros returned to London and the inquiry began into the brutal racially motivated murder of Stephen Lawrence in South-East London. The question of the place of contemporary art in relation to wider socio-economic and cultural issues was the subject of a number of lengthy conversations between Gilane Tawadros and Stuart Hall. In the course of these conversations, Stuart rearticulated a position which, for her, has been one of the most important aspects of his work: namely, the understanding that acts of racism and racial violence are not isolated incidents or individual acts, removed from the cultural fabric of our lives. Stuart has consistently argued that notions of cultural value, belonging and worth are defined and fixed by the decisions we make about what is or is not our culture. This text is an attempt to articulate the place of contemporary artworks in the context of extreme political violence where our notions of value, belonging and worth are at their most fragile. Chapter 18 ‘Veil: Veiling Representation and Contemporary Art’, was written with the curator David A. Bailey and originally published as the introduction to David A. Bailey and Gilane Tawadros (eds), Veil: Veiling, Representation and Contemporary Art, published by Iniva, London, in association with Modern Art Oxford, 2006. The book accompanied an exhibition of the same name which was conceived by the artist Zineb Sedira and researched and developed by Sedira with the artist Jananne Al-Ani. The curatorial team which selected and commissioned the new works for the exhibition comprised Sedira, Ani, David A. Bailey and Tawadros. The exhibition was conceived and developed before the attacks on the Twin Towers in New York City in 2001 and

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opened at the New Art Gallery, Walsall in 2003 amidst some controversy as discussed in ‘Slipping Away (or Uncompliant Cartographies)’ when the works by the AES Group were censured by Walsall City Council, which responded to the concerns of council workers at the Gallery who considered the works ‘unpatriotic’ on the eve of the Iraq War.

Part Five Relocating the remains: History and representation Chapter  19 ‘Strangers and Barbarians: Representing Ourselves and Others’, was first published in David Chandler, John Gill and Gilane Tawadros (eds), Brighton Photo Biennial 2006, Brighton: Photoworks and Brighton Photo Biennial, 2006, published on the occasion of the second Brighton Photo Biennial, 6–29 October 2006. Participating artists were: Adel Abdessemed, Richard Avedon, Phyllis Baldino, David Claerbout, William Eggleston, Walker Evans, Paul Fusco, Alfredo Jaar, Gabriel Kuri, Van Leo, Glenn Ligon, Steve McQueen, Lee Miller, Richard Misrach, Henna Nadeem, Mitra Tabrizian, Fiona Tan, Kara Walker, Andy Warhol and Orson Welles. Chapter 20 ‘Telling Tales: Keith Piper’s Relocating the Remains’, was first published in Keith Piper: Relocating the Remains, London: Iniva, 1997, produced to coincide with the exhibition Keith Piper: Relocating the Remains which was presented at the Royal College of Art, London (18 July–13 August 1997). Chapter 21 ‘Sweet Oblivion’, was first published in the exhibition catalogue Trophies of Empire, Bluecoat Gallery and John Moores University School of Art and Visual Arts, Liverpool, in collaboration with Arnolfini, Bristol, and Hull Time Based Arts, 1994. The exhibition Trophies of Empire was conceived by the artist Keith Piper with the Bluecoat Gallery, Liverpool, and a number of collaborating arts organizations in the UK. It opened simultaneously at galleries in three maritime cities across Britain in the autumn of 1992 to coincide with the Columbus Quincentenary: Bluecoat Gallery (10 October–14 November 1992), Ferens Art Gallery, Hull (17 October–15 November 1992), and Arnolfini, Bristol (21 November 1992–10 January 1993). The participating artists were: Paul Clarkson, Carole Drake, Nina Edge, Edwina Fitzpatrick, Sunil Gupta, Banele Iyapo, Rita Keegan, Juginder Lamba, Shaheen Merali, Keith Piper, Donald Rodney, South Atlantic Souvenirs, Veena Stephenson, Verbal Images and Visual Stress. Chapter  22 ‘Godville: Interview with Omer Fast’, was first published by Iniva to coincide with the first UK exhibition of Omer Fast at Iniva, Rivington Street, London EC2 (7 September–23 October 2005). Godville is constructed from interviews with eighteenth-century characters  – interpreters in Colonial Williamsburg, a living-history museum in Virginia, USA. The piece presents portraits from a town somewhere in America unmoored and floating between the past and the present.

Part Six Going global Chapter 23 ‘Going Global’, was first published in Stuart Hall, Doreen Massey and Michael Rustin (eds), Soundings 3: Heroes and Heroines, Summer 1996: 97–102, and is reproduced here with the kind permission of Lawrence and Wishart. Chapter  24 ‘Detonations: Jonathan Hernández and the Rongwrong series’, was first published in Photoworks magazine, Spring/Summer, May/October 2007: 62–7, and is reproduced with the kind permission of Photoworks. Chapter 25 ‘Modern Europeans’, Unpacking Europe was the title of an exhibition and publication initiated by Rotterdam 2001, Cultural Capital of Europe at the Museum Boijmans Van Beunungen, Rotterdam. The project was conceived by Salah Hassan and Iftikhar Dadi.

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Chapter 26 ‘Slipping Away (or Uncompliant Cartographies)’, was first published in Judith K. Brodsky and Ferris Olin (eds), The Fertile Crescent: Gender, Art and Society, New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Institute for Women and Art, 2012.

Part Seven Transmission interrupted Chapter 27 ‘Interruption in Four Acts, or Disappearing Irises, Broken-Down Buses and Ceramic Citroens’, was first published in Suzanne Cotter and Gilane Tawadros (eds), Transmission Interrupted, Oxford: Modern Art Oxford, 2009, on the occasion of the exhibition Transmission Interrupted, which was co-curated by Suzanne Cotter and Gilane Tawadros and presented at Modern Art Oxford between 18 April and 21 June 2009. Participating artists were Adel Abdessemed, Pilar Albarracín, Yto Barrada, Mircea Cantor, Jem Cohen, Jimmie Durham, Simryn Gill, Julia Metzer and David Thorne, Lia Perjovschi, Michael Rakowitz, Ernesto Salmeron, Yara El-Sherbini and Sislej Xhafa. Chapter 28 ‘Egypt at the Venice Biennale: 1967 and the Year That Changed Everything’, was first published in Omar Kholeif and Candy Stubbs (eds), Imperfect Chronology: Arab Art from the Modern to the Contemporary: Works from the Barjeel Art Foundation, London: Whitechapel Art Gallery, and Munich: Prestel Verlag, 2015, published on the occasion of a series of exhibitions entitled Imperfect Chronology: Arab Art from the Modern to the Contemporary: Works from the Barjeel Art Foundation at the Whitechapel Art Gallery from September 2015 to January 2017. Chapter 29 ‘From Zero to Infinity: The Work of Adel Abdessemed’, was first published in Ziba Ardalan (ed.), Adel Abdessemed: Silent Warriors, London: Parasol Unit Foundation for Contemporary Art and Koenig Books, 2010, on the occasion of the exhibition of the same which took place at Parasol Unit Foundation for Contemporary Art, London, 22 September–21 November 2010). Chapter 30 ‘Reading (and Curating) from Right to Left’, was originally published in Sarat Maharaj (ed.), Farewell to Post-Colonialism: Querying the Guangzhou Triennial 2008, Printed Project, 11, Visual Arts Ireland, May 2009. Chapter  31 ‘Dissonant Divas: Sonia Boyce, Sound and Collaboration’, was first published in Nka Journal of Contemporary African Art, 35, Fall 2014: 22–31, and is reproduced here with the kind permission of Nka Journal of Contemporary African Art. The exhibition Scat – Sonia Boyce: Sound and Collaboration was presented at Iniva at Rivington Place, London, between June and July 2013. Chapter 32 ‘A Thousand and One’, was originally published in Adrian Heathfield (ed.), Small Acts: Performance, the Millennium and the Making of Time, London: Black Dog Publishing, 2000. I invited Eduardo Padilha to be artist-in-residence at Iniva, London, in Spring 2000. The residency resulted in the installation Dark Habits (work in progress), which was exhibited at TheSpace@inIVA, 22 June–7 July 2000.

Index

Page numbers in italics refer to figures. Italics are used in headings for names of artworks and publications. Abdessemed, Adel 300–5 Exit (1996) 303, 304 God is Design (2005) 220, 305 Green Book, The (2002) 304 Habibi (2004) 300–1, 301, 305 Practice Zero Tolerance (2006) 288, 289, 302, 304 Salam Europe (2006) 304–5 Abdu’Allah, Faisal 189–90 Last Supper, The (1995) 190, 190 abstraction 150, 186 and blackness 150 Abu Ghraib prison 204–5 Adams, Douglas, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (1979) 13 Adim, Kourosh 185 AES art group, Witnesses of the Future, The (1996) 188, 189, 265 aesthetics, as a strategy 155, 158 Africa 95 events 87 African America 218 African-ness 160 Ahmed, Leila 196 AIDS epidemic 62 Alamire choir 309, 313 Albarracín, Pilar, Viva España (2004) 283, 287, 288 Algeria 144, 156, 158, 304, 176–9 Algerian War of Independence (1954–63) 142, 143, 197–8 Ali, Laylah 60–1 Untitled (2003) 160, 161 Untitled (from Types) (2004) 60, 61 Alien Act (1793) 65 Alien and Seditions Act (1798) 65 Alien Nation (exhibition, 2006–7, 2017) 55–72 alien landscapes 67–70

alien spaceships and UFOs 56, 67 robots and aliens 59–67 Alloula, Malek 184, 186, 199 Amer, Ghada, Majnun (1997) 192 Al-Ani, Jananne 181, 183, 265 Veil (1997) 196, 196–7 anthropology 42 apartheid 150, 153, 155 Arab Spring 266 Araeen, Rasheed Ethnic Drawings (1982) 103, 107 Other Story, The (exhibition, 1989) 83 architecture 186–8, 141–2, 145–6, 148–9 Armenians 74–5 Art and Freedom group 295 art and the everyday 14, 15, 32, 66–7, 82, 94, 98, 131, 161, 205, 281. and the human body 30, 32, 220, 237, 304 and time 29 and worldiness 13 artistic practice and identity 84–6, 89, 158, 267–8, 291, 299 artist as participant observer 14–15 as researcher 7, 14 as translator 28 Aswan Dam, Egypt 294 Attia, Kader 163, 166 Machine à Rêves, La (Dream Machine) (2002–3) 166 Piste d’Atterisage, La (The Landing Strip) (1998–2000) 164–5, 166 Avedon, Richard, Nothing Personal (Avedon and Baldwin, 1964) 203–4, 205–7, 208, 209–11, 212, 213, 214–15, 221, 227 325

326 Ayad, Ragheb 298 Assouan (1964) 294, 296 Azimi, Negar 266 Bailey, Ain, Oh Adelaide (2010) 315–16, 315, 317 Bailey, David A. 89, 183 Bajull, Farah, Notime (2001) 190–1 Baldwin, David 205 Baldwin, James 122, 123 Just Above My Head (1979) 23, 229 Nothing Personal (Avedon and Baldwin, 1964) 203–4, 205–7, 208, 212, 214–15, 221, 227 Banu-ye Ordibehesht (Banietemad, 1997) 187 Barrada, Yto, Iris Tingitana series (2007–9) 274, 276 Barthes, Roland, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (1977) 313 Battle of Algiers (Pontecorvo, 1965) 198–9 Beckett, Samuel, Waiting for Godot (1953) 117, 120, 124–5 Bedouins 168 Benjamin, Walter 28 Benyahia, Samta 188 Polygone et le Dédale, Le (The Polygon and the Maze) (2003) 156, 157, 158 Bermondsey Borough Council 119, 122–3 beurre 166 Bhimji, Zarina, How Like Dogs, I Swallowed Air (1998–2003) 153, 154, 155 biennials 91–92 Big Sleep, The (Hawks, 1946) 76 Bingley, Xandra 219 Biswas, Sutapa Birdsong (2004) 94, 96 Synapse III (1987–92) 134, 137 Black Audio Film Collective, Twilight City (1987) 103, 109 black British artists 83–5, 190 black British culture 315 black masculinity 190 Black Skin, White Masks (Fanon, 1952) 89, 90, 114–15 blackness 4, 85, 89, 114, 115, 153, 160 Blake, William 51 bled 163 Bloomsbury Group 220 Blonde Venus (von Sternberg, 1932) Bowling, Frank 149, 153 map paintings 149–50, 153 Marcia H. Travels (1970) 149–50, 151 Boyce, Sonia 20–4, 103, 114–15, 310–17 Devotional Series, The 316

Index For you, only you (2007) 310, 311, 312–13, 314–15, 317 Lovers Rock (1997) 316–17 Northern Adventures (1992) 111–13 Oh Adelaide (2010) 315–16, 315, 317 peep (1998) 85 Talking Presence (1987) 103, 106 Tongues (1997) 20, 21, 314 Travel Writer (1997) 313–14 Brett, Guy 50 Brief Encounter (Lean, 1945) 111, 112–13 Brighton Photo Biennial (2006) 204 Britain at the Venice Biennale 292–3, 298 British empire 232–3 Butler, Judith 305 Butt, Hamad Transmission (1990) 11, 11–12 Triffid, The (Part II of the Transmission installation) (1990) 61–2, 62 Cadogan, Susan, Hurts So Good (1970) 316–17 Cage, John 313, 316 Cairo Biennial 91 Cairo, Egypt 74–5, 76, 130, 162 Can’t Sing Choir 23–4 Cantor, Mircea, Monument for the End of the World (2006) 288, 290 capitalism 257–9 Caponya, Emile 205 Carleton, Marie-Hélène 277 cartography 136, 150, 261, 263–4 uncompliant 265, 268 celebrity culture 221, 223 censorship 192, 265, 301 Century City: Art and Culture in the Modern Metropolis (exhibition, 2001) 91–2 Charles, Clifford 150, 152, 153 Painting on Water (2002–3) 150 Chomsky, Noam 233 Christian symbolism 57, 190 cities anonymous 290 as collective symbolic capital 91–2 postcolonial 104, 115, 117 Cities on the Move (exhibition, 1997–9) 37 Civil Rights in America 65, 208, 214, 227, 229 Civil War Monuments 214 Claerbout, David, White House (2006) 217–18 Clash, The 102 Clérambault, Gaëtan de 185, 186

Index Cohen, Jem, NYC Weights and Measures (2006) 277, 280, 281 Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia 240, 241 colonialism 130, 142, 143, 144, 145, 149, 150, 194, 197 and geography 263–4 Colston, Edward 237 Communism in America 57–9, 66 Conrad, Joseph, Heart of Darkness (1899) 131–2 Cool Britannia 84 consumer society 166 Creole Love Call (Hall, 1927) 315–16, 317 Cuba 22, 23, 313, 314 curatorial practice 83, 85, 87, 183, 266 Cypress Hill 168 Dadaist poetry 316 Dadi, Iftikhar 257 Daughters of the American Revolution 209, 212 Day of the Triffids, The (Wyndham, 1951) 61, 63 Day the Earth Stood Still, The (Wise, 1951) 56–7, 59, 60 decolonization 143 democracy 122, 204, 205, 249, 274, 287 Deleuze, Gilles 179 Denny, Robyn 292 Desprez, Josquin, Tu solus (c. 1470) 312, 314 diaspora African 89, 142, 156 African artists and intellectuals 141, 142, 149 cultural articulation 92 experience 92, 230 Middle Eastern 267 landscape 134 and technology 230 difference 1–2, 55, 313 fear of 55 media representations of 191 Dinshaway Massacre 295–6 disappeared, the 94 disorientation 240 displaced zone 267 displacement 13, 65, 89, 153, 169, 249 Documenta XI exhibition (2002) 91 Donnell, Alison 188 double consciousness 1, 150 Drake, Carole, Commemoration Day (1992) 237 dreams 48, 51, 134 Duchamp, Marcel 10, 30, 254 Rongwrong (1917) Dunne, Philip 66 Durham, Jimmie 274, 275, 277, 319

327

Eatherly, Major Claude 208, 211, 212 economy of sameness 133 Efflatoun, Inji 296, 298 Mathbahat Dinshawi (The Dinshaway Massacre) (c. 1950s) 295–6, 297 Eggleston, William 221, 223 Egypt anti-British demonstrations 294 Arab Republic of 292–3 artists and intellectuals 298 Aswan Dam 294 British occupation of 197, 291, 292 Cairo 74–5, 76, 130, 162 film industry 75–6 Free Officers coup (1952) 77, 142, 143, 293 modernization of 168 Napoleon Bonaparte’s invasion of 1, 184, 307 nationalism 292, 294 postcolonial 168–9, 174 Revolution July 1952 77, 292–3 Revolution 25 January 2011 266 and the Venice Biennale 293–9 Wafd Party 292 World War II, during and after 75, 77 see also Cairo, Egypt empire, British 232–3 Englishness 85, 291, 318 Enwezor, Okwui 91, 174 Esperanto 39, 40, 45 Essential Guide to British Painting, The (talks, 1995–7) 85 Ethiopia 155–6 ethnography 15, 85 Europe 131, 166, 238, 257–9 Evans, Walker 212, 214, 219–20 exile 130, 142, 153, 156, 166, 268, 303, 304 Fani-Kayode, Rotimi 158, 159, 160 Fanon, Frantz 199 and national and international consciousness 144–5 Black Skin, White Masks (1952) 89, 90, 114–15 Studies in a Dying Colonialism (1989) 197–8 The Wretched of the Earth (1961) 143–4 Fast, Omer Godville (2005) 240–1, 242–3, 244, 245 Spielberg’s List (2003) 244–5 Fathy, Hassan 145–6, 145–8, 148, 149, 187–8 fellaheen 146, 297 Farouk, King 142

328 fault lines 141, 142 Fischman, Lisa 160 Fitzpatrick, Edwina, Terra (1992) 234, 235 Flibbert, Andrew 76 Forbidden Planet (Wilcox, 1956) 60 forgetfulness and forgetting 150, 233, 237 France 89, 217–18, 288, 289 Freeze (exhibition, 1988) 83 fundamentalism 82, 249 Fusco, Paul, RFK Funeral Train (1968) 207–8, 207 Gallagher, Ellen and Edgar Cleijne, Murmur (2003–4) 67–8, 68–9 Garanger, Marc, Femmes Algériennes (Algerian Women) (1960) 198, 198, 199 García Márquez, Gabriel, One Hundred Years of Solitude 232, 236, 238 Garen, Micah 277 gaze, trope of 187, 199 Genet, Jean 274 geography 130, 261, 263, 265, 267, 268 German Jews 40, 43 Gérôme, Jean-Léon, Bonaparte Before the Sphinx (1867–8) xvi, 1 Ghadirian, Shadafarian 191 Ghazel, Me (1997–2000) 191 Gibraltar, Strait of 274 Gill, Simryn, May 2006 (2006) 281, 283–5 Giorgis, Elsabet 156 globalization 35, 87, 141, 142, 155, 166, 168, 249–50, 256, 257–9 globe, European projection of 150 motif of 149, 256, 261, 268 Goa 237 Godard, Jean-Luc 111 Graceland, Memphis 221, 223 Graham, Bette Nesmith 14–15 Gramsci, Antonio 39, 40 Gregory, Derek 263 Gupta, Sunil, Trespass (1992) 237–8 Hall, Adelaide, Creole Love Call (1927) 315–16, 317 Hall, Stuart 12–13, 101, 258, 267 Harvey, David 92 Hassan, Salah 257 Hatoum, Mona 94, 103, 268 3-D Cities (2008–9) 264 La grande broyeuse (Mouli-Julienne x 21) (2000) 94, 95 Map (1999) 261, 262, 268 Prayer Mat (1995) 251–2, 252

Index Projection (2006) 261, 264, 268 Roadworks (1985) 94, 103, 108 Havana Biennial 91 Heart of Darkness (Conrad, 1899) 131–2 Heidegger, Martin 19 Heliopolis, Egypt 130 Hernández, Jonathan, Rongwrong IV (2005) 254, 255, 256 Hertz, Noreena 257 Hiller, Susan 39–51 Enquiries/Inquiries (1973 and 1975) 45, 46 J-Street Project, The (2002–5) 40, 41, 42, 43 Last Silent Movie, The (2007–8) 44–5 Myth of Primitivism 42 Witness (2000) 46–9, 47, 50 Hirst, Damien 83 history 24, 40, 42, 229–230, 232–3, 237, 281, 282 Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, The (Adams, 1979) 13 homosexuality 158, 160 Hou Hanru 3, 37, 87, 91 House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) 57, 58 Huang Yong Ping, Reptiles (1989) 251 Huffman, David 63 Get Up and Get Down (2006) 63, 64 It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue (2006) 63 identity and artistic practice 83, 84, 85 93–94 and curatorial practice 83, 84, 85 imperialism 130, 194, 234, 237, 266 geographical underpinnings of 130 Incubus (Stevens, 1966) 39 individualism 35 Iniva 3, 85, 87, 310 internationalism 3, 142, 249, 250, 251, 257 internationalism, new 3 interruption 273 politics of 290 see also Transmission Interrupted (exhibition, 2009) Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Siegel, 1956) 68–9 IRA 219 Iran 81–2, 186–7, 189, 191 Iranian cinema 186 Iraq 276–7 Iraq, US invasion of (2003) 263, 265, 276 Iraq Museum, 276–7 Isik, Murat 249, 250–1

Index Impossible (1995) 251 At the Meeting Point (1995) 251 Islamic art, influence of 185–6 Islamic other 56 Islamism 149 Islamophobia 188 Israel, Marvin 205 Istanbul Biennial 90–1, 249–53, 251–2 It Came from Outer Space (Arnold, 1953) 59–60, 67, 70, 72 Italy 126–7, 128 see also Venice Biennale Jaar, Alfredo, Sound of Silence, The (2006) 224, 226–7, 226 Jacir, Emily, From Paris to Riyadh (1998–2001) 192 Jazz 314, 315, 316 Joyce, James, Ulysses (1922) 136 Julien, Isaac, Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (1996) 89, 90 Just Above My Head (Baldwin, 1979) 229 Kalkur, Ramesh 186 Kamel, Salah 294, 298–9 Kapoor, Anish 84, 85 Karikis, Mikhail 310, 312, 313 Kennedy, John F. 206–7 Kennedy, Robert F. 207–8 Khattari, Majida 192, 194 Khomeini, Ayatollah 82 King, Phillip 297 King, Reverend Martin Luther, Jnr 214, 227 knowledge production 7, 10 Kruger, Barbara 101, 102–3, 105, 110 Kuri, Gabriel, As Selected for the Design Centre, London (2006) 224, 225 Lacan, Jacques 51 Lamkin, Margeurite 205, 212, 214 Langa, Moshekwa, Where do I begin? (2001) 169, 173, 174 language relationship to images 10, 23, 28, 312 resistance of art to 2 significance of 232, 236 languages auditory experience of 44–5 authority of 132–3 Esperanto 39, 40 French Academy and French language 89, 250

329

inadequacy of 28, 30, 48–9 and migration 28–9, 30 South African 150 of slavery and colonialism 22–3 Laroui, Abdullah 143 Leopard, The (Visconti, 1963) 126–9 Ligon, Glenn Dreambook No. 291 (Language), (1988) 134, 135 Warm Broad Glow (2005) 206 Liverpool Black Sisters 316 Locke, Hew, Golden Horde (2006) 71, 72 London 102, 103, 110, 119, 122–3 Long, Richard 131 Lover’s Discourse, A: Fragments (Barthes, 1977) 313 Lovers Rock 316 Magiciens de la Terre (exhibition, 1989) 132, 133 Magritte, René, Treachery of Images, The (1929) 28 Maharaj, Sarat 10–11, 24, 25, 28, 155, 258 Mahfouz, Naguib, Palace Walk (1956) 187 Mailer, Norman 207–8 Malcolm X 210 Man Without a Country, A (Vonnegut, 2005), Vonnegut, Kurt 55 Manchurian Candidate, The (Frankenheimer, 1962) 58–9 Mansfield Park (Austen, 1814) Mapplethorpe, Robert 102, 103, 104 maps and mapping 130–7, 149–50, 261, 263–4 Maquis, the 176, 177 Massenet, Jules Werther (1892) 218 Marepe 66–7 mashrabiyya 186–8 Massingham, Prince 150 Matisse, Henri 185–6 Mbembe, Achille 169 McCarthy, Joseph R. 56, 58 McQueen, Steve 85 Drumroll (1998) 115, 116, 117 Exodus (1992/1997) 103 Mekuria, Salem, RUPTURES: A Many Sided Story (2003) 155–6 Meltzer, Julia, It’s not my memory of it: three recollected documents (2003) 288 Merali, Shaheen, Going Native (1992) 237 Mercer, Kobena 149, 150, 153 Middle East 263, 264, 307–8 representations of 266 migration 28, 141, 142, 156, 166, 168, 249, 277 migrants 28–9, 30, 56, 117, 128–9, 142, 166, 258, 274, 287

330 Mirage: Enigmas of Race, Difference and Desire (exhibition, 1995) 89–90 miscegenation 56 miscegenation, cultural 102 Misrach, Richard, Dead Animals #001 (1987) 215–16, 215 modernism 89, 115, 117, 132, 141–2, 149, 274, 297, 306 and Islamic art 186 modernity 38, 77, 141, 185, 224, 229, 256, 258, 274 and tradition 141, 148–9 Mokhtar, Mahmoud 298 Mondrian, Piet 131 monuments and memorials 42, 178, 214, 232, 237, 283, 287–9 More, Thomas, Utopia (1516) 133–4 Morley Gospel Choir 24 Morocco 185, 274, 276 Mosquera, Gerardo 3, 91 mulid 168 multicultural managerialism 24, 155, 258 Muslim faith 158, 168, 252 My Beautiful Laundrette (Frears, 1987) Nadeem, Henna Orange/Trees (2006) 69–70, 70, 72 Picture Book of Britain, A (2006) 220 Naficy, Hamid 186, 187 Nagi, Effat, High Dam, A (1966) 294, 295 Naim, Sabah 161–3 City People (2003) 161, 162–3 Nairne, Sandy, State of the Art: Ideas and Images in the 1980s (1987) 102 Napoleon Bonaparte I, Emperor of France xvi, 1, 184 narrative 49, 111–13, 169, 229, 240–1, 281 Nasr, Moataz, Tabla, The (2003) 169, 172 Nash, John 204 Nasser, Gamal Abdel 142, 143, 293, 295 Nasserism 293 national culture 144–5 nationalism 58, 101, 141, 143, 144, 257, 291, 292, 293, 294 Native American History 42 Neo-plasticism 131 Neshat, Shirin 194, 195, 196 New Gourna, Egypt 145–6, 145–7 New York City, USA 277, 280, 281 Newkirk, Kori 68 Nicaragua 291 9/11 attacks see September 11 attacks

Index Njami, Simon 169 Nkrumah, Kwame 143 Northern Adventures (project, 1992) 111–13 nostalgia 111, 233 Nothing Personal (Baldwin, 1964) 203–4, 205–7, 208, 209–11, 212, 213, 214–15, 221, 227 Nothing Personal (exhibition, 2006) 204 Nubian master builders 145–6 Ocougne, Silvia 220 Offeh, Harold, Alien Communication (1999) 191 Ofili, Chris 85 One Hundred Years of Solitude (García Márquez, 1967) 232, 236, 238 Organization of African Unity 143 Orientalism 184–5 Orlow, Uriel 7 Benin Project, The (2007) 8, 10 Visitor, The (2007) 9 Ortega Ayala, Raul 14–19 Bureaucratic Sonatas Series 14–15 Ethnography on Gardening Series, An, Exegesis Florilegium VII (2007) 15, 16 Extra-Extra 18 Food for Thought Series Untitled (Eyelashes) (2010) 17 Osogbo artists 160 Otherness 19, 55, 132, 133, 158, 160, 268 Other Story, The (exhibition, 1989) 83–4 Padilha, Eduardo, Abstinence Conundrum (1997) 318, 318, 319 Palace Walk (Mahfouz, 1956) 187 Pan-Africanism 142, 169 Pan-Arabism 149 Paris, France 166 Parisien(ne)s (exhibition, 1997) 87, 89 performance 94, 103, 115, 192, 197 Performing Nations (seminar, 1998) 85 Perjovschi, Lia, Timeline: Romanian Culture from 500 bc until Today (2006) 281, 282 Peterson, Bheki 150, 153, 169 Piper, Keith Relocating the Remains (1997) 230, 231 Trade Winds (1992) 236–7 political incorrectness 233 politics of representation 308–9 Pontecorvo, Gilles, Battle of Algiers (1965) 198–9 post-apartheid 150, 153, 155 postcolonial body, study in 176–80 postcolonial constellation 174

Index postcolonial experience 115 postcolonial geography 267 postcolonial re-vision 150, 153 postcolony, the 168–9 postcolonialism 89–90, 130, 150, 168–9, 174 and race, 89, 90 Pravdo 251 Presley, Elvis 221, 223 progress 115, 234, 256, 274 Qajar dynasty 191 Quatermass and the Pit (Kneale, 1958–9) 60 Rabbat, Nasser 145, 146 racism 89–90, 91, 114, 234, 258 radical bleak 266 Rakowitz, Michael, Invisible enemy should not exist, The (recovered, missing, stolen series) (2007) 276, 278–9 Raphael, Alistair, Invasive Procedures (1992) 134, 136 Ratnam, Niru 168 re-enactment, historic 240, 241, 244, 245 ready-mades 30 Real Me, The (conference, 1986) 102 Real Me, The (exhibition, 2005), 101–10 realism, rhetoric of 101 representation and democracy 227 exercises in 224 impossibility of 305 limits of 81, 204 riots 37, 287, 301 Richard, Nelly 133 Riley, Bridget 297 Riwad group, Al 297 Robertson, Bryan 292 Rodney, Donald, Doublethink (1992) 234, 236, 236 Royal Pavilion, Brighton 204, 219 Rwandan genocide 224 Saatchi, Charles 85 Said, Edward 130, 184, 264, 268 Culture and Imperialism (1993) Salcedo, Doris 93–4 Salmeron, Ernesto, Guerra Colorida (Colourful War) (2009) 291 sans papiers 166 Salvador de Bahia, Brazil 67 Scat – Sonia Boyce: Sound and Collaboration (exhibition, 2013) 310

331

science fiction 55–60, 61–3, 65 Sealy, Mark 160 Sedira, Zineb 181, 183, 265, 267 Self Portraits or The Virgin Mary (2000) 181, 182 Silent Sight (2000) 199 self-portraits 74, 103, 223–4, 300–1, 305 Sensation (exhibition, 1997) 85 September 11 attacks, aftermath of deaths 305 fear and paranoia 56 filming restrictions 277, 281 globalization 259 Middle East 263 veiling after 188, 265 Serres, Michel 311 Sex Pistols, The 102 sexuality, and death 62 Sewell, Brian 84 Shahbazi, Shirana 81–2 Sha’rawi, Huda 196–7 Shatner, William 39 Shawky, Wael 166 Asphalt Quarter (2003) 166, 167, 168, 170–1 Sidi el Asphalt’s Mulid (2001) 168 Shearman, Zoe 93 Shen Yuan 25–38 Demolishing the Bridge after Crossing the River (1997) 37 Dinosaur’s Egg, The (2001) 35, 36 Diverged Tongue (1999) 30, 31 Feel Just Like a Fish in Water (2001) 29 Fingerprint (1999) 32 In Threes and Fives (1997) 32 Matin du Monde, Un (2000) 32, 33–4, 35 Perdre sa salive [Waste your breath] (1994) 25, 26–7, 28 Street Battle (1999) 37 Three Armchairs (1995) 32 Untitled (1996) 30, 32 El-Sherbini, Yara 290–1, 290 A Carpet Bomb [as seen in A Demonstration], (2005) 289, 290 Shonibare, Yinka Diary of a Victorian Dandy (1998) 85, 86 Dysfunctional Family (1999) 65, 66 Siddiqui, Yasmeen 162 Sidi Krier, Egypt 146, 147–8 Sivanandan, A. 252 Skinner, David 309, 312 slave trade 232–3, 236–7 slavery 22–3, 63

332

Index

Smith, Richard 292 Sontag, Susan 204–5 Soueif, Ahdaf 183 sound and sound-making 24, 44, 311–4 South Africa 150, 153, 155 South Atlantic Souvenirs and Trouble, Trophy Cabinet, The (1992) 233–4 Spiritualism 40 St Lucia 24 Star Trek (Roddenberry, 1966–9) 63–4 starry polygon, concept of 156, 158 Steele, James 187–8 Stockham, Jo, If Not Now, When? (1999) 119–20, 121, 122–5 Strait of Gibraltar 274 Strand, Elin, Speaking Bernina (2000) 192, 193 strangers 112, 203, 215, 313, 318 street names 40, 42, 43, 232 Studies in a Dying Colonialism (Fanon, 1989) 197–8 studio photography 74–5, 191, 223 Suez crisis (1956) 142, 294, 295 Switzerland 120, 122 Sydney, Australia 281, 283–5 Szczelkun, Stefan 103 Tabrizian, Mitra, Surveillance (1990) 188–9 Tallentire, Anne 94 Drift: diagram vii (2005) 94, 97, 98 Tan, Fiona, Lapse of Memory, A (2006) 221, 222 Tangier, Morocco 274 Tehran, Iran 81, 191 Ten-8 magazine 84 Thing from Another World, The (Nyby, 1951) 59 Thorne, David, It’s not my memory of it: three recollected documents (2003) 288 transformations 14, 15, 25, 30, 32, 35, 37, 67 transgression 112, 274 translation 10–11, 25, 28, 35 translation, leftovers of 28 Transmission Interrupted (exhibition, 2009) 2 73–91 I interjection 274, 275–6, 276–7 II interruption 277, 278–80, 281, 282 III obstruction 283, 283–7, 288 IV disruption 288, 289–91, 290–1 trauma 63, 155, 245 and memory 218 Trevor, Tom 93 Trophies of Empire (exhibition, 1992) 233–4, 235–6, 236–8

Turkey 249–50 see also Istanbul Biennial Turner Prize 85 Ulysses (Joyce, 1922) 136 Umm Kalthoum 187 un-Americanism 58 United States of America African America 218 African-American communities 134 celebrity culture 221, 223 Civil Rights struggle 214, 227, 229 Civil War 214 and Communism 57–9, 66 death penalty 216–7 Farm Security Administration 214, 223 film industry 55, 58–9, 74, 76, 206, 216, 223, 227 media 206 national identity 204 Native American History 42 racial segregation 214, 227 representations of 204–5 slavery 214 South, the 214, 219, 223, 227, 237 violence, 214–5 War of Independence 244 West, the 215 universalism 131, 133 Unpacking Europe (exhibition, 2001) 257–9 untranslatable 10–11, 25, 28, 267 Utopia (More, 1516) 133–4 Vaizey, Marina 84 Van Leo 74–7, 223–4 Self-Portraits (1942–45) 76–7, 78–9, 223–4 Veil: Veiling, Representation and Contemporary Art (exhibition, 2003) 183, 264–6, 267 veiling and colonialism 194 and representation 265, 267 and resistance 197 veiling and contemporary art 181–99, 265–7 Venice Biennale 91, 292–9, 295–7 vernacular modernity 141, 145–6, 149 Vindaloo and Chips (event, 1998) 85 Visible and the Invisible, The (exhibition, 1996) 93 Vonnegut, Kurt, Man Without a Country, A (2005) 55 Voodoo Macbeth (Welles, 1936) 219

Index Waiting for Godot (Beckett, 1953) 117, 120, 124–5 Walcott, Derek, Omeros 23 Walker, Kara, 8 Possible Beginnings . . . or the Creation of African America (2006) 218 Wallinger, Mark 8 Half-Brother (Exit to Nowhere – Machiavellian), (1994–5) 85, 87 Walsall, England 265, 266 War of the Worlds, The (Welles, 1938) 57, 59, 67 Warhol, Andy, Electric Chair, The (1971) 216–17, 216 Wearing, Gillian I’m desperate (1992–3) 85, 88 Welles, Orson Voodoo Macbeth (1936) 219 War of the Worlds, The (1938) 57, 59, 67

whiteness 4, 90, 153, 199, 314, 315 World War II 55, 75 Wretched of the Earth, The (Fanon, 1961) 143–4 Wyndham, John, The Day of the Triffids (1951) 61, 63 xenosonics 24 Xhafa, Sislej Elegant Sick Bus (2001) 283, 286 Manhole (2000–5) 291 Yacine, Kateb 156, 158, 174, 300 Ybarra, Mario, Jnr, Brown and Proud (2006) 64 young British artists (yBAs) 83, 84, 85

333

334

335

336