Two Walls : Art & Land
“One Project. Two Sites.” Curator Josef Ng warned viewers at the start that Lin Yilin’s project, carried out in Chiang Mai and Bangkok, presents two utterly different sides of itself. And in the end, he was right. In the Chiang Mai countryside, Lin Yilin highlights the utopian connotations of the “Land Project,” guiding his audience to “recollect” this historical fantasy rooted in Chinese cultural tradition which is radically democratizsed. The high, bare concrete wall built on the border of the Land’s paddy field stands tall like a monument. On the day of the event, some viewers stood rapt at its base or weighed themselves using the built-in scale, while others sat atop it, a few even holding fishing rods. An air of tranquility and simple joy reigned. Especially when viewed against the backdrop of its natural surroundings, the scene is almost entirely stripped of its “Land Project” (i.e. art-world) context, and the notion of “Land” is momentarily restored to its “man and nature” dimension–without an iota of sentimentalism. However, though full of imaginative appeal, these acts—surveying the view, fishing, weighing—transpire at the mercy of that high concrete wall; or more precisely, due to the existence of the wall, people’s aesthetic associations with the Land themselves begin to constitute a kind of landscape. Like the pivot point where the long wooden balance is riveted, the wall serves to tether which could have otherwise become romanticized modes of behavior to material foundations. At Tang Contemporary back in Bangkok, there is yet another wall—similar in size to the Chiang Mai wall, though white and made of brick. On a striking diagonal, it cuts the room into two separate spaces. One space features two videos and a poster print; the poster and the video recording to its right are relics of Lin Yilin’s moments of artistic activism in response to his rented Beijing studio’s premature demolition, which occurred prior to the original date laid out in the government’s land acquisition contract. The other video records the “protagonist” returning to the scene of activism after several months, only to find the remains of the studio in mounds of dirt and ruin. Here, we can see the increasingly common process of land commodification in China with its host of conflicts and contradictions. The video recording on the other side of the wall, right by the gallery entrance (or exit) shows Lin Yilin on the sidewalk of the Champs-Elysées in Paris, handcuffing his right hand to his right foot. His body bent in half, he struggles to walk and manages however he can. None of the videos or posters in the exhibition are physically connected to the wall. As far as the gallery is concerned (from a commercial standpoint), the wall immediately catches the eye and divides the space in a way that serves only as a temporary, aesthetic ascription. The temporality that it embodies forms a kind of tacit agreement with the current system of land acquisition in China. Lin Yilin uses two different walls to define land issues unique to two different spaces (Thailand and China). In the Chiang Mai installation and performance, he takes the greatest pains to build an aesthetic conception into an environment; whereas in Bangkok, he turns his energies towards elucidating some of the most sensitive issues China faces today. Nevertheless, in reality, the intertextual link between the two goes beyond a mere discussion of land ownership, and extends to a reflection upon the human condition. It therefore seems that these two questions printed on the Bangkok gallery brick wall—“Whose Land? Whose Art?”— are a revelation in line with Walter Benjamin’s thinking—a kind of struggle with fatalism and yet aspiring towards some undefined doom. ————————————— [The report first appeared in the magazine Leap] adminhumanitiesunderground.org
No More A Barrier Than A Couple of Beers Between Us
We are Invincible. We Cannot, We do not Deserve to Lose [La Jornada 2/7] February 2, 1994 To Mr. Gaspar Morquecho Escamilla, Tiempo newspaper, San Cristóbal de las Casas: Sir: I have just recently received your undated letter. At the same time, I am reading a newspaper in which you and other noble people are accused of being “spokespeople for the EZLN” or “Zapatistas.” Problems. If you would like to know where these denunciations and threats come from, look in the directories of the ranchers’ associations and you will find much cloth to cut. Well, passing on to another subject, and since this is about memories, I hope that you have finally been sent the mix of drunken crudeness with which you tried to interview us that beautiful first day of January. Perhaps all of you do not remember it well, but that time the one who was interviewed was you, because you would ask a question and then would answer it yourself. I do not know whether you would have been able to take anything coherent for the newspaper out of that monologue of questions and answers about the surprise and fear that took over the ancient capital of the state of Chiapas on the first day of the year. We were many, that day, who burned our bridges that early morning on the first of the year and assumed that onerous path of the ski mask wrapped around our faces. There were many of us who took that step of no return, knowing full well that the end that awaited us was probably death and improbably to see triumph. Taking power? No, something far more difficult: a new world. Nothing is left for us, we have left everything behind. And we have no regrets. Our path continues to be firm, in spite the fact that they are now seeking thousands of grotesque green masks in order to annihilate us. However, Mr. Morquecho, it turns out that we have long known, and not without pain, that we had to become strong with the death of those who fell by our sides, dying from bullets, and yes, with honor, but always dying. We had to shield our ears, Mr. Morquecho, in order to endure seeing compan~eros of many years in the mountains, their bodies sewn with bullets and torn by grenades, mortars, and rockets, their bodies with hands tied and the mercy blows to their heads, to be able to see and touch their blood, our blood, Mr. Morquecho, flowing brown in the streets of Ocosingo, of Las Margaritas, on the earth of Rancho Nuevo, in the mountains of San Cristóbal, and in the plantations of Altamirano. And understand us, Mr. Morquecho, that in the middle of that blood, of those shots, of those grenades, of those tanks, of those machine-gunning helicopters and those planes throwing their explosive darts, understand the simple truth: We are invincible… We cannot lose… We do not deserve to lose. But as we say here, our work is this: to fight and to die so that others can live better lives, much better than the ones that were ours to die. It is our work, yes, but not yours. So therefore please be careful. The fascist beast is bitter and directs its attacks at the most defenseless. Of the accusations being made against you and the entire team of noble and honest people who deliver (because the technical conditions of producing a newspaper must make it a real birth) that standard of impartiality and truth that carries the name of Tiempo, I want to say several things: The authentic heroism of Tiempo does not come from putting out a newspaper with Fred Flintstone’s equipment. It comes from, in a cultural environment so closed and absurd as San Cristóbal’s, giving voice to those who have nothing (now we have arms). It comes from defying, in four pages, the powerful men of commerce and land who have their goods in the city. It comes from not submitting to blackmail and intimidation to obligate them to publish a lie, or to neglect to publish a truth. It comes from, in the middle of that asphyxiating cultural atmosphere that sews up its own mediocre self-reflection, seeking fresh and lively air, actually democratic, in order to clean the streets and the minds of Jovel. It comes from when the Indians came down from the mountain (note: before the first of January) to the city, not to sell, not to buy, but rather to ask that someone listen, but finding only closed ears and doors; one door was always open, had been open for some time by a group of non-Indians who put up a sign that said the same thing: Tiempo. After passing that door, those Indians that today enrage the world with their audacity of refusing to die without dignity, found someone who would listen, which was already plenty, and they found someone who would put those Indian voices in ink on paper and with the heading Tiempo, which was before and is even more so now, heroic. It turns out, Mr. Morquecho, that heroism and valor are not to be found only behind a rifle and a ski mask, but they are also in front of a typewriter when the zeal of truth animates the hands that type. I find out now that they accuse all of you of being “Zapatistas.” If stating the truth and seeking justice is being a “Zapatista,” then we are millions. They should bring more soldiers. But, when the police and inquisitors come to intimidate you, tell them the truth, Mr. Morquecho. Tell them that you simply raised your voice to warn everyone that if changes were not made in the unjust relations of daily oppression, the Indians were going to rise up. Tell them that you simply recommended seeking other paths to follow, legal and peaceful, for those who surround the cities of all of Chiapas
Death and the Automobile
Priyasha Mukhopadhyay The driving force behind every nation’s story of progress is a motor car In his introduction to Paul Virilio’s Speed and Politics Benjamin Bratton writes of how a history of compensating for the vulnerability of the human body has led to universal prosthetisation of various kinds and to various degrees: from the military tank that in its ability to assault, destroys the concept of territorial boundaries, to the sports shoe. Transforming the possessors into “metabolic bodies,” these come together to supplement the human in the drive towards efficiency, excellence and logistical power.[i] This is a universe in which everything is a machine. The ubiquity of the mechanical in everyday life has forced us to reexamine not only the nature and extent of our reliance on such objects, but also how technological encounters shape our understanding of contemporary subjectivity. Thinking through the relation between the human and the machine is not a new gesture; widespread industrialisation in Europe ensured that the machine was a tangible presence in most nineteenth and early twentieth century documents. Critical studies however, even history indeed, mostly limit themselves to the uncovering of technophobia[ii] – horror at the debilitating effects of long hours of work in factories, the gradual isolation of the human subject from the need for human contact, the fascist undertones of the production of something as loved as Volkswagen cars in Nazi Germany.[iii] This article is an attempt, alternatively, to rethink technophilia in one of its most historically violent forms, Futurism. Taking as its focus the body of the machine, it will examine the manner in which manifestos written by its prime proponent, F.T. Marinetti, evolve an oppositional political and aesthetic mythology, one that is dependent not on the mere interactions between the human and the non-human, but on a complex set of processes by which the ideal human is, in its essence, not human at all. In writing the machine into (paradoxically) this futurist history, I am not critiquing or attempting to thwart the inevitable mechanisation of human existence, but trying to understand how such transformations and interactions can become coherent models of political and social action. I will thus make a preliminary attempt to trace how it becomes symbolic of the uncertain and scattered ways in which we “do” politics, and in turn, what politics does to us. As Fast as You Can Casually thrown before its readers is the following scene from Mario Morasso’s The New Weapon (1905): “Here is something heroic; a man seated on a rigid seat, like a barbarian king, with his face covered by a hard visor, like a warrior, with his body leaning forward almost to provoke the race and to scrutinize – not just the course, but destiny. With his hand secure on the inclined steering wheel, with all his faculties in a state of vigilance, he seems truly the lord of a whirlwind, the tamer of a monster, the calm, absolute sovereign of a new force, he who stands straight in a vortex. “(qtd. in Poggi 10 ) The focus here is the driver of the racing car, the “man seated on a rigid seat.” Rather than being a symbol of middle-class affluence, the car is instead thrown into an imaginary space of multiple contexts: there is war that the driver-warrior is prepared for; his hand is “secure,” his body leaning forward, alert and ready for combat with skill and precision that ensure that he alone is “the tamer of a monster.” Language deceives us here; on a first reading, the monster and whirlwind seem to be self-evidently the car being driven. In such a scheme of things, the man quickly becomes emblematic of humanity’s conquest over the machine, able to control it with a firm grip of the steering wheel. What makes this passage extraordinary, and anticipatory of how Futurism was to revolutionise the man-machine relation, is the manner in which the act of control transforms the man into something other than himself, superhuman. Standing in the vortex of mechanical strength, he is not merely “the sovereign of a new force,” he is that new force. Morasso’s novel was published five years before F.T. Marinetti’s “The Founding and Manifesto of Futurism” appeared in Le Figaro, bringing in its wake the call for the destruction of tradition, metallisation and the pure power of speed. These are not all incidental players in the configuration of the manifesto, but rather, seem to draw from a seemingly insignificant event in Marinetti’s life: his Fiat collided with a bicycle and skidded into a ditch. He was left unscathed, but in the manifesto, this is replayed as the moment when Marinetti is “transformed” into a Futurist; nothing less than a miraculous moment of religious baptism: I gulped down your bracing slime, which reminded me of the sacred black breast of my Sudanese nurse. . . . When I climbed out, a filthy and stinking rag, from underneath the capsized car, I felt my heart—deliciously—being slashed with the red-hot iron of joy! (50) At one level, the accident reveals what Jeffrey Schnapp calls Futurism’s delight in “trauma-thrills,” modern forms of the sublime that derive from the excitement that lurching towards the limits of death and pulling back creates (4). The accident changes Marinetti; he will keep looking for opportunities to recreate this experience throughout his life and writing (a point I will return to later in this article). This transformation is undeniably psycho-somatic: the slashing of the red-hot iron through Marinetti’s heart is both literal and metaphorical, and in the process, solders the fragmented parts of his self together to make him the very object that is most likely to survive the encounter, a machine. This is addressed more clearly in a section of a later work, Le Futurism (1911), “The Multiplied Man and the Reign of the Machine”: This inhuman and mechanical type, constructed for omnipresent velocity, will be naturally cruel, omniscient, and combative. He will be endowed with unexpected organs: organs adapted to
Bandmaster @ Cossipore
Akhlaq Dorjee Chanda (Poems dedicated to Tushar Roy) Factory Tagore Juggling oranges and eggs. Plus, tables for 17 memorised At such tender age? Remarkable acumen. Nothing surprises you anymore. At Dokkhini they teach you to be surefooted. *********************** Rigor Mortis Mensa and pauses. Strange premonitions. Can’t possibly be biological? Is it figurative—can’t put my fingers onto? But freedom, ah free free—how strange would that month be After all these years of bloody conquests. ***************************** Sukanta Majumdar Nurtures a very sensitive ear. Patience and practice. Has composed a trillion soundscape collages so far. A master archivist. As I walk past Hindustan Park to Purnadas Road (An insightful place Bhaipo! Charcoaled and Bistroed) I think of Sukanta’s ears. Flapping out. Does he rinse his drums with tepid water? Every morning? Somewhere he mentioned unobtrusiveness. Is he good enough to get at the bottom of this trompe l’oeil. ************************ Kalyaniyashu A deadly wish. Can you imagine such a Kantian greeting? It’s these kind of exchanges that leads to chronic whooping cough. Besides, I am not Kalidasbabu and you hardly Shefali. ***************************** Ancien Regime To err on the side of liberals just happens to be the best available option. Lets collaborate. ************************ Returning From America Is cakewalk: if you stop listening to ghawre pherar gaan And sundry such enormous commitments, Shonai Or begin to love Agha Shahid Ali far too much for comfort Instead concentrate on rules: Rules sustain. Rules devour Like taking and giving daily, routine upper cuts Here and there, off hand, casual Tearing apart beleaguered loved ones with more longing. Morphine endures. ***************************** Caterpillar Nocturnal. Tubular and hairy. Three pairs of true legs. And million muscles in unison—wiggling in and out. Detecting vibrations. At specific frequencies. Soft body, head capsule hardened. Leading manufacturer of construction and mining equipments. *************************** Petticoat Strings on the Side Those who deal in more complex ideas than class, caste or status Must notice which side of the waist the lady ties her petticoat knot. Elementary aspects of oligarchy. *********************** Bongolokkhi Super Lottery Hazar wares. Muchi-bazar. Queer eelish, still in throes Vermilion: Rangajawba Bussing days, passing posts Bulk is good, Shivaratri? Rules bequeath: Partition In transit, relentless First at left, smelling right? Color of dawn shefalika In memory, in pursuit Would that come, fanfare? Ticketing week once again Greenish tinge, trance afloat Tripling crores, how about? Next fortnight, sure shot. Punching bag, Baba sweats. Punching slot, Baba lives. ************************* Bandmaster @ Cossipore Caberina Sarah Temple Firm, slack living pore Longs for those sure strokes. Remember bandmaster? Casting recaster. Moving moved. Piping hot. He shall start at 7 dot. Thursday nights magic moon Sarah Temple, will you swoon? Drimiti drim, at his bid Off counter selling weed. Sax-cello lustre Remember bandmaster. ****************************** Akhlaq Dorjee Chanda is a poet and a soccer player working from Dibrugarh, Assam. adminhumanitiesunderground.org