Archives for category: On concepts

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You look up “outsourcing” on Wikipedia with a knowing smile. The crowd/out-sourced oracle says it dates “at least to 1981.” Even if this part isn’t true, I want it to be. Why? Because Margaret Thatcher was elected in 1979 and Ronald Reagan was elected in 1980. Because the era we have come to believe is ours all started with Maggie and Ronnie’s love affair with delirious deregulation? Because history loves coincidences.

You get into bed and say how good my hair looks. I tell you I dyed it with the new “Anish Kapoor Ultra Black” this morning, just after you went to work, and while I logged onto MTurk, Fiverr and Taskrabbit.

I remember back to when we first met, and you would read out loud to me. Now we have “audiobooks.” So, I ask you to read to me tonight.

You oblige: “Outsourcing is one of the central tricks of profit engineering. Keep production in an agitated state of perpetual displacement, shifting it to the next cheapest location.”

I demand a better bedtime story.

E.T.A. Hoffman wrote one called “The Sandman” in 1816. The protagonist, Nathaneal, develops strong amorous feelings towards Olimpia, whom he spies through a telescope. She plays the harpsichord, sings and dances. But Olympia turns out to be an automaton, and Nathaneal is driven mad by the sight of its disembodied eyes lying horrifically on the floor. Three years later, Sigmund Freud built his theory of “das Unheimliche” (“the Uncanny”) around that queasy feeling of not knowing if Olimpia is human or nonhuman, and the even queasier feeling Nathaneal had when he realised he was sexually aroused by a machine.

“Are we outsourcing more and more of ourselves to machines?”

“Baby, the more we outsource our memories to the Cloud, the more our memory can remember less.”

Does it matter where the Cloud is? Does it matter if the server farm is prize-winning architecture? Do the cleaners get a decent break? And are they unionized? Does the Cloud storage facility use rainwater to cool the temperature inside, or am I adding to climate change if I outsource my memory to it?

“Chill. The basic unit of outsourcing is distance,” you say, proudly.

“What kind of distance?”

“A distance that moves production not only from your physical view but also your conceptual view. This distance creates remove. Remove creates distanciation. Distanciation allows us to suspend certain judgments that proximity simply would not.”

I caress your glistening skin. I stare hopelessly into your eyes. I pray, after all these years, you do not turn out to be an automaton.

You tell me about a happy dream, where we have two robot dogs – called “Blindspot” and “Blacksite” – and a real cat – called “Blowback.” You hope I have the same dream soon.

“Would it be useful for robots to cry?” I ask.

“Well it depends what they’d be used for,” you reply, uncommitted.

“If you could, would you outsource your crying to a machine?”

“No,” you reply, committed. “Totally no.”

“Why?”

“Crying is emotionally cleansing. I don’t want to give that up.”

I decide not to share my idea of an app that crowdsources the public to cry on the user’s behalf, in case you find the idea emotionally devastating.

“So,” I process, “outsourcing is a chain of remove?”

“In exchange for something that makes us feel better, smell better, earn better. Like your luscious, gorgeous hair, which always turns me…”

You run your rugged hand through my locks – and shriek. Your palm is a blackened mess. It must be the “Anish Kapoor Ultra Black” dye. It hasn’t dried yet, still in a state of precarious entropy. I feel cheated. It was a good deal on Amazon, and only took three days to be delivered from China. I read all the user reviews. Now it’s all over our bed-sheets, which, fortunately, happen to also be black, but, just plain black, not absolute “light-absorbing black.” And not black like my skin either, which is yet another hue of meaningful noir.

All this pillow talk has reminded me that my ancestors were employed as human machines in a story of outsourcing called “Empire.” It makes me sad, not sexy. Sorrowful, the way our peace is made possible by outsourcing war elsewhere.

We turn our bedside lights off at the same time. Is there a name for the distance we see each other, arrange each other, love?


Published in Spike Art Quarterly, #51, Spring 2017

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160614 Format 2016 – edition print WIP 1 lo

Poster by Wayne Daly

In Summer 2016, I organised a series of conversations at the Architectural Association in London, where guests were invited to share one “Couple Format” that has, in retrospect, made some kind of mark upon them. I asked each guest—from the worlds of art, architecture, curating, literature, and philosophy—to present the ways in which their chosen couples’ roles were delineated; the way in which the things the couples produced rendered the relationship; or the way in which the relationship may have been a kind of work or product itself.

Screen Shot 2017-04-02 at 12.39.37 am.pngSuperhumanity, a project by e-flux Architecture at the 3rd Istanbul Design Biennial, commissioned me to translate the “live magazine” into an essay. Included here are selected excerpts from the seven presented Couple Formats. They include:

  • Charles and Ray Eames by Catherine Ince
  • Robert Venturi and Denise Scott-Brown by Sam Jacob
  • Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari by Aaron Schuster
  • Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas by Guy Mannes-Abbott
  • Marina Abramović and Ulay by James Westcott
  • Broadway and Fifth Avenue by Natasha Sandmeier

Throughout, we ask, “What was the identity between love and work, or, the love found in working together?”

 

la-traffic-freeway

  1. “Cities may not cohere the way you think they do.” She walked across the first of the six lanes comprising the infernal highway. “You walk across the same road you’ve used for fifteen years. You see half a dozen not-quite-things—a tree in bloom, a mobile phone transmitter, some pulverized bird.”
  2. She moved past the second lane, cars ignoring her reckless presence, cars hurtling from place to promised time. Each one, that dream, Autopia. “Like star constellations. When we draw a line around them, we’re giving them a name, so we can believe they exist in a way we think we exist.” [She took out her phone. She duckfaced and selfied the moment. Filter? Nashville. Lo-Fi. Perpetua. <SEND>.] “When we do that with, say, a tree in bloom, a mobile phone transmitter, some pulverized bird, we are making that outline a ‘city.’”
  3. Lane 3 was no match for her blind faith. This forward-facing futurist. “The city is an object wished for.”
  4. The fourth lane was next, and this time, did she float across? “My father said, ‘Constellations are the product of human perception rather than astronomical realities.’ He was right. That’s how they look from earth.” Infinite formlessness freaks us out. But, an animal or a chariot inscribed in the sky makes the universe more human and makes us more like the universe.
  5. She said these words as she fought across the fifth, penultimate lane, made easier or more difficult by the increased traffic at this time of day. People heading home. To be unalone. To dream of escaping this chronic city. “The moments we call crises are ends and beginnings. This, you.”
  6. He had the answer—waiting patiently on the other side of the six-lane highway, a clogged artery—and she was so close to him now, her heart, more mess than myth. She could smell his eau de cologne. Maybe? Patchouli gasoline. Yes. They gazed across the bullet-fire of vehicles. He stared at the selfie she has just sent him, adding a new filter. Perpetua. Aden. Willow. They longed reunion. In two hours time, they’ll stop fucking each other in a gasp of heady, indefinable pleasure, wordless and breathless, creatures conditioned by places. Places as pleasure. His outline, then hers. No name for this conjoining except, “We.” Perhaps? Possibly? Love is a highway that’s never quite finished, never quite started. And yet, two hours before their future post-coital cool, a red car—roof down, young couple in front, escaping the drudgery of their suburban lives, the smell of life fading away like cheap eau de cologne—crashes into the woman and the man, on the hard shoulder of this six-lane highway at the start of the long holiday weekend. Willow. Aden. Perpetua.

 

*“Later, Whitehead introduces a new a primitive notion which he calls an actual occasion. For Whitehead, an actual occasion (or actual entity) is not an enduring substance, but a process of becoming. As Whitehead puts it, actual occasions are the ‘final real things of which the world is made up,’ they are ‘drops of experience, complex and interdependent.’” The Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/whitehead/#WM


Commissioned for Jitesh Kallat’s monograph, edited by Natasha Ginwala.

ingrid-jomohomo

I miss doing nothing. Or I miss the idea of doing nothing. I spend a lot of time thinking about which, and whether there’s a real difference, or an unreal difference, and that too takes up more time. I describe time as a resource. Unlike crude oil, corn and quartz, it is infinite, but spending too much time thinking about infinity has lost me years of my life since I was a child. Children rarely do nothing. Except maybe young girls. I see them sit quietly at restaurants with their parents. They’re coloring in a unicorn drawing. They’re quietly lost in their own sense of colouring. Maybe this is not exactly nothing but boys of the same age are like hyperactive protons, agitated energy, vectors unable to conceive of stillness. Boys adhere to Brownian motion. Parents writhe over the vexed question “When do we give our baby their first iPad?” Because new parents, maybe more than anyone, miss doing nothing the most. They crave it. They are in an endless jetlag of the body. It’s in their eyes. I miss doing nothing. I ask novelists if they read less novels than they used to, before 4G. Most say yes, their brains have changed. Forever. (The others are lying.) I know one person — a novelist — who refused to get a mobile phone of any kind. He was a modern day Walden. He enjoyed the detachment from digital obligations the moment he stepped out of his apartment into the city. He said it made him see and hear the birds and the trees more vividly. This delinking, he claimed, was a balm for his writing brain. He protected this like a dragon might protect a unicorn. Then he caved. We made him cave because we are bad people. And now he is just as addicted as the rest of us. He has either joined the world as it really is, or he has abandoned the other world of which he was one of the last remaining survivors. Part of me is relieved. The other part of me is sad. Purity, another voluntary victim. But this debate too can take up time, that diminished resource, which I literally have less of the more knowledge I gain. Perhaps wisdom is understanding time’s unknowability. And with this comes less time. To do more or to do less. To worry about doing more or not doing less. You see the quandary. The swamp. Which is why I spend more time missing doing nothing. I miss the blank alps of my mind, the thinned air of inactivity. Because more and more I am time, not in an eschatological sense, but, in essence. The neuroscientists can’t help me. They’re nascent. They referred me to the theologians. Who in turn said, seek the technologists. All the minutes waiting for Uber to arrive add up to some fraction of eternity, which I refuse to acknowledge except here, speaking to you. Time accelerates. It stretches. It vanishes. Collapses. All these metaphors. What if time is really just language? Language never freed us, according to most philosophers.

1.0     We are born into language.

1.1     And it is the case.

1.2     And that case is the world.

1.21   [ :/ ]

I watch other people swipe right on dating apps and I decide that I’d prefer a mechanical finger that would do the swiping for me… So I can use that extra time… To figure out why I’m afraid of swiping right… Why the gaze of a stranger whose name is a string of symbols in a language I don’t understand, why she fills me with the dread I have for the end of time itself, the kind theologians proscribe. This girl on my screen, she’s pretty, she’s from Bulgaria. She doesn’t miss doing nothing. She was born into a Brownian world where frat boys have turned technology into theology, demagogues have preyed upon the free time of crisis ridden boys, those agitated protons so close to exploding far away, or next to me, depending where I’m writing this and reading this. Bored people crave war. The sweet girl suspended in the downloadable app, she’s afraid to be a feminist and not be a feminist, she doesn’t know where she stands on pornography (subject/object). And this takes up so much of her thumb time she’s starting to think her spirit animal is a thumb. Her therapist tells her this, and Jung told her therapist, through red coloured notebooks and visions of eternal time. Returning time. Myths of return. Archetypes as emojis. I would like to follow Freud and Jung as they walked around the making of the modern world and I would do nothing. They would do nothing.

1.3     We did nothing.

1.4     We were always doing nothing.

1.41   Weren’t we?

1.5     [Battery dead symbol]

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From The Age of Earthquakes: A Guide to the Extreme Present by Shumon Basar, Douglas Coupland, Hans Ulrich Obrist (Penguin, 2015)


Originally published in Ingrid Hora’s book, JOMOHOMO, 2016, designed by Åbäke.

 

image

Originally published on the Art Dubai blog as part of ‘Posting Ramadan.’ 

My sister’s friend sent this picture to her and she sent it on to me early on this Ramadan.

My immediate thought was: ‘Where do I get this T-Shirt??! I NEED this T-Shirt.’ Because, for anyone fasting in a non-Muslim environment, it could be the singularly most useful thing to own during the month. Because the single most asked question, by those unfamiliar with the rules and regulations of Ramadan, is the double-negative laden, ‘But, you CAN drink, can’t you?’

You take a calm breath, pause, then patiently inform them that, ‘No, I can’t drink anything.

To which they retort, ‘Not even water?’

‘No. Not even water.’

The questioner’s face turns from politically correct empathy for your religious conviction, to mild politically incorrect shock-horror. Because it is the non-water-drinking clause that transforms Ramadan from a daily experience of voluntary hunger to something much more estranging and, even, extremish.

I can’t speak for others – privation is by definition a deeply private affair – but for me the prohibition on liquids means no post-wake-up caffeine ritual which means I’m not sure when it is I am actually waking up. In fact, maybe I never actually wake up, which explains the sonambulistic haze I’m in, especially surrounded by a non-Ramadan world who continues to Starbucks, Costa and KFC so thoughtlessly and inconsiderately around me.

At least they could draw a huge black curtain around themselves, Dubai-style.

Thanks?

The other thing about not drinking anything is the effect it has on speaking. Saliva suddenly becomes a finite resource. Words, which at other times come forth untaxed, infinitely plentiful, are now the opposite. The more you ask me if I can drink during Ramadan, the more I have to reply, ‘no, not even water,’ which means I get thirstier, etc etc.

See the passive cruelty in your innocent query?

That is why the T-Shirt proposed – or equivalent badge or ambient sign or telepathic mind message service (TMMS) – would be my Ramadan accessory du jour.

 

This is from the October 2015 special issue of e-flux journal. It was commissioned by one of the editors, Nikolaus Hirsch, after he visited the apartment I’ve been calling home for a couple of years: a tower in Berlin conceived by John Hejduk. By now, I receive visitors with a set tour that slips and slides according to the weather and the limits of my memory. The below is an attempt to crystallize as many of the facts and fictions I’ve gathered while living in this special place. A guide to everyone that will never come to see me here, floating in space.

HejduckBerlinBlacknWhite

Photo by Helene Binet when the tower was completed in 1988

1. Turn onto Besselstraße. You’ll see the Tower, grey and green. Look for the left-hand entrance. Pass the kids’ playground. Press buzzer name _______. I’ll let you in. Take the elevator to the tenth floor.

2. Look out for the single piece of graffiti in the elevator (always the word “SEX,” in capitals).

3. Just so you know, there is no other apartment on that floor. Just this one. The elevator doors will open and you’ll see me waiting for you.

4. After I’ve greeted you with a Continental kiss on both cheeks (one kiss feels inadequate; three, inconvenient), I’ll invite you inside my temporary home. And ask you to take your shoes off. It’s an Asian tradition I take with me wherever I go.

5. Even angels have to abide.

6. “The elevator brought you up one of the five towers,” I’ll explain, “and now, we’re standing in the central tower.” You’ll look around the square white room, roughly six by six meters. Plain black carpet. Mostly unadorned.

John Hejduk, Berlin Tower: Elevations and Plans, 1985-1986. Reprographic copy on paper. John Hejduk fonds, collection Canadian Center for Architecture, Montréal

7. “Hejduk was the architect.” You will look puzzled. It’s obvious you had an expensive education. You’re an avant-garde literature savant. A fan of untitled atonal dirges. You own every seminal Semiotext(e) paperback.

8. But you’ve never heard of John Hejduk.

9. I’ll launch, quite abruptly, into a customized Wikipedia biography. He was born in 1929 and died in 2000. Between these mortal parentheses, Hejduk was one of the “New York Five,” a loose band of neo-modern architects who rose to prominence in the late 1960s and early ’70s, famous for reintroducing formalism to discourse and building a number of rich people’s houses in rich parts of America. Soon after, Hejduk went his own inimitable way, which, it seems, was always his preferred way.

10. Hejduk the poet.

11. Hejduk the mystic.

12. Hejduk the dramaturge.

13. Hejduk the dean of the Cooper Union, New York, for decades. An influential teacher.

14. I’ll point at some black-and-white printouts pinned on my white walls. Scratchy ink drawings showing menageries of objects. Part animal and part industrial factory. Little lives floating between second and third dimensions. I’ll pick up a Hejduk book called Victims,from 1986. I’ll open it to pages that describe a theatrical cast of characters, who they are, what defines their individuality, how they belong to this … community, let’s call it. Or a troupe. The descriptions: quotidian and metaphysical at the same time.

John Hejduk, Berlin Tower: Sectional Details, 1985-1986. Felt-tip pen on wove paper. John Hejduk fonds, collection Centre Canadien d’Architecture, Canadian Center for Architecture, Montréal.

15. I’ll try and remember this quote by Hejduk: “I cannot do a building without building a new repertoire of characters, of stories, of language, and it’s all parallel. It’s not just building per se, it’s building worlds.”

16. Building worlds.

17. You may be surprised that for someone of his stature, Hejduk built relatively few buildings. (Less than a handful.) However, he was prolific in other ways.

18. I’ll gesture for you to follow me. “We’re in one of the walkways between the big tower and one of the smaller towers.” It’s just 70 cm long, and about 50 cm wide. “Notice. Windows on both sides.” You will feel like you’re also floating somewhere between two-dimensional and three-dimensional space. You will feel tiny and also immense because Berlin slices right through this anti-room.

19. You’re part of it and apart from it.

20. This feeling was often considered to be the defining condition of life in the second half of the twentieth century. “I recommend Colin Wilson’s The Outsider.” You think I’m being quaint.

21. (Later on, you may admit the small walkway was erotic.) (I would agree.)

22. The kitchen tour will not take long because it’s just 1.8 m by 1.8 m, fitted out in original grey laminate 1988 cupboards. “1988 was not a high point in kitchen design.” There’s another window, this one with a green metal canopy floating over it. The view turns the outside into a slowly moving still life.

Photo by the author, 2014

23. I’ll walk you to the other side to show you the mirroring room, also in its own tower (the third), separated by another walkway with its two facing windows.

24. You will ask me what Hejduk intended with such impractically small rooms. “Well,” I’ll pontificate, “the whole apartment oscillates between spaces that seem too big and too small.” I’ll say that we only become conscious of space when it is either too big (a cathedral, a palace) or it is too small (a railway cabin, a prison cell). For most of us, lived space happens in the midground and, as such, washes over us quietly. Anonymously.

25. Some trivia: Hejduk was very tall. Imposingly tall.

26. I’ll open the two window-doors in the living room and tell you to go through the one on the left and I will go out of the one on the right.

27. Separated by about 40 cm, we now have one balcony each. A perfect cube approximately one by one by one meter, encased in gunmetal green painted steel. I think of them as two Carl Andre sculptures cantilevering above others like them below and above.

28. Why two, you might ask (scanning these floating square orbs for erotic potential). “It’s so she can sit there in peace and he can sit here in his own peace. They pass things to one another butter, coffee, a hardback copy of Robbe-Grillet’s Jealousy but maintain their sovereignty.”

29. You will either find this a sad model of togetherness …

30. … or something liberating and true.

31. At this point, will another truth bloom in your mind?

32. “Today, luxury living has come to mean expensive finishes, furnishings, bathroom taps, and ‘exclusive views.’ Things to display. This has come at the expense of any kind of original idea on how to live.” For Hejduk, the antithesis is the case. All the material finishes in this building are humane but basic, suitable for social housing. Linoleum. Square white tiles. Cheap grout. “The luxury Hejduk offers is a radical rethinking of the plan of a house or an apartment. Its received principles of sense. He forces you to inhabit through invention.”

Photo by the author, 2014

33. This is a different kind of luxury. One that may have died in the handover from the twentieth to twenty-first centuries.

34. To live in an idea about living is wealth not measured in money.

35. “How did you get this place?” you will ask. Because everyone asks, expecting an answer rich in nepotism or savvy connections. I will honestly reply, “Providence.” You will say, “What?” I clarify, “Craigslist.”

36. “Let’s go upstairs.” This other Hejduk quote is pinned on the wall: “I don’t make any separations. A poem is a poem. A building’s a building. Architecture’s architecture. Music is music. I mean, it’s all structure. It’s structure.”

37. We’ll be on the eleventh floor now. Another large white space, four windows, two like square eyes, and we are the brain, gazing out at the city.

38. If you haven’t heard of Hejduk then you won’t have heard of IBA Berlin (Internationale Bauausstellung). An initiative from 1979 led by the architects Josef Paul Kleihues and Hardt-Walt Hämer to add and renovate much-needed West Berlin housing stock mostly welfare housing and culminating in 1987 on the 750th birthday of Berlin. The date would be exactly thirty years after Interbau, a similar initiative that bequeathed Berlin the Modernist district Hansaviertel, replete with Alvar Aalto, Oscar Niemeyer, and, further away, Le Corbusier for the urban un-rich.

39. Size wasn’t what made IBA Berlin so unique. It was, in particular, Kleihues’s choice of architects. On the one hand, there were historical postmodernists, who, in the early to late 1980s, had usurped orthodox or late modernists as the go-to avant-garde. Aldo Rossi, Charles Moore, Stanley Tigerman. However, Kleihues also enlisted many from an outmoded neo-modern camp. OMA, Zaha Hadid, Peter Eisenman, Raimund Abraham often built their first “real” buildings confined by stringent Berlin building regulations and challenging budgets.

40. IBA Berlin also commissioned three projects from John Hejduk. This poet of the unbuilt who kept a quote by Alain Robbe-Grillet pinned above his drawing desk: “The hallucinatory effect derives from the extraordinary clarity and not from mystery or mist. Nothing is more fantastic ultimately than precision.”

41. Robbe-Grillet was talking about Franz Kafka.

42. “This building would never be commissioned by anyone else,” I’ll explain to you, “because it’s so completely irrational.” A tower with just seven apartments. Two storys each. Twenty windows each. Not for affluent condo-dwellers, but originally intended for the DAAD residency program, yet ultimately never adopted for that purpose. There are also two lower blocks, with twenty apartments each, which initially housed mainly Turkish residents and families. The front facades are childlike faces, possibly crying.

43. In 1988, when the complex was finished, Checkpoint Charlie was just a few minutes away. The Wall sliced across Zimmerstrasse. This whole area between Friedrichstrasse and Charlottenstrasse, was a prominent hinterland edge of West Berlin, close to the Nazi command center. History on the sidewalks.

44. Then the Wall came down a year later.

45. The edge condition of East Berlin fused with the edge condition of West Berlin and instead of cancelling each other out as I’ll argue to you they combined their alienating forces.

46. This area (what is it? Friedrichstadt? Kreuzberg? Mitte?) has the paradoxical quality of being Berlin’s geometrical center while often being unmarked in Berliners’ memories or minds. An ongoing no man’s land, only now on the cusp of sweeping change.

47. “This is the bedroom. It can’t even fit a full double bed.” My artist landlady has hand-built a timber frame that acts as a 1.5 person bed. This room also can’t fit anything else except a single window. “Look,” and I’ll point at Potsdamer Platz over there. “That’s where the sun goes down.” You’ll lie on the bed and all you’ll see is the yellowing light on the grey concrete of the cylindrical tower outside the window. You’ll again feel like you’re between two-dimensional and three-dimensional space. At peace.

48. I’ll then take you to the last part of this tour. We’ll have to go up the spiral stairs, which is inside the cylindrical tower, the fifth and final one. The view up and down the tower is a dirty realist Vertigo. “It’s always cold. It doesn’t want you to be inside it for long.” I’ll whisper to you that “I am convinced these stairs link heaven to hell.”

49. We’ll climb the industrial ladder to the roof.

50. Here, you will see the plan of the building, naked. You’re inside the drawing. The individual square and rectangular and cylindrical shapes connected by short bridges. Instead of carpet or linoleum, here you stand on large, smooth, grey pebbles. “It feels like a private Japanese garden.” You’ll nod.

51. We see the sun vanishing behind the skyline that’s not Berlin or anywhere particular. An ersatz horizon.

52. I’ll tell you to look down.

53. Metallic stars protrude from the walls, silently and regularly arrayed.

Photo by the author, 2013

54. What are they?

55. The most convincing story I’ve heard is: “They’re grips for angels to hold onto when they climb the sides of the tower.”

56. If we were anywhere else, you’d look at me bemused. As if I was overidentifying with supernatural sap. Here, it’s the only rational reason.

57.Wings of Desire came out in 1987,” I’ll mention. “Wasn’t that a film about angels in Berlin?” you ask.

58. Yes. It was. Marion as played by Solveig Dommartin, who couldn’t see the ponytailed outsider angels, and Damiel played by Bruno Ganz, inhabited their own parallel dimension next to humans. Don’t forget Nick Cave, one of West Berlin’s star residents of the mid-1980s, who utters the words, “I’m not gonna tell you about a girl … I’m not gonna tell you about a girl … I wanna tell you about a girl …”

59. You, who have been so patient with my exhaustive circuit, you will clasp my hand in flickering friendship, and, standing unusually tall, as if with wings, recite the following:

60. “The Angel dropped
and knelt
to ask a pardon
for its announcement
anticipating the coming entombment
The stone vault door
exploded into putrid passage
Italian was softly spoken
The cloth was loomed
in iris
Waxed bannisters
Pinioned the entry
Impregnation was complete
Joseph wept”1

[‘Annunciation’ by John Hejduk, taken from Such Places as Memory: Poems 1953 1996 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998)]

The Mystic and The Modernist are in an arm wrestle.

They have been since the start of the 20th century.

Each one believes that the other is so fatally flawed that the word ‘brainwashed’ comes up more than once – the simplest way they explain who or what they are is by defining their credo as the negative of the other.

The Mystic declares, “I am everything The Modernist is not.”

And the Modernist replies, somewhat petulantly, “I am nothing of what The Mystic is.”

The Mystic likes to claim that one of the major flaws in modern architecture (modern = all white, streamlined, cool and clean), is that there is nowhere for ghosts to hide. The Modernist is proud of this achievement, even though s/he knows that the stark plain white wall was, for most of the time in the 1920s, hiding the ghost of an old-fashioned brick wall inside its cosmetic plaster face paint.

Bernard Tschumi

The Mystic prefers Sarah Winchester’s Mystery House, the one that’s forever unfinished, a warped warren of rooms, restlessly expanding due to a visitation by the accursed spirits of the victims who were killed by Winchester firearms.

A giraffe was brought to the opening of OMA designed Villa Dall’Ava (1991)

On and on the bickering goes between our two adversaries, blinded by a fervor. What, dear reader, is this fervor?

Well, its secret energy, its giddy entanglement, is to be found in the colour theories of the Soviet Vkhutemas School. In The Red Book of Carl Jung.

Carl Jung’s ‘Red Book’

In Konstantin Eduardovich Tsiolkovsky’s log cabin on the outskirts of Kaluga. In many of Albert Einstein’s utterances, including, “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science.” It’s in André Breton’s initial announcements on Surrealism: “The marvellous is always beautiful. Anything marvellous is beautiful, in fact only the marvellous is beautiful.” Breton, a Mystic, if there ever was one, lampooned the architect Le Corbusier, a Modernist if there ever seemed to be one. And then later in life, Le Corbusier’s cosmos replaced the early white walls and shallow ramps and chrome bannisters with something more brutal, primary, animal.

The writhings of prostitutes and the cult of the bull.

Did Corbusier really have the hide of his beloved dog turned into a prophylactic? Only his wife Yvonne would know.

Roger Caillois was on Breton’s side until 1934. He tells the Pope of Surrealism: “I want the irrational to be continuously overdetermined, like the structure of coral; it must combine into one single system everything that until now has been systematically excluded by a mode of reason that is still incomplete.”

Roger Caillois wrote about stones as if they possessed animistic qualities

Breton would expel many of the Surrealist Mystics for not being Mystical enough.

Then there’s Stanislaw Lem, Rothko’s Kabbalistic lozenges, Barnett Newman’s zips, Philip K. Dick’s Exegesis. Who knew as much about the history of religion as PKD? David Lynch’s cameos of film fire, angels and disappearances. Even The Athiest, who may not consider herself a Modernist per se, does not perceive how her fervor against the mysticism of religion is the newest kind of spiritual mystique.

The Modernist and The Mystic condemned to this arm wrestle by their own stubbornness, a macho dance, forged from compulsive free will but determined and fatalistic, fawning and flawed. Mostly very, very flawed.

God, it is said, loves everyone. Including sore losers.

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Commissioned by Near East, Issue 2, “MYSTICISM.”

Photo by Bas Princen

The new Fondazione Prada Milano is opening this week. For Miucca Prada and Patrizio Bertelli, it represents the culmination of somewhere between seven and 22 years of preparation, in conjunction with the architects OMA/Rem Koolhaas. For me, it represents the culmination of just over a year or so, and with it, the public announcement of the Fondazione Prada Thought Council, of which I — along with Cedric Libert and Nicholas Cullinan — are credited as Founding Members. Yes, the name evokes George Orwell and Superman comics. It’s worth reminding ourselves how impoverished terms are if you want to avoid ‘Advisory Board,’ ‘Curatorial Consultants,’ or worse still, ‘Think Tank.’

MILAN, ITALY - MAY 02:  Patrizio Bertelli and Dario Franceschini attend Fondazione Prada Press Conference on May 2, 2015 in Milan, Italy.  (Photo by Vittorio Zunino Celotto/Getty Images  for Fondazione Prada)

Nicholas Cullinan, myself and Cedric Libert in ‘Serial Classic,’ shown in the Museo, Fondazione Prada Milano

Cedric and I will continue for another year, while Nick assumes his new role as Director of the National Portrait Gallery, London. The Thought Council will now be joined by the curators Elvira Dyagani Ose and Dieter Roelstraete.

TC Opening May 2015

Cedric Libert, Nicholas Cullinan, Miucca Prada, Dieter Roelstraete, Elvira Dyagani Ose, myself (4 May 2015). Photo by Goshka Macuga

So, what is the Thought Council’s remit? Every answer remains speculative except, in Miucca Prada’s words, ‘You are here to think!’

What I’ve gleaned during my time there is that the Fondazione has been it’s own thing for over two decades, which is also not-being many things: it’s not a museum (though it organises museum quality exhibitions), it’s not a Kunsthalle (though it organises ambitious temporary exhibitions), it’s not Artangel (though it stages some spectacular happenings in weird places), and it’s not a display of a permanent private collection (most of it has never been seen).

Now, with the enlarged permanent venue, it can experiment with all these gestalts and never have to choose to permanently be any of them. ‘It is a learning process for us,’ says Miucca Prada.

View towards entrance

From ‘An Introduction,’ curated by Germano Celant, makes a personal selection from the Collezione, set in a quasi-domestic setting

‘In Part’ curated by Nicholas Cullinan, takes works from the Collezione that feature bodies in fragments

‘Serial Classic’ renarrates the role of reproductions and copies in Greek and Roman antiquity

Accademia space for young children, conceived by  Giannetta Ottilia Latis and students from École nationale supérieure d’architecture de Versailles, led by Cédric Libert and Elias Guenoun.

Accademia space for young children, conceived by Giannetta Ottilia Latis and students from École nationale supérieure d’architecture de Versailles, led by Cédric Libert and Elias Guenoun.

As if to mirror this moment of reinvention — and also continuity — the institutional structure of the Fondazione has been rewired. There is no director. Instead, there are a constellation of opinions and minds. Some are pre-existing (Germano Celant, the Fondazione Curatorial Team, OMA, 2×4, regular collaborators). They represent the continuity.

The Thought Council is a new point in the constellation. We are there to bring new perspectives and, to use an old fashioned word, provide counsel. We also generate concrete projects (the first is Trittico, a display initiative using three works from the Collection at a time). But our voice is really one among many (which currently include Roman Polanski, Robert Gober, Thomas Demand and Wes Anderson), and one among many unknown voices that will appear in time to come.

Something thing we — and in particular I — worked on was formulating the Cultural Statement. This version, which I imagine will continue to evolve, alludes to the impulses of the many involved. It also stresses the certainty of doubt, something I appreciate. For those of you interested, here it is:

For the last two decades, the Fondazione Prada’s activities have analyzed intentions and relevance through an evolution of projects. These have included ‘Utopian’ monographic artist commissions, contemporary philosophy conferences, research exhibitions and initiatives related to the field of cinema. With the opening of a permanent cultural complex in Milano, the Fondazione offers new opportunities to enlarge and enrich our processes of learning.

‘What is a cultural institution for?’ This is the central question of today. We embrace the idea that culture is deeply useful and necessary as well as attractive and engaging. Culture should help us with our everyday lives, and understand how we, and the world, are changing. This assumption will be key for the Fondazione’s future activities.

Our main interest are ideas, and the ways in which mankind has transformed ideas into specific disciplines and cultural products: literature, cinema, music, philosophy, art and science. With the new venue, the Fondazione’s range of knowledge will be expanded. Each field will be afforded its autonomy but have the same overall aim. They will co-exist with one another, leading to unpredictable resonances and cultural intersections.

An attitude of openness and invitation characterizes the political mood of the new Milano premises. We will assert the possibility of participation at all levels for all generations. We will try to find new ways for sharing ideas. Attempts to redefine residency and education programs will go alongside with rethinking the notion of the Library, which might stay open all night, together with the Bar Luce below it. Another possible question is how a contemporary art institution can engage with the Cinema without becoming a film festival.

Art is the Fondazione’s main and given instrument of working and learning. A territory of freethinking in which established, indelible figures ¾ as well as emerging approaches ¾ are welcomed. The Prada Collection, comprising mostly of works from the 20th and 21st centuries, is another one of our given instruments. Our collection is conceived as a resource of perspectives and of potential energy. We will invite different kinds of people to provide new interpretations of undetected ideas from the collection: curators, artists, architects but also scientists and students, thinkers and writers.

This emphasis on range and repertoire of knowledge is reflected in the spatial composition of the Fondazione Prada in Milan. Formerly a distillery dating back to the 1910s, the transformation leads to an architectural configuration that combines preexisting buildings with three new structures. The combined result is a campus of post-industrial and new spaces, alternately intimate and expansive, while the courtyards provide a common public ground, open to the city. This rich spatial array will encourage quick and improvised reactions to cultural stimuli.

Finally, the Fondazione’s new institutional structure embodies the overall aim towards reinvention. It has become an open structure, where ideas are freely exchanged between the Presidents, the Artistic and Scientific Superintendent, the Fondazione Prada’s curatorial departments and the Thought Council, a group of individuals invited to engage with the future program for different durations of time. These and other contributions and voices bring to the process their own unique views on the present moment.

STRUCTURE

Presidents

Miuccia Prada and Patrizio Bertelli

Artistic and Scientific Superintendent

Germano Celant

Curatorial Departments

Head of Programs: Astrid Welter

Head of Research and Publications: Mario Mainetti

Head of Exhibition Design and Production: Alessia Salerno

Thought Council

Founding Members: Shumon Basar, Nicholas Cullinan, Cédric Libert

Forthcoming Members: Elvira Dyangani Ose, Dieter Roelstraete

By Yuri Pattison from his show at Cell Space, London

Yesterday, I moderated a discussion called ‘Outsourcing: Live Our Lives,’ at the symposium ‘Until recently I only had a voice,’ organized by Adam Faramawy and Cecile B Evans.

There were two artists – Cally Spooner and Yuri Pattison – and a professor of affective computing, Maja Pantic.

Before the event, in the semi-august library of the Royal Geographical Society, I looked up ‘outsourcing’ on Wikipedia (where else but that triumph of crowd/outsourcing knowledge labour itself).

It said that the term dates at least to 1981.

Even if this isn’t true, I want it to be.

Because, it would fit so perfectly in a narrative that claims the era we all fully succumb to now (deregulated, free-marketeering, financial capitalism) starts with the symbolic marriage of Margaret Thatcher (elected 1979) and Ronald Reagan (elected 1981).

‘Outsourcing’ is one of the central instruments of profit engineering. You keep production in an agitated state of perpetual displacement, shifting it to the next cheapest location.

Cally cited a scene in Madame Bovary, where a ‘fake tear’ is proffered by the emotionally lazy male protagonist. She said she got interested in this scene because of her interest in the history of ‘credit.’

Sixteen years before Flaubert’s novel, ETA Hoffman wrote ‘The Sandman,’ in which the lead has tragically ambiguous feelings towards Olympia, who is an automaton. Freud builds his theory of ‘unheimlich’ (The Uncanny) around the story of Olympia, and that queasy feeling of not knowing if she is human or non-human. And furthermore the possibility of it not mattering to whether or not you can be sexually aroused by such an ambiguous entity.

We are outsourcing more and more of ourselves to machines.

Our memories can remember less as long as there are hard drives and APIs that make remembering something we call upon from somewhere else.

Does it matter where? Does it matter what the server farm looks like? Whether the cleaner there gets a decent break? If the rain water is used to cool the heating computers that mindlessly give us the sense of our minds today?

It struck me that the basic quality of outsourcing is distance. Not any distance. A distance that removes the thing not only from your physical view but also your conceptual view.

This distance creates remove.

Remove creates distanciation.

Distanciation (thank you Brecht) allows us to suspend certain qualities that proximity simply would not.

If someone was about to kill themselves in front of you, there is every chance you would try and do something, even if you couldn’t actually stop them.

The workers who killed themselves making the parts that go into our Apple gadgets were not in front of us.

Distanciation provides us with an alibi for our ethics.

Outsourcing is this chain of remove in exchange for something that makes us feel better, smell better, earn better.

Yuri described his research with Amazon Mechanical Turks, that new class of invisible workers who Jeff Bezos describes so poignantly as, ‘Artificial Artificial Intelligence.’

Because, in the interim time that computers can’t figure out every aspect of automation, humans are needed. But they’re needed to not be humans per se, but humans carrying out the tasks of computers.

Being computer.

Being algorithm like.

Whereas once, the Industrial Revolution and then Fordism brought the shock of machines doing human work, now, we have the non-shock of humans doing machine work.

Not in order that machines can take more time off, accompany their kids to soccer matches, take a cruise round the world, and do more charity work.

But because the smupid machine can’t do everything it is predestined to do. Yet.

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I can’t quite put it into words or even a succinct image, but, it feels like there is a story of distanciation and remove that has happened and is happening to outsourcing that mirrors or makes the story of globalization, then late-globalization, and now, the story of aspatial acceleration that ubiquitous computing has unleashed.

The non-visibility of outsourcing’s original rubric continues in the Amazon Mechanical Turk. Except he/she – it? – doesn’t have to be on the other side of the planet anymore. They may live underneath you, in the same apartment block, the same street, struggling to find work as a middle-class employee in labour landscapes that decimate the middle-class (Greece, Spain, anyone?)

I wanted to know if a Amazon Mechanical Turk – and those like them – earn more or less than a beleaguered construction worker in Doha or Dubai.

There’s every chance they earn less. Similar.

But they will not garner the same moral outrage or disdain. Or sympathy.

And yet, something is also exploiting them. Quite hideously, even, and is allowed to do so, not because these workers are not afforded the citizenry rights of a non-Third World state, but, rather, because they’re not, biologically speaking, considered to be truly or fully human.

We do not pay our machines wages.

We do not give them time off.

We do not let them form unions.

So why should the ‘AAI’ be that much more different?

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Maja Pantic asked me if it would be useful for computers to cry. She asked me in a tone I associate with Ayn Rand: cool, assured, from a position of greater insight than me. I said, ‘Well it depends what the computer or robot would be used for.’ I then asked Cally if she were given the choice to outsource her unhappiness and her crying to a machine, would she? She said no, she would not. Maja described crying for women as ’emotional cleaning’ and for men, ’emotionally devastating.’

There is probably some way of approaching the complexity of outsourcing, its ethics, its imperils, through the subject of tears.

I would like to read something about that.

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For now, I hesitantly offer you this:

Outsourcing is distance times remove.

I didn’t build a city.[1]


[1] I didn’t draw the roads. I didn’t paint any trees. I didn’t lay down pathways. Places for people to sit. Stare. Lust. Cry. I didn’t design their dreams. I didn’t set the horizon. I didn’t put in dogs, their snarls, needy panting, those hurled sticks, measures of obedience. I didn’t think about dog shit, and where Good People put dog shit in a Good City. I didn’t, but I could have. I didn’t allocate parking spaces, under- or overground. I didn’t install strip lighting to keep us safe. I didn’t stipulate disabled ramps at the right incline. I didn’t propose a walkway in the sky, Jurassic concrete hair rising from tropical heat. I didn’t control the weather. I didn’t position the sun so the shadows would make everything seem more real. I didn’t arrange stars in new astrological constellations. I didn’t, but if I wanted to, maybe I could. I didn’t put in skyscrapers. I didn’t select if they would be Miesian or New Asian. Intelligent or unfinished. I didn’t place wind turbines on top of their green roofs. I didn’t factor in urban farming, the needs of the victims of the end of the Industrial Revolution. I didn’t, but I should have. I didn’t suggest—with the use of an enormous scale-model made by Chinese hands—this is where people should live, this is how they will be happy, this is a community. I didn’t deploy troops, concrete barriers, emergency hoarding, chairs that can be used as missiles, children that can be used as collateral. That is how history will be avenged. I didn’t; no one asked me to. I didn’t raise the expectations of the Mayor or the President or the People in all their multitude and meanness and human magnificence. I didn’t print out all the plans and sections and photo realistic perspectives there to produce hope and profit and the profit of hope because I did not press the PRINT button. I wouldn’t, I should have? I didn’t submit my vision to the pale scrutiny of reality, the arbitration of Time: how cruel it can be, how fearsome and awesome it once was. Wasn’t it? I didn’t build the city. I kept it. For myself. I’ll keep it, until you arrive.

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 Commissioned by Benjamin Reichen/Abake.