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ОглавлениеThe Societal Efficacy of Art
At the heart of How to Do Things with Art lies the question of art’s relevance to society. How does art become politically or socially significant and what preconditions must be fulfilled in order to enable artworks to attain such significance? This book attempts to answer these questions on a theoretical level, and to indicate, via a number of contemporary artworks, how artists can create and shape social relevance. In other words, it attempts to provide what could be called a pragmatic understanding of art’s societal impact.
The question of how to do things with art seems particularly pertinent today both from a societal and an artistic perspective. Never before has what we call art been so important to Western societies: more art museums are being built than ever before, art exhibitions attract a mass audience, the art world has not only expanded globally but also socially—up to the point where a London journalist calls art “the social lubricant of our great city”1—and probably no other profession has received such a dramatic boost in status as the artist, who perfectly embodies today’s prevailing idea of a creative, self-determined subjectivity. Even though from this empirical perspective it is evident that art has a substantial impact, it is much less clear how this impact actually functions.
Above and beyond the artwork, I argue that it is the format of the exhibition that is the key factor in art’s relevance to society. In this respect, the popularity of exhibitions today is not an entirely new phenomenon. It is a continuation of a success story that began 200 years ago: the increasing dominance of a fairly new ritual—the exhibition—that is specific to Western democratic market societies and that ritually establishes and enacts an important set of values and parameters that were and still are fundamental to Western societies: the instantiation of a linear notion of time; the increased valorization of the individual; the exceptional importance attributed to the production of material objects, and their subsequent circulation through commerce.
The exhibition in its canonical 19th-century formation—and the museum itself—provides a reinforcement mechanism in relation to new institutions of social training governed by what Michel Foucault called evolutive time. 2 By collecting artifacts from the past, the museum gives shape and presence to history, inventing it, in effect, by defining the space for a ritual encounter with the past. It marks time into a series of stages that comprises a linear path of evolution; it organizes these stages into an itinerary that the visitor’s route retraces; and it projects the future as a course of limitless development. It is in all these ways that the format of the exhibition echoes and resonates with other new institutions of discipline and training through which—via the construction of a series of stages to be passed through by means of the successful acquisition of appropriate skills—individuals are encouraged to regard themselves as beings in constant need of progressive development.
And yet, even more important in terms of the present societal significance of the exhibition is its ability to create and cultivate a specific nexus between the individual and the material object. The notion of the individual is central to the exhibition and cultivated by it on two levels. First, by displaying works that are informed by and therefore to an extent also mirror the subjectivity of the individual—the artist—and second, because the museum constitutes the first public ritual that explicitly addresses and singles out the individual (as the experience of the visual artwork is conceived as being a one-on-one experience, unlike e.g. theater, which addresses the individual as part of a collective audience). The birth of the museum in fact marks a tipping point in the history of individualization in that it specifically addresses the individual who understands herself first and foremost as such. Crucial to this notion of the individual, however, is that he or she differentiates him or herself through material objects. As a prime place where material objects are valued and quasi-worshipped, the exhibition (and the art exhibition in particular) actively constructs a relationship between the production of subjectivity and the production of material objects. On the one hand it exhibits objects derived from the subjectivity of the artist, and on the other it presents them in a way that seeks to have maximum impact on the subjectivity of the viewer. By bringing these two dimensions together, the object that is produced and the object that is consumed (or actively and intentionally related to), the exhibition in an exemplary way participates in the hegemonic manner in which individual subjectivity is shaped in Western market societies.
And, finally, the very notion of “product” is mirrored in and at the same time ennobled by the conception of the artwork. Market societies derive their wealth from the production of material objects and their circulation through commerce, and the visual art field is engaged in the exact same process. Visual art not only reiterates these basic components of Western societies but, through the museum, even constructs an entire ritual designed to dignify them by removing their objects from a sphere of practice and use, elevating them to a seemingly higher realm in which meaning and subjectivity are produced.
According to this line of thinking, “autonomy” is a euphemism for art’s subjection to basic elements of bourgeois democratic market society, and the art exhibition is the place where these values and parameters are cultivated and performed in their respective relation to each other. This brings up two decisive questions that this book attempts to deal with: How is this governing function played out in exhibitions today? And, secondly, if every exhibited artwork—consciously or unconsciously, wittingly or unwittingly—becomes part of the setting outlined above and therefore participates in the political biases of the exhibition format, is there a way for artists to act upon this format?
To understand these questions it is helpful to return to the suspicions and ambitions of the avant-gardes of the 20th century, who attacked art’s autonomy in order to lead art “back into the praxis of life,” as Peter Bürger phrased it. 3 The museum in particular was seen as the embodiment of art’s exclusion from social life. Yet, the history of the avant-garde movements has shown that their attempts to increase art’s social effectiveness by breaking with its fundamental conventions—the museum and the notion of the artwork—were largely bound to fail. On the occasion of a Dada retrospective in Paris in 1967, Max Ernst told the curator Werner Spies “to put the spirit of Dada on exhibition [ … ] was like trying to capture the violence of an explosion by presenting the shrapnel.” 4 The avant-garde’s self-conception was based on an oppositional stance to the conventions of art, but despite their fundamental goal of changing art’s relationship to society, their attacks took place as art and therefore necessarily within a relationship to these conventions. This double-bind-like character of their criticism, which remained attached to (or even dependent on) what it criticized, became blatantly clear when the first avant-gardes became historical and re-entered not only the museum but, with it, also precisely those conventions of a symbolical and material fixation that they had strived to overcome. This was also true for the event-oriented neo-avant-gardes of the 1960s and early 1970s, whose re-integration into the museum meant a return to the very conventions that had originally been negated: the material object and the fact that it remains throughout history. Any exhibition about Fluxus, Happening or Performance Art renders this visible: instead of the singularity and the live quality of the event, we see relics, material substrata and endlessly reproduced videos. However, this museification of the avant-gardes even makes sense in a way, for their critique of the separation between art and a living practice actually belonged to the museum. Only there could the attacks against the conventions of art be understood. Avant-garde art ultimately became an art of the museum precisely by struggling to wrench itself free from it. The avant-gardes have without a doubt succeeded in significantly modifying the notion of the artwork by opening up new contents and forms. But, viewed in terms of their own ambitions, namely to fundamentally change art’s social reality, they failed.
From today’s perspective and for a generation of artists that fed off the achievements (and failures) of the avant-gardes, their legacy includes two lessons to be learned: first, although the avant-gardes marked the 20th century as an era of artistic rupture with convention, their own history demonstrates that there are some conventions that cannot be broken. Among them the objecthood of the artwork, its status as a product and the artwork’s historical persistence. As these conventions constitute the idea of art in the modern era, one cannot break with them without ultimately breaking with what constitutes art itself. Art that doesn’t offer a possibility of enduring over time either is made durable (as with the event-oriented neo-avant-gardes, Fluxus, Happening and Performance Art), or in the long run falls out of the canon of visual art (the Situationists might be the best example of this, as they came closest to a complete withdrawal from museification). Second, the avant-gardes taught us that art was never autonomous to begin with. The German philosopher Hermann Lübbe once said that, in art, “self-purpose is state purpose” 5—a useful phrase for describing the societal function of art in modernity. The fact that art lost its practical, immediate function does not mean that it no longer has a social and political function. Autonomy does not mean that art breaks free from its use for non-aesthetic purposes, but rather indicates that the level on which this purpose is fulfilled has shifted from the form and content of individual artworks to art’s conventionalized ways of production, presentation and experience in which very basic constitutive parameters of modern societies are kept and cultivated.
In the ninth of his Ten Theses on Politics, the French philosopher Jacques Rancière states that the “end of politics” and the “return of politics” are two complementary ways of “forgetting politics.”6 Societal significance can neither be carried into the arts, nor can it be left outside. A political relevance is always there, but this does not mean that it cannot be shaped. The fact that the exhibition affirms, enacts and cultivates a number of the most basic categories of a democratic market society does not imply that the public sphere which the exhibition participates in producing does not exist. It also does not mean that the political bias of art is already completely determined a priori by this institution. Yet it is only from within these conditions that we can start a discussion on art’s significance, and the consequences of this assertion is what this book will explore: the artwork does not gain a societal impact by rupturing these conventions; it is via these conventions that there already is a societal impact. The exhibition format, as the avant-gardes taught us, cannot be taken out of art, just as it cannot be taken out of art’s politicity. It is essential to a work’s praxis, and therefore part of art’s public and political existence. Any impact art has can therefore occur not by breaking with this context, but by making it the place where art takes place in praxis.
The four artists in this book—James Coleman, Daniel Buren, Tino Sehgal and Jeff Koons—exemplify such work on and within the exhibition ritual. Each of these artists operates upon some of the very fundamental parameters of art in modernity, which constitute art’s intrinsic connection to the socio-economic order of modern societies: the notion of evolutive time, the focus on the individual that recognizes and differentiates him or herself vis-à-vis the material object, and the status of this object as a product.
Given that the museum—in its original conception—is a machine that produces an evolutive and linear conception of time, development and progress, how can an artwork exist in the museum without subordinating itself to this conception of history? How can an artwork within the museum, which already implies a specific notion of time, insert a different temporality? The works of the Irish artist James Coleman provide a highly complex answer to this question. Many of his visual-acoustic installations thematize issues and practices of cultural memory. Yet as his works are composed in a fragmentary and structurally time-based way, remembering plays an essential role in the constitution of the artwork itself. If anything, it is only in the viewer’s perception and memory that the images and the spoken words come together to form a “work.” This, one might say, is true of many multimedia installations today. But as Coleman prohibits any technical recordings of his work, one’s own necessarily fragmentary and subjective memory gains a different, constitutive status. I had to rely on my own memory in writing about the work at the center of the chapter about Coleman, Box (ahhareturnabout) from 1977. His works are marked by a particular interconnectedness of content, structure and impact. They not only thematically deal with history and remembrance, but we will see how they also—in practice—insert a different culture of remembrance, namely the memory of the body and the tradition of oral history, into their conception as artworks.
In contrast to Coleman, who creates a particular space for most of his artworks, a particular space that is visually and acoustically separated from the exhibition context, Daniel Buren chooses the opposite strategy and dissolves the boundary between the artwork and its presentational situation. The exhibition in all its parameters becomes his medium, or even the actual work of art. Buren’s oeuvre takes its starting point in the acknowledgement of the impact that a given situation or context has on the meaning and experience of an artwork. In fact he is the first artist to systematically address and reflect on this impact, which makes him a kind of touchstone for the thesis of this book. His early works from the late 1960s and 1970s indicate the various parameters of an artwork’s context, while his more recent works since the 1980s attempt to challenge and transform this context. In all of Buren’s works, however, the artwork as a self-contained, enclosed entity that catches a viewer’s gaze in order to be appropriated, as a meaningful object, no longer exists. It is not the object but the context and its underlying conventions that become the protagonist of meaning production. And as artistic autonomy can only be achieved by taking all parameters of this context into consideration, Buren operates like a metteur-en-scène on all aspects of the exhibition ritual. This accounts in a particular way for Buren’s newer works, such as his 2002 retrospective Le Musée qui n’existait pas at the Centre Pompidou in Paris, in which Buren challenges the idea of a retrospective by changing the kind of experience a retrospective exhibition conventionally produces. Buren works on the level of the impact and effects in order to eventually establish a new exhibition ritual.
Although among the artists I discuss in this book Buren most extensively reworks the conventions of visual art, the one parameter that Buren leaves untouched is also the most fundamental convention, the materiality of the artwork. And indeed here an intrinsic connection between visual art and the socio-economic order of Western (post)industrial societies manifests itself. If artworks establish a particularly sophisticated relation between the individual and a material object, then it is precisely this attachment of subjectivity to things that lies at the heart of bourgeois industrial (and consumer) culture. It is thus no coincidence that a social order that measures itself against what it produces—a “productivist society,” as Felix Guattari calls it 7—ascribes so much significance to a ritual that is centered on the material object. Tino Sehgal throws particular light on the significance of the artwork’s object-matter because, as a matter of principle, his works refuse to participate in this mode of production. They categorically redefine the material basis of a visual artwork. His works manage to exist and remain without any kind of material objecthood. In doing so, they raise questions like: What does it imply that artworks are things and what does it mean to challenge this premise? To what extent is it possible to claim the status of a visual artwork for a situation that implies no object-matter? Which conditions have to be fulfilled in order to transform “nothing” (in a material sense) into “something” (economically and symbolically) valuable? Sehgal’s works realize themselves in actions and movements, as spoken or sung voices, and materialize temporarily in the human body. And yet, they are—like any visual artwork—present for the entire duration of an exhibition. In this way Sehgal’s works fulfill the status of a visual artwork without materially being one. In a sense they continue the claims of the avant-gardes while turning them upside down. They durably rupture the convention of the material object, and thereby give art a new form of existence. Yet contrary to the avant-gardes, Sehgal claims a position for his works within the very structures that the avant-gardes disavowed, namely the museum and the market. His works are exhibited, sold through galleries and enter museum collections.
If since the 1960s a societal significance of art has been primarily seen in art’s ability to produce some kind of “critical awareness,” it is striking that with regard to the artists discussed here the idea of criticality falls short in accurately describing their positions. Using the works of Jeff Koons, who explicitly rejects the notion of criticality, the final chapter of this book is dedicated to a discussion of the conditions and limits of criticism as a cultural practice. Thereby Koons’s works conceptually condense what I would claim is already central to the works of the other artists discussed in this book: the questions if and how art, aside from being critical, can create and challenge reality. Taken as a whole, How to Do Things with Art can be understood as either a theoretical elaboration of this question, or as a manual for artists—and I hope the book will be both.
Last but not least, some thoughts about the methodology of this book. The title is a play on John Langshaw Austin’s seminal lecture series How to Do Things with Words.8 In the lectures, held at Harvard in 1955, Austin discussed the performative, or reality-producing, capacity of language. Since then the term “performative” has become a key word of art discourse and, given the fashionable appeal of a new term that has gained a certain academic attention within the last decades, it is mostly used in a way that is a complete distortion from its original meaning. Today it is widely believed that “performative” can be understood as “performance-like.” Understood in this false sense it has become a ubiquitous catchword for a broad range of contemporary art phenomena that, in the widest sense, show an affinity to forms of staging, theatricality and mise-en-scène. As a category, however, it remains stubbornly slippery, and for good reasons, because it is based on a complete twist of the word “performative.” Hence I trace the term back to its original usage in the philosophy of Austin and later in the works of Jacques Derrida and Judith Butler, not only because I want to restore the methodological precision that the term seems to have lost with its popularity. This book is also an attempt to make it productive for and within the discourse on visual art.
My line of argument is based on the two theoretical premises from Austin and Butler: first, there is no performative artwork, because there is no non-performative artwork. Austin introduced the notion “performative” into language theory in order to refer to the act-like character of language. In certain cases he argued that something that is said produces effects that reach beyond the realm of language. Under certain conditions signs can produce reality; one can do things with words. The classic examples for what Austin at first thought would constitute a particular category of utterances—the “performatives”—originate in legal discourse: “I now pronounce you man and wife” and “I hereby sentence you to six years imprisonment without parole.” Although Austin had originally planned to isolate certain utterances under the notion of the performative, he soon understood that a clear-cut distinction cannot be made between a constative (descriptive) and a performative way of speaking. If every utterance contains both constative and performative aspects, it is tautological to speak about “performative language.” I believe the same principle applies to artworks. It makes little sense to speak of a performative artwork, because every artwork has a reality-producing dimension.
To ask about the performative in relation to art is not about defining a new class of artworks. Rather it involves outlining a specific level of meaning production that basically exists in every artwork, although it is not always consciously shaped or dealt with—namely its reality-producing dimension. In this sense, a specific methodological orientation goes along with the performative, creating a different perspective on what produces meaning in an artwork. It means to recognize and bring into discourse the productive, reality-producing dimension of, in principle, any work of art. What the notion of the performative brings into perspective is the contingent and difficult to grasp realm of impact and effects that art brings forth both situationally, i.e. in a given spatial and discursive context, and relationally, e.g. in relation to a viewer or a public. Consequently, we can ask: What kind of situation does an artwork produce? How does it situate its viewers? What kinds of values, conventions, ideologies, and meanings are inscribed into this situation? Art’s performative dimension signifies art’s possibilities and limits in generating and changing reality.
Second, the notion of performativity has nothing to do with the art form of performance. In its canonical form, the model of performativity is defined by the philosopher Judith Butler. 9 Taking Austin as a starting point, Butler holds onto the reality-producing character of language, but instead of the individual speaker, who for Austin is the central authority, she stresses the power of social conventions that empower the speaker but also relativize the impact of the individual’s intentions. A performative act, for Butler, produces reality not by virtue of will or intention, but precisely because it derives from conventions that it repeats and actualizes. Every utterance and every individual action needs to be part of a conventional context in order to be understandable and recognizable. It can only create an impact by drawing upon certain (linguistic) conventions. Only pre-existing conventions render a present speaking powerful, enabling it to produce effects that go beyond language, entering the realm of reality. 10 Yet, as no act of repetition is identical, it contains not only reproductive but also differentiating or deviating moments. For Butler it is only within this nexus of convention and innovation, repetition and difference that any action directed towards change can happen.
Thus the theoretical model of performativity and the art form of Performance Art are based on not only different but antagonistic worldviews. While Performance Art, at least in its own constitutive self-understanding, was linked to the individual performer and the singular, autonomous act; performativity (in Butler’s sense) refers to a non-autonomous and non-subjectivist idea of acting. Performance Art operates with an ideology outside of the social systems of the museum and the market, while in Butler’s model of performativity there simply is no such thing as an outside. While Performance Art strived to break with the fundamental conventions of art, for Butler any form of acting is only thinkable within the constitutive and regulative structure of conventions.
Given Butler’s argument, it is clear that the idea of a radical break with conventions must fail and is therefore uninteresting. Singular expressive acts that completely withdraw from discourse are not only irrelevant; they are not even thinkable. The idea of efficacy produced by a rupture from conventions is replaced by the use of conventions—a use that also contains a transforming potential. With this notion of performativity we can, for example, concretize how every artwork, not in spite of but by virtue of its integration in certain conventions, “acts”: how, for example, via the museum it sustains or co-produces a certain notion of history, progress and development. The model of performativity points toward these fundamental levels of meaning production. It puts the conventions of art’s production, presentation and historical persistence into focus, shows how these conventions are co-produced by any artwork—independent of its respective content—and argues that it is precisely this dependency on conventions that opens up the possibility of changing them.
