(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed: Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
To create something worthy of being filmed, either through intent or happenstance, is to create a portion of the real. To do less is to simply exist, but not to be "real." The real is established after the event, in the recording.
Think of video replays watched by the officials in professional sports. The establishment of reality takes place after the event.
A delay between an event and a decision on how to judge it (which is different than according it reality) has been around for centuries, especially in courtrooms. There, the source of truth was physical evidence and, especially, oral narrative—eyewitness accounts, lawyer's presentation of a version of events, and so on. What goes on today in courtrooms is complicated and involves much more than film. But in much of the rest of technologized life, reality is established by digitized film.
Today, many are calling on police officers to wear cameras as part of their uniforms. I am not going to debate the value of this possible requirement. I will point out that an assumption underlies this call: that the camera does not lie, that it situates reality.
But cameras can lie in so many ways.
Camera angles can create deception. Camera angles can be inconclusive. Cameras can fuzz, go blank, misfire. Digitized "film" can be altered using software. Film can be edited. Film is, of necessity, always decontextualized relative to the event it records: it does not show what happened right before and right after the film. The big lie is that cameras record some events that would not happen if not for the camera. In this case, the film is simply about the film, although it often appears to be about something else.
It is not hard to imagine some people hamming it up for a police officer's camera.
We live amid the assumption that film is the portal to the real. A recording is more real than event, representation more real than the present. We are more ourselves in the recording and representation than in the habits and events of our everyday lives.
Some may argue that film is merely additive to everyday life, that it has not taken a primacy. They could point out that we have everyday life and, now, we also have almost ubiquitous filming. There is no reason why such filming should displace what was once accorded reality. It is simply a different one.
What this perspective fails to take into account is that the oral narratives of everyday life that once established "the real" have given way to a technology that is accorded more truth value. Today, the ideal for determining what really happened is to find a film that will "reveal" it. Film is the privileged way to the real.
There is much that is negative with this new world, but it isn't all bad. As I've pointed out in an earlier post, some types of political change are easier in the time of the show.
Monday, December 29, 2014
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
The Show Part 7: Our Lives Were Anticipated, By Us
by Jefferson Hansen
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed: Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
Advertising seems to be the governing metaphor for social media. On Facebook, for instance, people construct a self. Generally, this "self" seems optimistic, confident, and successful. Occasional posts admit difficulties, but, for the most part, posts seem promotional. In this way, we advertise our constructed "self."
A person who posts consistently about difficulties, depression, and so forth may seem quaint and funny. Or simply annoying. What is clear is that they are not playing the game. Their constructed self puts them out of bounds.
Advertising yourself has now become a type of fun.
This gets most acute on dating sites. People sell themselves as a potential good partner.
We not only advertise a representation of "self" that supposedly exists outside the advertisement, we also create a self for the sake of advertisement: participation in social media alters and forms our behavior in the rest of our life. The most obvious example is posing for a picture that will be posted on Facebook. The posing would not take place without the existence of cameras and social media.
More subtly, seeing films and pictures of friends on Facebook may inspire us to try something similar or to one-up them in a competition. For instance, seeing a friend doing a type of ski jump may inspire us to try it ourselves.
Film, Facebook, self-construction, advertising affects our behavior.
What's more, to what extent is our behavior formed by a desire to look attractive, fun, charming on a social media platform? How often do we engage in something, beyond posing, solely for the sake of the camera? Might we throw a party in order to film it, thereby advertising ourselves as with-it people?
For fun, we create and live in advertisements similar to the ones on network television we once decried as annoying.
There has always been performance. But for the most part, this performance was ornamental, a distraction from the duties and needs of making a living and fulfilling basic obligations. Now, the performance defines us, is, in a sense, our duty and obligation. The presentation of a "self" is what makes the economy hum, by creating demand.
Social media allows us to create "grassroots" demand, which professional advertisers can then stoke.
Our lives were anticipated, by us.
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed: Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
Advertising seems to be the governing metaphor for social media. On Facebook, for instance, people construct a self. Generally, this "self" seems optimistic, confident, and successful. Occasional posts admit difficulties, but, for the most part, posts seem promotional. In this way, we advertise our constructed "self."
A person who posts consistently about difficulties, depression, and so forth may seem quaint and funny. Or simply annoying. What is clear is that they are not playing the game. Their constructed self puts them out of bounds.
Advertising yourself has now become a type of fun.
This gets most acute on dating sites. People sell themselves as a potential good partner.
We not only advertise a representation of "self" that supposedly exists outside the advertisement, we also create a self for the sake of advertisement: participation in social media alters and forms our behavior in the rest of our life. The most obvious example is posing for a picture that will be posted on Facebook. The posing would not take place without the existence of cameras and social media.
More subtly, seeing films and pictures of friends on Facebook may inspire us to try something similar or to one-up them in a competition. For instance, seeing a friend doing a type of ski jump may inspire us to try it ourselves.
Film, Facebook, self-construction, advertising affects our behavior.
What's more, to what extent is our behavior formed by a desire to look attractive, fun, charming on a social media platform? How often do we engage in something, beyond posing, solely for the sake of the camera? Might we throw a party in order to film it, thereby advertising ourselves as with-it people?
For fun, we create and live in advertisements similar to the ones on network television we once decried as annoying.
There has always been performance. But for the most part, this performance was ornamental, a distraction from the duties and needs of making a living and fulfilling basic obligations. Now, the performance defines us, is, in a sense, our duty and obligation. The presentation of a "self" is what makes the economy hum, by creating demand.
Social media allows us to create "grassroots" demand, which professional advertisers can then stoke.
Our lives were anticipated, by us.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
The Show Part 6: Social Class
by Jefferson Hansen
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed: Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
The working class, as a whole, seems to me less hooked into the show than people in the middle or upper classes. I am describing a mere tendency, not an absolute.
Working class people tend to be involved in institutions that, while certainly affected by the show, have historical roots that mitigate against its influence. Family structures, church, unions—all sustain values of community that blunt the impact of the show.
Among the more moneyed classes, the show is stronger. Indeed, it may be at the center. Family, church, work are derived from the show. While it's true that our affections, for the most part, are more taken up by the historical institutions, these institutions are, especially for people with some money, formed more and more by the show.
The difference is that the moneyed classes stand, to a degree, outside the show as its direct and indirect producers. The direct ways are obvious: anyone involved in media, politics, mass sports, and mass entertainment. As far as indirect ways, there are plenty.
Take a physicist, for instance. He or she researches according to the needs and rules of the discipline. Put another way, a physicist, obviously, works in the arena of how physics is practiced. However, this practice is more and more formed by the needs of the show. Research must have practical benefit to be funded. Where does this practicality come from? From economic relevancy. Funded research is, more and more, that which has a direct impact on some aspect of the economy—perhaps just the self-interest of a corporation footing part of the bill. The contemporary economy is, more and more, created by the show.
Physics research is used, for example, to build bigger and stronger computers. Which are in turn sold to companies, governments, and eventually people. While the physicist certainly stands at the edge of the show (in his role as a physicist, not a full human being, I hasten to add), he or she helps to produce it and is rewarded on the basis of this production. While he or she may be focused, in intention, on pure research, the wider context does not allow for purity. Eventually, this research must be used by or translated into the language of the show in order to be deemed relevant.
The show is a primary engine of the economy; natural science and engineering are the primary engines of the show. This does not mean that science and engineering come before the show. That is a chicken and egg sort of question.
An engine is not created if its effect is not desired by someone.
Which brings us back to social class. The more monied people in our culture create portions of the show in indirect and direct ways.
Educators train students to, ideally, become such creators.
The show is bigger than everyone.
The show is for everyone; it is the glue of the society. To not engage is to not be hooked in, to not be connected, to be on the outside looking in.
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed: Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
The working class, as a whole, seems to me less hooked into the show than people in the middle or upper classes. I am describing a mere tendency, not an absolute.
Working class people tend to be involved in institutions that, while certainly affected by the show, have historical roots that mitigate against its influence. Family structures, church, unions—all sustain values of community that blunt the impact of the show.
Among the more moneyed classes, the show is stronger. Indeed, it may be at the center. Family, church, work are derived from the show. While it's true that our affections, for the most part, are more taken up by the historical institutions, these institutions are, especially for people with some money, formed more and more by the show.
The difference is that the moneyed classes stand, to a degree, outside the show as its direct and indirect producers. The direct ways are obvious: anyone involved in media, politics, mass sports, and mass entertainment. As far as indirect ways, there are plenty.
Take a physicist, for instance. He or she researches according to the needs and rules of the discipline. Put another way, a physicist, obviously, works in the arena of how physics is practiced. However, this practice is more and more formed by the needs of the show. Research must have practical benefit to be funded. Where does this practicality come from? From economic relevancy. Funded research is, more and more, that which has a direct impact on some aspect of the economy—perhaps just the self-interest of a corporation footing part of the bill. The contemporary economy is, more and more, created by the show.
Physics research is used, for example, to build bigger and stronger computers. Which are in turn sold to companies, governments, and eventually people. While the physicist certainly stands at the edge of the show (in his role as a physicist, not a full human being, I hasten to add), he or she helps to produce it and is rewarded on the basis of this production. While he or she may be focused, in intention, on pure research, the wider context does not allow for purity. Eventually, this research must be used by or translated into the language of the show in order to be deemed relevant.
The show is a primary engine of the economy; natural science and engineering are the primary engines of the show. This does not mean that science and engineering come before the show. That is a chicken and egg sort of question.
An engine is not created if its effect is not desired by someone.
Which brings us back to social class. The more monied people in our culture create portions of the show in indirect and direct ways.
Educators train students to, ideally, become such creators.
The show is bigger than everyone.
The show is for everyone; it is the glue of the society. To not engage is to not be hooked in, to not be connected, to be on the outside looking in.
Monday, December 15, 2014
The Show Part 5: Celebrities vs. The Greek Gods
by Jefferson Hansen
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed: Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
In a previous post I defined a celebrity as a dialectic between masking and unmasking. A celebrity, his or her public relations people, and prying journalists work together to create a tension between the public presentation of the celebrity and his or her "real" self. Since this reality can never be firmly asserted, the celebrity is constantly unmasked and remasked. Sometimes, this occurs because of his or her intent and sometimes because of outside forces—i.e. news stories about them.
Ours is not the only culture to be fascinated by representations of people or entities like people. The Greeks, after all, had their gods. The difference is that yarns were spun about the gods. With celebrity, the story attempts to identify the person. There is a teasing sense that a "real" person lurks out there who can be known. This isn't true, but it is what creates titillation and desire.
The gods only existed in narrative and performance. The whole point of celebrities is that they have a life outside performance.
However, that life is itself part of the show.
In the time of the Greeks, the show with its gods was often part of ritual and religion. Think of Demeter and the festival that celebrated her. In this way, the show constituted belief. This parallels what happens today. The difference is that, with the Greeks, the show was connected to beliefs about a cosmic order. Today, celebrities and the show are wholly human constructions. Indeed, the fact that they are oh so human makes them more titillating. The Greeks sometimes used the show to communicate with another realm of being. The whole point of the contemporary show is that it is very much of the realm we live in—indeed, the part of it worthy of being filmed and then broadcast on a massive scale.
Everything a celebrity does is worthy of broadcasted photography or film. (We can all now become temporary celebrities if we can go viral.)
A celebrity is like a god because he or she is worthy of contemplation, obsession, and consideration. A celebrity is not like a god in that we can emulate them without seeming proud. To try to emulate a god would be the height of arrogance.
The role of a celebrity is to expand the show into the notions of the "real." The irony is that the show has already constituted much of the real. For instance, our clothes are not the result of weaving together raw materials available locally or through trade. They are constituted by desire for a look. Advertising and the fashion industry create this desire, not need or happenstance.
In this way, we cloak ourselves in the show, and then look to celebrities to titillate us with something outside it—even as both we and they are part of it.
You can escape the show. But the only ones who would know are those immediately with you. So it would have no power.
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed: Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
In a previous post I defined a celebrity as a dialectic between masking and unmasking. A celebrity, his or her public relations people, and prying journalists work together to create a tension between the public presentation of the celebrity and his or her "real" self. Since this reality can never be firmly asserted, the celebrity is constantly unmasked and remasked. Sometimes, this occurs because of his or her intent and sometimes because of outside forces—i.e. news stories about them.
Ours is not the only culture to be fascinated by representations of people or entities like people. The Greeks, after all, had their gods. The difference is that yarns were spun about the gods. With celebrity, the story attempts to identify the person. There is a teasing sense that a "real" person lurks out there who can be known. This isn't true, but it is what creates titillation and desire.
The gods only existed in narrative and performance. The whole point of celebrities is that they have a life outside performance.
However, that life is itself part of the show.
In the time of the Greeks, the show with its gods was often part of ritual and religion. Think of Demeter and the festival that celebrated her. In this way, the show constituted belief. This parallels what happens today. The difference is that, with the Greeks, the show was connected to beliefs about a cosmic order. Today, celebrities and the show are wholly human constructions. Indeed, the fact that they are oh so human makes them more titillating. The Greeks sometimes used the show to communicate with another realm of being. The whole point of the contemporary show is that it is very much of the realm we live in—indeed, the part of it worthy of being filmed and then broadcast on a massive scale.
Everything a celebrity does is worthy of broadcasted photography or film. (We can all now become temporary celebrities if we can go viral.)
A celebrity is like a god because he or she is worthy of contemplation, obsession, and consideration. A celebrity is not like a god in that we can emulate them without seeming proud. To try to emulate a god would be the height of arrogance.
The role of a celebrity is to expand the show into the notions of the "real." The irony is that the show has already constituted much of the real. For instance, our clothes are not the result of weaving together raw materials available locally or through trade. They are constituted by desire for a look. Advertising and the fashion industry create this desire, not need or happenstance.
In this way, we cloak ourselves in the show, and then look to celebrities to titillate us with something outside it—even as both we and they are part of it.
You can escape the show. But the only ones who would know are those immediately with you. So it would have no power.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
The Show Part 4: The Celebrity Dialectic
by Jefferson Hansen
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed. Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
Celebrities are the "real" selves of performers in the show. Principle arenas of performance include sports, acting, politics, music, and news and talk show hosts.
I use quotations around the word "real" because the thrill of celebrity hinges on the mystery surrounding the construction of this "real." News and talk shows often claim to unmask a celebrity, to show what he or she is really like. "Next, meet Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin up close and personal. Find out what he is really like."
Mystery is created in the tension between this claimed unmasking and the nagging sense that an interview, confession, or presentation is a) controlled by Public Relations staff and b) just another performance. What attracts us to celebrities is the peekaboo, the here-I-am, there-I-go sense. Indeed, "celebrity" is a dance of masking and unmasking—and the extreme unmasking is to show a celebrity is "really" a deviant or criminal. Even here, the dance does not end. We always must question if this unmasking is the final one, if there is "more to the story."
The construction of celebrities makes them seem to have fuller, more complete lives than the rest of us. We desire what they supposedly have. This is why they so often appear in advertisements: they are desire-creating machines.
We sometimes desire to see the bubble popped, to see exposure.
This dialectic between masking (the performance of the "real") and unmasking (information that complicates or mitigates against this performance) is a celebrity. Part of the PR is to let details come out that run counter to or at least complicate the performance of the real. This keeps the celebrity in the news cycle. When the mystery runs dry, when the desire to "know" them ends, they become yesterday's news, an old celebrity. This very "oldness" can be used to try to resuscitate a celebrity through nostalgia. "Ever wonder what became of Celebrity A whose star shown so bright in the 80s? We have him with us tonight so that you can find out for yourself."
Some disclosures do not come from PR. They come from digging journalists.
Journalists, too, become celebrities. We get to see what they are "really" like when they perform as "themselves" on talk shows, for instance.
With the advent of cheap cameras and personal computers, we can all become celebrities. The simple question, "Who is that person in the viral video?" begins the celebrity dialectic. Such people may appear on talk shows. To appear on such a show is, inevitably, to be involved in the celebrity dialectic.
There are elements of the culture where this dialectic is much less pronounced. Again, these appear at the edge of the show. Scholars may be known in their field, but the obsessive need to get at the constructed "real" self, and to complicate it, usually does not exist. People might be curious about a star scholar and even model themselves after him or her, but rarely does it take the form of wanting to know the mysteries of the construction of their "real" self.
Some artists also live outside celebrity. At a jazz show, for instance, musicians often hang out with audience members between sets. They are usually given space and not treated with the sort of emotional outbursts often exhibited around true celebrities. As with scholars, people may be curious about what they are like. But it rarely takes the form of the peekaboo, back and forth dialectic of the celebrity.
We want to be celebrities. We envy them for having what we want. We want to at least see them squirm a little, and sometimes even hurt.
Up next: a comparison between the function of celebrities in contemporary culture and the Greek gods.
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed. Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
Celebrities are the "real" selves of performers in the show. Principle arenas of performance include sports, acting, politics, music, and news and talk show hosts.
I use quotations around the word "real" because the thrill of celebrity hinges on the mystery surrounding the construction of this "real." News and talk shows often claim to unmask a celebrity, to show what he or she is really like. "Next, meet Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin up close and personal. Find out what he is really like."
Mystery is created in the tension between this claimed unmasking and the nagging sense that an interview, confession, or presentation is a) controlled by Public Relations staff and b) just another performance. What attracts us to celebrities is the peekaboo, the here-I-am, there-I-go sense. Indeed, "celebrity" is a dance of masking and unmasking—and the extreme unmasking is to show a celebrity is "really" a deviant or criminal. Even here, the dance does not end. We always must question if this unmasking is the final one, if there is "more to the story."
The construction of celebrities makes them seem to have fuller, more complete lives than the rest of us. We desire what they supposedly have. This is why they so often appear in advertisements: they are desire-creating machines.
We sometimes desire to see the bubble popped, to see exposure.
This dialectic between masking (the performance of the "real") and unmasking (information that complicates or mitigates against this performance) is a celebrity. Part of the PR is to let details come out that run counter to or at least complicate the performance of the real. This keeps the celebrity in the news cycle. When the mystery runs dry, when the desire to "know" them ends, they become yesterday's news, an old celebrity. This very "oldness" can be used to try to resuscitate a celebrity through nostalgia. "Ever wonder what became of Celebrity A whose star shown so bright in the 80s? We have him with us tonight so that you can find out for yourself."
Some disclosures do not come from PR. They come from digging journalists.
Journalists, too, become celebrities. We get to see what they are "really" like when they perform as "themselves" on talk shows, for instance.
With the advent of cheap cameras and personal computers, we can all become celebrities. The simple question, "Who is that person in the viral video?" begins the celebrity dialectic. Such people may appear on talk shows. To appear on such a show is, inevitably, to be involved in the celebrity dialectic.
There are elements of the culture where this dialectic is much less pronounced. Again, these appear at the edge of the show. Scholars may be known in their field, but the obsessive need to get at the constructed "real" self, and to complicate it, usually does not exist. People might be curious about a star scholar and even model themselves after him or her, but rarely does it take the form of wanting to know the mysteries of the construction of their "real" self.
Some artists also live outside celebrity. At a jazz show, for instance, musicians often hang out with audience members between sets. They are usually given space and not treated with the sort of emotional outbursts often exhibited around true celebrities. As with scholars, people may be curious about what they are like. But it rarely takes the form of the peekaboo, back and forth dialectic of the celebrity.
We want to be celebrities. We envy them for having what we want. We want to at least see them squirm a little, and sometimes even hurt.
Up next: a comparison between the function of celebrities in contemporary culture and the Greek gods.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
The Show Part 3: Politics
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed. Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
As the show has permeated more and more of contemporary society, political change has become easier. As people become less and less moored to religious, family, and civic institutions their ideas, political and otherwise, become more malleable. In the area of civil rights, this is a good thing.
Perhaps the greatest example of the use of the show to create political change is the nonviolent civil disobedience of the Civil Rights Movement. Martin Luther King, Jr. expertly saw to it that the violent excesses of Southern authorities would be televised to the whole nation—and the world. Outrage and embarrassment helped to end legalized segregation. Part of King's genius was to see how televised news could be used to create social change. The Civil Rights bill was passed only 99 years after the end of the Civil War. Things moved quickly.
The gay rights movement happened even more quickly. Again, the show was a major factor. Celebrities either coming out or coming out for gay rights made a major difference. The TV show "Ellen" had an important impact. It is slowly becoming unacceptable to utter homophobic comments in polite company. While the show was probably not as big a factor as it was in the Civil Rights movement (perhaps friends, family, and colleagues coming out was more important), the very context of the show, which loosens traditional biases and assumptions, makes such quick change possible.
The show is a tool. It can be used for positive social change. And it can be used for other, less positive, things as well.
Social issues seem to be the place where the show makes the biggest impact. As far as economic issues go, it makes barely a ripple. Perhaps this is because the show, to a large degree, creates the economy. Demand results from the show: advertising, celebrity, and so on. There is very little latent demand left in the economy. Even food has become part of the show, as advertisers and health advocates fight it out over creating or mitigating the demand for junk food.
In other words, the show does not critique that which it creates in the first place. The critique of the economy, while it has elements of the show in it, takes place on the fringes—in scholarly circles, in radical periodicals, among political groups. When these groups are taken up into the show—such as the Seattle World Trade Organization protests in 1999—their objections are not even clear to the general population. The WTO protesters appeared to be a bunch of hooligans lacking ideology. The same cannot be said for the Civil Rights or Gay Rights protesters. The show can make their issues clear; the show can engage social issues.
The show cannot engage economic issues well because it is so bound up with the economy that critique necessitates standing at the edge, outside of the bright lights. But you cannot both be in the show and stand at its edge. In other words, a critique of the economy necessitates a critique of the show. However, such a critique can only take place from a position outside or at the edge of the show. The kicker is that being outside the show is, to a large extent, to be irrelevant.
The inability to critique the economy results from no intent on the part of the show. Indeed, the show has no intent whatsoever. It just devours. If it could, it would colonize the critique of the economy just as it colonizes so much else. But it can't. This means that mounting any sort of political protest against the economy in the time of the show is quite difficult.
Before the show, political speeches and debate were entertainment. People turned out at the courthouse steps to hear Lincoln debate Douglass. In the 19th century, listening to hours long speeches was sometimes Saturday's pastime. But these did not take place in the context of the show. They were leisure time activities, more or less segregated from the rest of the economy and life. Today, the show of politics invades all aspects of life. Political commercials are ubiquitous. Grandstanding has become shrill. The distinction between politicking and governing has ceased to exist. The passing of laws is becoming a rhetorical act in the political race. While this has always been true to an extent, it is more true now. The TV cameras are always on. The politicians are always playing. There is no place to hide where the work of governing can take place.
In the past, there was no need to hide. Less of life was filmed. Playing for the camera happened only in specific places.
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed. Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
As the show has permeated more and more of contemporary society, political change has become easier. As people become less and less moored to religious, family, and civic institutions their ideas, political and otherwise, become more malleable. In the area of civil rights, this is a good thing.
Perhaps the greatest example of the use of the show to create political change is the nonviolent civil disobedience of the Civil Rights Movement. Martin Luther King, Jr. expertly saw to it that the violent excesses of Southern authorities would be televised to the whole nation—and the world. Outrage and embarrassment helped to end legalized segregation. Part of King's genius was to see how televised news could be used to create social change. The Civil Rights bill was passed only 99 years after the end of the Civil War. Things moved quickly.
The gay rights movement happened even more quickly. Again, the show was a major factor. Celebrities either coming out or coming out for gay rights made a major difference. The TV show "Ellen" had an important impact. It is slowly becoming unacceptable to utter homophobic comments in polite company. While the show was probably not as big a factor as it was in the Civil Rights movement (perhaps friends, family, and colleagues coming out was more important), the very context of the show, which loosens traditional biases and assumptions, makes such quick change possible.
The show is a tool. It can be used for positive social change. And it can be used for other, less positive, things as well.
Social issues seem to be the place where the show makes the biggest impact. As far as economic issues go, it makes barely a ripple. Perhaps this is because the show, to a large degree, creates the economy. Demand results from the show: advertising, celebrity, and so on. There is very little latent demand left in the economy. Even food has become part of the show, as advertisers and health advocates fight it out over creating or mitigating the demand for junk food.
In other words, the show does not critique that which it creates in the first place. The critique of the economy, while it has elements of the show in it, takes place on the fringes—in scholarly circles, in radical periodicals, among political groups. When these groups are taken up into the show—such as the Seattle World Trade Organization protests in 1999—their objections are not even clear to the general population. The WTO protesters appeared to be a bunch of hooligans lacking ideology. The same cannot be said for the Civil Rights or Gay Rights protesters. The show can make their issues clear; the show can engage social issues.
The show cannot engage economic issues well because it is so bound up with the economy that critique necessitates standing at the edge, outside of the bright lights. But you cannot both be in the show and stand at its edge. In other words, a critique of the economy necessitates a critique of the show. However, such a critique can only take place from a position outside or at the edge of the show. The kicker is that being outside the show is, to a large extent, to be irrelevant.
The inability to critique the economy results from no intent on the part of the show. Indeed, the show has no intent whatsoever. It just devours. If it could, it would colonize the critique of the economy just as it colonizes so much else. But it can't. This means that mounting any sort of political protest against the economy in the time of the show is quite difficult.
Before the show, political speeches and debate were entertainment. People turned out at the courthouse steps to hear Lincoln debate Douglass. In the 19th century, listening to hours long speeches was sometimes Saturday's pastime. But these did not take place in the context of the show. They were leisure time activities, more or less segregated from the rest of the economy and life. Today, the show of politics invades all aspects of life. Political commercials are ubiquitous. Grandstanding has become shrill. The distinction between politicking and governing has ceased to exist. The passing of laws is becoming a rhetorical act in the political race. While this has always been true to an extent, it is more true now. The TV cameras are always on. The politicians are always playing. There is no place to hide where the work of governing can take place.
In the past, there was no need to hide. Less of life was filmed. Playing for the camera happened only in specific places.
Monday, November 24, 2014
The Show Part Two
by Jefferson Hansen
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed. Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
The show is not everywhere. But it permeates everywhere and everything, with the possible exception of something like Amish culture.
Think of Christian hardcore punk rock.
Sometimes we model our behavior on the show: we may behave in a reproduction of the publicized traits of our favorite celebrities and sports heroes. This is highly contextualized. We can most behave like the show when we are relaxed and in our down time, with friends. This is when we can show our "true" self. To behave this way at work would, most likely, invite ridicule if not worse.
Our true selves have been borrowed from the show. Our identities, at their most intimate, hinge on what parts of the show we attend to.
Demasking is one of its favorite moves: to show pictures or films that raise questions about someone's created identity. Embarrassment is sometimes the essence of a show.
There is almost no silence anymore. Music, much of it computer-generated, is everywhere, and is sometimes layered. For instance, a gym may have a soundtrack playing. Many of those working out may have earbuds in. They may be tuned to a talk show, to music radio, to downloaded music tracks.
The music in your earbuds is not necessarily more pressing than the needs of the person next to you. If he or she keeled over in pain or tapped you on the shoulder to get your attention, you would prioritize. Most likely, however, this is only an intermission from the show. You would replace your earbuds and get back to exercising as soon as possible.
Face-to-face contact is merely the raw material of the show.
"The show" is the underlying assumptions of this culture. "A show" is a particular manifestation. Sometimes there is an audience of one: imagine someone creating personalized playlists and listening to them on earbuds.
There is a difference between modeling yourself after a hero and reproducing part of a show as an assertion of identity. The former implies some thought and analysis. The latter is visceral.
The show cannot take up everything. But, more and more, it is what we attend to. And then shows are made of the quaint aspects of life seemingly outside of the show. The show goes even there. It colonizes experience.
Right now, in 2014, there is a fetish for the quaint, the small time, the singular. This may have begun as a frustration with the standardization of the show in its earlier manifestations. (Think of representations of Levittown.) However, now it is one of the favorite topics of the show. You can only make a few shows on the Model T. You can make myriad shows about custom-made cars.
The show, now, thrives on multiplicity.
While there were antecedents in print culture, the show began in a noticeable way with the advent of radio.
The show and electricity go hand in hand.
Most babies probably see or hear a tv show before meeting grandpa, grandma, aunts or uncles.
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed. Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
The show is not everywhere. But it permeates everywhere and everything, with the possible exception of something like Amish culture.
Think of Christian hardcore punk rock.
Sometimes we model our behavior on the show: we may behave in a reproduction of the publicized traits of our favorite celebrities and sports heroes. This is highly contextualized. We can most behave like the show when we are relaxed and in our down time, with friends. This is when we can show our "true" self. To behave this way at work would, most likely, invite ridicule if not worse.
Our true selves have been borrowed from the show. Our identities, at their most intimate, hinge on what parts of the show we attend to.
Demasking is one of its favorite moves: to show pictures or films that raise questions about someone's created identity. Embarrassment is sometimes the essence of a show.
There is almost no silence anymore. Music, much of it computer-generated, is everywhere, and is sometimes layered. For instance, a gym may have a soundtrack playing. Many of those working out may have earbuds in. They may be tuned to a talk show, to music radio, to downloaded music tracks.
The music in your earbuds is not necessarily more pressing than the needs of the person next to you. If he or she keeled over in pain or tapped you on the shoulder to get your attention, you would prioritize. Most likely, however, this is only an intermission from the show. You would replace your earbuds and get back to exercising as soon as possible.
Face-to-face contact is merely the raw material of the show.
"The show" is the underlying assumptions of this culture. "A show" is a particular manifestation. Sometimes there is an audience of one: imagine someone creating personalized playlists and listening to them on earbuds.
There is a difference between modeling yourself after a hero and reproducing part of a show as an assertion of identity. The former implies some thought and analysis. The latter is visceral.
The show cannot take up everything. But, more and more, it is what we attend to. And then shows are made of the quaint aspects of life seemingly outside of the show. The show goes even there. It colonizes experience.
Right now, in 2014, there is a fetish for the quaint, the small time, the singular. This may have begun as a frustration with the standardization of the show in its earlier manifestations. (Think of representations of Levittown.) However, now it is one of the favorite topics of the show. You can only make a few shows on the Model T. You can make myriad shows about custom-made cars.
The show, now, thrives on multiplicity.
While there were antecedents in print culture, the show began in a noticeable way with the advent of radio.
The show and electricity go hand in hand.
Most babies probably see or hear a tv show before meeting grandpa, grandma, aunts or uncles.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
The Show Part One
by Jefferson Hansen
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed. Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
(This is a series of posts reflecting on the place of "the show" in contemporary society and culture.)
We can ask whether or not a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody there to hear it. But there is now a more relevant question: Does anything happen, in a meaningful way, if it is not filmed or photographed? Digitalized "film" is slowly being accorded more reality than that which is filmed. Something not filmed is becoming irrelevant and quaint. More and more, we live in the show, as spectators and participants.
It has been said that entertainment—the show—reflects and
reproduces the economic and social order. In other words, the means of
production reproduce themselves during leisure time.
Today, it would seem that the opposite is often the case:
the show creates the economy.
The most obvious example is TV commercials. Actors create
small dramas, arising from a script that attempts to get people to buy things.
The show creates consumer desire, a central aspect of the economy.
Take pharmaceutical advertisements. They usually begin by
presenting the image of a suffering person who cannot engage in life’s most
fulfilling activities. The drug is introduced and, presto, the person now can
live life to the fullest. This is signified by something like a dance or a walk
on the beach. The narrative presents the drug as the portal to paradise.
That nobody lives in paradise is only hinted at by the
hurriedly uttered list of potential side effects.
The goal of this show is to remind us of our miseries and to
make us feel bad. Then it offers the way out of the misery. This is often the
goal of advertising: to make us feel bad so that we buy a product to feel
better.
Purchasing things is the way to paradise. This claim is, of
course, absurd. But if it is repeated time and again, day in and day out, from
ubiquitous electronic devices, can anyone resist?
We are plugged into the show. And we have all become its
actors.
The lines between entertainment, information, and
advertising have become blurred. News correspondents, who used to report on
politics and important events, have become actors in the show, wearing
sparkling costumes to report on glitzy happenings or putting a cheese hat on
their head, during a morning news show, to advertise the Packer game appearing
on that network that evening. “Hard” news no longer has its cache. We have come
to accept that the show is the real story, and our news people must engage. To
not engage in the show is to be not only irrelevant, but a veritable nonentity.
More and more, we become the show. An activity, for some, does not seem complete until photos and movies from it are posted on social media and commented on. How often do we engage in an activity simply because it will be filmed? Do we sometimes film that which exists only for the film in the first place? The medium is message, but also a ground of reality.
(This series will continue.)
Monday, November 17, 2014
Three Visual Poems by Tom Cassidy
 |
| and 23 professonal |
 |
| Collection |
 |
| STEW |
_______________________
Tom Cassidy will be the featured artist in AlteredScale.com issue 6. AlteredScale.com is the web journal that this blog accompanies.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Oolong Tea
by Ted King
Sleeveless and Braless,
the underside of her
left breast revealed the site
of the incision.
Her forever reminder of
that particular war.
With two soft fingers
I touched the scar.
The scar which, to me,
only added to her beauty.
She did not move,
save to close her eyes.
Her hand curled into a fist
as she inhaled a memory
and then relaxed as she
exhaled forgiveness.
Homage paid,
I withdrew my touch.
She opened her eyes.
Smiling, she said
“I think I'll make a cup
of Oolong Tea.
Would you like some?”
______________________
Ted King is a widely published Jazz Poet and Performer.
______________________
Ted King is a widely published Jazz Poet and Performer.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Mary Kasimor's THE LANDFILL DANCERS (BlazeVox)
by
Jefferson Hansen
In
the poem “found on page 78” Kasimor explicitly mentions story:
found on page 78
the story has
a toothache when
they looked at the corners
finding bruises
blue
escapes
a name wandering
skeleton
covered with skin
The story is “found” on a
seemingly random page in a magazine or book, probably in regard to a
photograph. This is one of the few places where Kasimor addresses what she’s up
to, and even here it is elliptical. For her, stories happen everywhere, are
tied together with loose, but exact, strings in the complexity of experience.
We don’t know precisely what is going on; bits of insight and guess are as far
as we can go. These poems hover in the moments before provisional discernment,
before a pattern can be identified or an insight had. They hover in ambiguity,
but not ambivalence. They are sure footed, well crafted, even exacting. They
have a sheen. So Kasimor writes of the unfinished, the raw, the prior to in,
paradoxically, careful and fully formed language.
In
this she is similar to William Carlos Williams, with one crucial difference. In
a poem such as “The Red Wheelbarrow” Williams gives us both an abstract
statement—“so much depends/upon”—and a patterned series of images—wheelbarrow,
rain water, chickens—that form and comment on a definite scene. While the implications of the poem are vast,
we have a clear sense of where we are, and we have directions for abstracting
an interpretation of it.
Kasimor
inhabits a place in consciousness at a more primal level than that in “The Red
Wheelbarrow.” (I am making a simple distinction, not a claim for quality or
value.) She implies in “found on page 78” that so much happens on page 78
without explicitly telling us. She lets her attentions show what matters to
her, but she rarely, if ever, offers something like a unifying abstraction. It
is very difficult to tell what this or any of her poems is about. Indeed, they seem to be
about their own visual enactment, the etching of moments into form on the page.
It is as if stories and meanings inhabit all places, as if we are almost
overwhelmed by what to make of it, that we can only make something of the
small, the unfinished, the pregnant. All
we have are small moments, and the making of these particulars into an
abstraction is, to a degree, a violence to their multiplicity and
particularity. Moments, and the inherent drama within them, do not disclose
their secrets, but only flints and specks, the sense that something profound
and meaningful is at stake, but exactly what is beyond our ability to
comprehend.
The
buried narratives occur because to Williams’ “so much depends/upon” Kasimor
responds with, “Oh, yes, and so much also depends upon this and this and that
and that, too.” Experience is replete with meaning, story, and drama, and
Kasimor celebrates this complexity in poetry that moves and breathes into and
with the layers and multiples and ambiguities of language:
another Pattern
rules the
other
and secret
Escapes The
mind
making itself
up But the mess
lost a chicken (59)
up But the mess
lost a chicken (59)
Here, the relationship between the
particular—“a chicken”—and the abstract—“Pattern,” “mind”—is not even hinted
at. Kasimor places the abstract and concrete on the same level. They are both,
after all, moments of attention, places where the mind perches for a time,
before moving on.
Lorine
Niedecker and Barbara Guest are important poets for Kasimor. She says so in an
afterword to her 2008 collection silk
string arias (BlazeVox). Both these poets make a similar move on Williams
as does Kasimor. All three poets write from a more primal place than does
Williams in “The Red Wheelbarrow.” But Kasimor moves even further back than
either Guest or Niedecker, into a terrain that risks falling into a mere list
of words and particulars. (See “organic fairy tale” on page 66.) But I’m
willing to go with her, up to the very point of incomprehensibility, because
of the formal process she creates. Indeed, it is visual form that lends
coherence to this poetry. In conversation, Kasimor emphasized to me that her
poems are not scores for reading, but visual traces that mark the movement of a
mind through a field of meanings.
Especially
innovative is Kasimor’s use of spacing and capitalization. Some poems, such as
the one quoted above, use intralineal spaces to separate words—and sometimes
even letters. She believes that such spacing, on a visual level, creates
alternate meanings, i.e. two words placed next to each other mean differently
than the same two words placed apart. She does similar things with
capitalization:
SOIL’S
blood in the wheat & corn
Lying
in uneven RowS
dangles A reproduction painted LARGE (15)
dangles A reproduction painted LARGE (15)
The capital letters are not
intended to encourage sonic emphasis. Rather, they mark the materiality of
language, a place where the reader is forced to slow down, to ponder, to make
something of what is made on the page. While Kasimor hardly adheres to the
notion that every reader is free to make whatever she wants of her poetry, she
clearly uses language’s materiality to invite openings and movement for readers
that can be highly idiosyncratic. At her most extreme, the visual experiments approach
the incomprehensible:
a
m ongsh ado w liv e sand cr acke dfe e tli ke
mu
don t hi stilt in gear tho f ho l ywa tersha (46)
In the three poems like this, in
which Kasimor leaves the buried narratives behind in favor of sheer language
play, Kasimor puts spaces between the letters of single words and often
collapses the space between words. The quotation above, spaced conventionally,
reads “among shadow lives and cracked feet like mud on this tilt in gear th of
holy water shapes.” Kasimor makes us work for this, and once we get there she
offers no easy conclusion. Indeed, these poems are about the experience of
working through the reordering of language.
And
this gets at the heart of Kasimor’s process.
This is a poetry of profound and celebratory skepticism. If language
can’t add up to legitimate insight and abstraction, what can it do? It can hint
and veer, touch on and then glance away, build and then diminish. We live amid
meanings, flecks and flints of insight, and possibility. And we can be witty.
For instance, “found on page 78” celebrates our silliness, the way we are such
small beings reaching for grandiosity, for identifying the “so much” that
“depends.” And it sees the humor in how a photograph, most likely, on a
nondescript page can send us reeling into wonder, a wonder that is not singular
but multiple, full of starts and stops, perchings and flights, ending where it
begins but so much richer for the process, the means of getting it down. Her
faith, it seems to me, is not in the finding out, but in the unfurling care of
process, of celebrating the wit and accidents that are the warp and woof of
human life.
The
book ends “pigeons relax/when nothing is personal” (67). This is neither
personification nor surrealism, though it contains a bit of both. Rather, it is
constructivism, the making of something new amid the meanings we live among. It
is akin to Wallace Stevens’ belief in the power of imagination. The difference
is that Kasimor never directly addresses an entity as vast as imagination. I
don’t think it’s in her to do so. She is too focused on the unacknowledged
world to legislate it into anything other than its many, many dramas. It is
appropriate that she end here, in a witty line that celebrates the way we make
in language and in life. Our constructs are tentative, emerging, dissolving—and
that is okay.
__________________________
Kasimor will be reading from this book on Thursday, November 6 in Minneapolis. See this Facebook page for more information.