‘Ready Contents in the New Language of Extreme Joints and Partial Correspondence’:Michael Scharf reviews
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I On Site Preliminaries |
But now follow the path of photography further. What do you see? It becomes ever more nuancé, ever more modern, and the result is that it can no longer depict a tenement block or a refuse heap without transfiguring it. It goes without saying that photography is unable to say anything about a power station or a cable factory other than this: what a beautiful world! — Walter Benjamin, ‘The Author as Producer’
— April 30, 1968 Under shallow pinkish water is a network of mud cracks supporting the jig-saw puzzle that composes the salt flats. As I looked at the site, it reverberated out to the horizons only to suggest an immobile cyclone while flickering light made the entire landscape appear to quake. A dormant earthquake spread into the fluttering stillness, in a spinning sensation without movement. This site was a rotary that enclosed itself in an immense roundness. From that gyrating space emerged the possibility of the Spiral Jetty. No ideas, no concepts, no systems, no structures, no abstractions could hold themselves together in the actuality of that evidence. — Robert Smithson, ‘The Spiral Jetty’ |
It’s a long way from ‘no ideas but in things’ to ‘no ideas,’ but maybe less so for Smithson, a New Jersey native and youth patient of Dr. Williams. But despite Smithson’s claim of the untenability of constructs on the salt flats, his description of first coming upon the section of The Great Salt Lake that would serve as host for the Spiral Jetty is actually driven by an idea: that of Site. The sound of the helicopter motor became a primal groan echoing into tenuous aerial views. Was I but a shadow in a plastic bubble hovering in a place outside mind and body? Et in Utah ego. I was slipping out of myself again, dissolving into a unicellular beginning, trying to locate the nucleus at the end of the spiral. All that blood stirring makes one aware of protoplasmic solutions, the essential matter between the formed and the unformed, masses of cells consisting largely of water, proteins, lipoids, carbohydrates, and inorganic salts. Each drop that splashed onto the Spiral Jetty coagulated into a crystal. Undulating waters spread millions upon millions of crystals over the basalt. (‘The Spiral Jetty’)
The artist can locate the nucleus from any one of innumerable, and mappable, possible perspectives — from cells to (as he later puts it) ‘James Joyce’s ear channel’ to the salt flats. Smithson: ‘when one refuses to release scale from size, one is left with an object or language that appears to be certain’ — but isn’t. Designating Site selects among scales, but only provisionally. Site is a dialectical concept, and art is its binaristic collaborator. The range of convergence between Site and Nonsite consists of a course of hazards, a double path made up of signs, photographs, and maps that belong to both sides of the dialectic at once. Both sides are present and absent at the same time. The land or the ground from the site is placed in the art (Nonsite) rather than the art placed on the ground. The Nonsite is a container within another container — the room. The plot or yard outside is yet another container. Two-dimensional and three dimensional things trade places with each other in the range of convergence....A point on map expands to the size of a land mass. A land mass contracts to a point. Is the Site the reflection of the Nonsite (mirror), or is it the other way around? The rules of this network of signs are discovered as you go along uncertain trails both mental and physical.
Lytle Shaw’s Cable Factory 20 is a double path made up of signs, photographs, and maps that belong to both sides of the dialectic at once, and trade places with each other in a scalar range of convergence. Shaw takes Smithson’s life and work to be nodes in a larger network of Site, one that takes in the built and unbuilt environment of the San Francisco Bay Area, the microhistory of the art and poetry of the last 200 years, Shaw’s own life and work, corporate capital’s 20th century incarnations (at least 20 of them), and the Enlightenment project that, to one degree or another, drove (and drives) it all on. What’s lacking in this picture —
Cable Factory 20’s project is the articulation of this language, dimly apprehended in the walker’s surroundings, jammed together between the living pillars of built environment, ideation, violence, and affect — the current forest of symbols. It’s a language that has basic parameters, sets of allowances, and handlings of sentiments. |
II Likeness Dominates
One of Cable Factory 20’s main strategies for articulating a language of ‘extreme joints and partial correspondence’ is maximizing ambiguity among phrasal units, particularly the simple declarative. 1. Everyone likes the experience of lots of channels and clear reception.
Competing contexts — the technology of cable, its use in the book, the manner in which the book’s speaker is comported towards that history and its use — all make claims on attention, claims that are ultimately irreconcilable and undecideable, but reflect one another to some degree: partial correspondence. |
1. The similarity of my physical appearance with Smithson’s strikes me most of all. 2. Our physical affinity dominates this work as a whole. 3. Affinity of artistic vision strikes me most of all. 4. I really like Smithson. 5. Its similarities to Smithson’s book dominate mine. 6. The idea of likeness dominates my thinking, and this book. 7. There is something inherent in the relation of likeness that privileges it.
8. Likeness dominates, but doesn’t overcome, unlikeness. |
Shaw’s use of this mode, and that two word sentence in particular, points back to Smithson’s own complicated negotiations of likeness, as well as to previous poetic appropriations of them. |
III What a Wonderful World
Before the age of digital reproduction, referential language was the ultimate medium the Site/Non-site distinction, since it was able, and is able (at varying degrees of success), to remove things from their situations, and to make them re-appear within an infinite number of new contexts — infinite in the grammatical sense of an infinite set of sentences producible by a finite set of grammatical rules. The realm [of Smithson’s writing] is physical space; its constructive dimension is the illusion of time. The ironies of representation are located on the temporal axis, which is partial, entropic, and negative, while the affirmations of Smithson’s literary method are in space, which is not ironic. If time is ultimately a state of mind for Smithson, space is the redeemed imagination, where the ironies of the mind have been made physically real. Space implies a future that is not ironic.
By the late 1990s, when Shaw was working on the book, language’s ability to call the signified into being was being eclipsed by visually recombinative technologies like Photoshop. And space’s implication of a future that is not ironic had become ironic. A garage opens to slanted paving.
These lines are set within an enlarged map of the Bay Area, with an icon of what looks like a prison watchtower. The straight face with which the ‘lake/ evaporate/ bake/ gates/ mistake’ ‘unglue/ you’ and ‘Note/ boats’ rhymes are delivered may make their chimings into a kind of low comedy. Boring, if seen as a discrete step in the development of an entire site, has an esthetic value. It is an invisible hole. It could be defined by Carl Andre’s motto — ‘A thing is a hole in a thing that is not.’
Smithson’s use of ‘boring’ as means for entering a space — undecidable between physically hollowing out or being hollowed out mentally — echoes Warholian boredom as formulated in Popism: ‘The more you look at the exact same thing, the more the meaning goes away, and the better and emptier you feel.’ |
IV Rotation May Be Termed Narration
The visual-verbal riffs extend to smaller-scaled allusions. Page 23 features a border of xerographically magnified neo-crosshatchings that suggest hills, paths and tree cover. At the same time, they recall, and apparently use the same technique of magnification as, the cover of Clark Coolidge’s book Smithsonian Depositions (1980), which, like Cable Factory 20, riffs on Smithson’s essay ‘The Spiral Jetty,’ its style and contents: Can you see me? I’m afoot below tilting. The sun seizes, lasting on a flat of pink colloidals. And basalt over limestone the sound circles the site. Worms rotate in a box of Pacific radio tubes. We’ve put the cap back on it though the heats will still arise. Sag to the center of the bones, so this rotation may be termed narration.
While there is stylistic similarity between Coolidge’s laconic Smithsonian riffing and Shaw’s sentences, Cable Factory draws attention to it using visual, not verbal, cues, a rotation that may be termed narration. Recruits head out in that direction
Vertical, first-letter-of-the-line acrostics produce ROCKS and WATER — two of the four elements that Smithson saw from 20 different perspectives within the Spiral Jetty: MUD, SALT CRYSTALS, ROCKS, WATER. Cable Factory 20’s twenty sections correspond to the twenty directions (North; North by east; Northeast by north; etc.) Smithson turned within the Jetty. |
V Nouning v. Personism
While working from twenty different perspectives fosters a peripatetic quality, there aren’t a lot of people in Cable Factory 20, so it’s difficult to speak of the book’s social imagination in the way one might of that of another frequent stroller, Frank O’Hara. (The people, including O’Hara, are actually in The Lobe.) Yet Shaw’s narrator (or ‘ethnographer’) describes places as if they had intentions and personalities. They are coercive and time-bound, like people. Asked for proof: a ‘Mediterranean’ parking
Anticipating objections from the imagined reader, the ethnographer here foregrounds his position within his surroundings, and within the book itself — his ‘apprenticeship’ (as his role in the book’s project is sometimes called, alluding to Wilhelm Meister) is not in knowledge gathering or in the construction of history, but rather in ‘effectivity.’ Time becomes language, a rotation that may be termed narration. |
VI The World in Grain |
viola
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Good Madam, let me see your face.
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olivia
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Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text. But we will now draw the curtain and show you the picture. [She removes her veil.] Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. Is’t not well done?
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viola
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Excellently done, if God did all.
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olivia
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Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather.
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— Twelfth Night
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And it’s these unveiled strata of time and space that Cable Factory 20’s (underspecified) socio-political structure is most apparent: in its providing a model for scalar perception. The difference here is that Levinas-like face-to-face encounters here take place with inanimate objects, and at scales impossible other than textually. Now the views have been cut down.
As Smithson notes (with a pun): ‘To be in the scale of the Spiral Jetty is to be out of it.’ Shaw himself did leave the Bay Area for another city, ‘even larger, but controlled.’ But this sweeping question of locale is not what ends the book: there is still one more verso-recto spread to the poem when one turns the page, one that actually shows ‘the world in grain.’ |
VII Shattering the Lobe
In a recent review of Bernard Williams’s Truth and Truthfulness, Richard Rorty points up a chapter that dramatizes two competing Enlightenment ideas of ‘what it is to be a truthful person’: Rousseau thought that you could be authentic simply by laying yourself bare, but Diderot explained why it was not that easy....Diderot’s proto-Freudian account of the agent as ‘awash with many images, many excitements, merging fears and fantasies that dissolve into one another’ leaves us with the need to construct a self to be true to, rather than, as Rousseau thought, the need to make an already extent self transparent to itself.
Shaw opens ‘The Lobe’ section of The Lobe with a quote from Diderot, writing to Sophie Volland: Why shouldn’t all nature be like the polyp? When it is split into a hundred thousand fragments the original polyp no longer exists, but all its elements continue to live.
For ‘polyp’ and ‘lobe,’ substitute ‘self.’ Because the force of its utterances is aimed outward rather than inward, the social attunement between subjects disgust does achieve is paradoxically effected by a distancing. One ordinarily thinks of the ‘face-to-face encounter’ as achieved through a process of drawing closer. But in disgust the opposite trajectory makes this ethically important moment happen. Pulling away from the object in revulsion, you’re suddenly in front of the other, who, unlike the others, is attuned to you, who stands in the space you’ve prepared for him through that act of withdrawal. Paradoxically, in the economy of disgust, it is by means of an originary exclusion that the textual encounter is made intersubjective.
This is what makes Shut Up and other texts of its era so effective. Beyond whatever effects it has in heightening the contradictions inherent in sound-bite rhetoric at as systemic level, there is a subject position to which one attaches an act of withdrawal, even if it is not ‘present’ in the text as a ‘self.’ It makes textual encounter intersubjective. |
VIII Emotional Content
It is significant that Frank O’Hara, who shows up repeatedly in The Lobe, and Smithson are two men who were arguably killed by their art. The book works within what we might call ideational life-space, actual cullings from an artist’s work as mixed with myths and anecdotes about the life. It’s a space that most often produces fetish objects. The sheep bleats!
Herder goes on to imagine herding Goethe, but I also hear Robert Lowell’s car radio bleating ‘Love, O careless Love.’ Just as it’s impossible to write a poetry of place, it is impossible to write a poetry of encounter, with ideas or other people — but that’s a good thing. Old School
Sipping a cocktail au dehors as one’s inherited ideational structure forms nothing more meaningful than a lamb leg (think ‘golden calf’) is a fairly provocative thing to do. Pleasure in disgust, and pleasure generally, can freak people out. Marketing departments have become amazing at tying pleasure to consumer culture (sent up relentlessly), as have their counterparts in postwar academico-poetic culture. |
August 2003 | Jacket 23
Contents page |