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Killing Tigers

Over the last decade Venezuela has suffered the worst crisis in modern Latin American history. This crisis is far from over, but there are growing signs the country may be turning a corner. Economic indicators are more positive than they have been for years. The political situation appears to be stabilizing, with the Juan Guaidó debacle seeming to be nearing its end and government-opposition talks resuming after a year long pause. While relations with the United States remain frosty, there are indications a thaw may be coming. It is far from clear what all this means for the lives of ordinary Venezuelans, the prospects of a return to electoral democracy, or the possibility of a renewal of genuine leftist politics. A degree of cautious optimism may be warranted, though the extent to which the country is entering a ‘new normal’ and the nature of this remain uncertain.

If a new era is beginning, it is decidedly not a socialist one. In recent years, President Nicolás Maduro has implemented a series of free-market reforms. In 2019, Maduro scrapped Venezuela’s foreign exchange system and allowed a de facto dollarization process to unfold. Economists, including from the left, had long called for the elimination of Venezuela’s byzantine currency regime, which facilitated incredibly high levels of corruption and was a major factor in the economic crisis. The government has also established special economic zones (the most infamous being the Orinoco Mining Arc), sold shares of state-owned enterprises on the stock market, aggressively courted private capital, and granted businesses the right to import goods duty free. One effect has been to spur the formation of new businesses, such as the ‘bodegones’ that have proliferated across Caracas, new stores selling high-end imported goods usually paid for in dollars.

The bodegones point to one major consequence of economic liberalization: rising inequality. This has been exacerbated by the unevenness of dollarization. According to Reuters, as of May at least 63% of private-sector employees were paid in dollars, giving them enhanced purchasing power. Public-sector employees by contrast are still largely paid in bolívares. The situation is harder still for the vast numbers working in the informal sector, who continue to struggle to make ends meet. The extensive and continuing deterioration of the state’s capacity, due in no small measure to the devastation wrought by US sanctions, means that the poor are increasingly left to fend for themselves. And this is to say nothing of the millions who have left Venezuela in recent years and are living in precarious conditions elsewhere.

Maduro can nevertheless boast of the resumption of economic growth. 2021 saw growth of 1.9%, according to Bloomberg News. While modest, this reversed a seven-year contraction that cumulatively wiped out 80% of Venezuela’s GDP. Bloomberg estimates that growth will top 8% in 2022. Venezuela has made significant, if uneven, progress bringing down inflation. Hyperinflation (understood as monthly inflation over 50%) ended in 2021 and inflation was significantly down for much of 2022. While it remains high in comparative and historical terms, and Bloomberg reports a marked and worrisome increase in recent months, the current figures are orders of magnitude better than the hyperinflation existing between late 2016 and 2020.

Oil production has also increased and now stands at almost 700,000 barrels a day, double that of two years ago. Production though remains less than a third of the nearly 2,500,000 barrels a day Venezuela produced as late as 2016, and less than a quarter of the historic high of almost 3,000,000 daily barrels in 2002. A major reason oil production has not recovered more from its precipitous decline in 2016 is the persistence of US sanctions.

The overall effect of the sanctions regime has been nothing short of catastrophic. A 2019 report by the Center for Economic and Policy Research argues that sanctions led to 40,000 additional deaths in 2017-2018. And this was before the Trump administration imposed a near-total oil embargo on Venezuela in 2019 as part of its ‘maximum pressure’ campaign to remove Maduro. There has been an immense additional cost to Venezuela’s economy from foreign companies and governments ‘over complying’ with sanctions, for fear of running afoul of the US government and losing access to global markets. As Mark Weisbrot has argued, this predates Trump, with sanctions levied by Obama from 2015 serving to isolate Venezuela from the global economy. The US government has also directly pressured companies not to do business with Venezuela.

The agreement struck on 26 November to partially ease US sanctions is therefore quite significant. It grants the United Nations control of around $3 billion in funds seized by the US government, which will be used to pay for much-needed medicine and other humanitarian aid. Following the agreement, the US Treasury department announced that it will permit Chevron to resume some operations within the country. There are major limitations. The agreement is only for 6 months; it will not provide direct revenue to the Venezuelan government; the amount of aid it will deliver is a tiny fraction of what is needed. The aid will, however, be meaningful. And the agreement holds out promise of further easing of sanctions in the future.

Biden’s willingness to shift US policy stems at least in part from the Republican Party’s increasingly firm hold over Florida politics. This has weakened the influence of rightwing Venezuelan and Cuban expats over the Democratic Party. With Florida appearing to be beyond the party’s reach, Democrats appear willing to adopt less extreme policies towards the two countries, although much remains to be seen. The regional move to the left in Latin America, in countries such as Bolivia, Chile, Colombia, and most recently Brazil, has also created a climate more conducive to positive US engagement with Venezuela, with Colombia’s Gustavo Petro playing a particularly important role. War in Ukraine is another significant factor. Washington engaged in its first high-level talks with Maduro in March, just days after Russia’s invasion; the need to secure additional sources of oil was clearly spurring the Biden administration on.

On the Venezuelan side, the November 26 agreement and resumption of government-opposition talks from which it stems are indicative of an ongoing political shift. Opposition leaders have increasingly distanced themselves from Juan Guaidó and his ‘interim government’. Several of the main opposition parties have indicated that they will not support renewing Guaidó’s (dubious) mandate for another year and are moving to strip him of his control over Citgo. Opposition leaders, including Henrique Capriles, are pushing for unity around a single candidate ahead of scheduled 2024 presidential elections, with plans for a primary to be held in 2023. This marks a major alteration in strategy: returning to the electoralism that prevailed amongst the majority of the opposition from 2006-2015. The US continues to officially recognize Guaidó as Venezuela’s legitimate president, but this has not stopped the Biden administration from engaging with Maduro. Biden sent several envoys to Caracas this year and there are growing calls for the US to recognize the reality that Maduro is Venezuela’s only president.

These developments raise a host of questions, including how the poor, who now comprise the vast majority, are faring. Anecdotal accounts suggest they have generated rising hopes. But the reality on the ground remains immensely difficult. As Pablo Stefanoni writes, in the face of greatly diminished state services and continued economic difficulties, poorly paid workers have been forced to become ever more inventive to survive by engaging in a variety of side hustles, or ‘killing tigers’. The ‘bodegonization’ of Venezuela may be a boon to elites seeking luxury goods, but it is of limited use to the poor. Yet, as Jessica Dos Santos notes, ‘the situation was so critical that just a bit of air is a big relief’. As with so much else, ending sanctions is key to improving life for ordinary Venezuelans. Though by no means imminent, the prospects for ending the sanctions regime appear more hopeful than they have for several years.

This brings us to the issue of how and when electoral democracy might return to Venezuela. The US has made any such easing contingent on getting Maduro to agree to hold presidential elections that are ‘free and fair’. Maduro, for his part, has declared he will hold such elections only after US sanctions are fully lifted. For all his failings, Maduro has a point that genuinely free and fair elections cannot take place without this. Otherwise, the situation is akin to that of Nicaragua in 1990, when citizens understood – and indeed were made to understand – that voting out the Sandinistas was the only way to bring about peace. Lifting sanctions would also remove one of Maduro’s crutches: his ability to point, with some justification, to the US as the main obstacle to peace and stability within Venezuela. If sanctions were to end, Maduro’s appeals to ‘rally round the flag’ would lose much of their substance. The reality of his rule would become all the clearer, as would the need for wholesale transformation of the country’s electoral institutions and judiciary.

Venezuela remains a highly repressive state. In its most recent report – issued in September of this year – on human rights in Venezuela, the UN Office of the High Commissioner on Human Rights argues that Maduro’s government is guilty of crimes against humanity. The report also condemns abuses in the Orinoco Mining Arc, detailing how state and non-state actors have committed violence against Indigenous communities. Attention is also given to sexual and gender-based violence there. Michelle Bachelet, who ended her tenure as High Commissioner in August, provided a modestly more optimistic view in June. Condemning ongoing rights violations, she offered the government praise for some reforms, including shutting down the notorious Special Action Forces (FAES) in May (though critics argue that this amounts to little more than a rebranding). Bachelet also noted that they had recorded ‘fewer deaths in the context of security operations’ than in previous years. It should be noted that the UN’s work has made limited mention of US sanctions, a point that has led to criticism from those more supportive of the Maduro administration.

Repression within Venezuela has been directed not only against the right but also the left. Leftist parties that oppose Maduro, such as Marea Socialista, have been prevented from registering for elections. In May 2021 the leftist human rights collective Surgentes issued a report titled ‘Giro a la derecha y represión a la izquierda’ which details Maduro’s recent economic policies and repression of workers, peasants, and sectors of the left. It mentions, for example, the case of the website aporrea.org, for years a space for debate on the left, that has been largely blocked by the state communications agency, CANTV, since 2019; the 2020 closing of the Jirahara Communitarian Radio station in Yaracuy; the 2020 eviction of the Residencias Estudiantiles Livia Gouverneur in Caracas, which housed Chavista university students, and detention of student leaders who opposed the eviction; and the detention and intimidation of militants with the Alternativa Popular Revolucionaria, which grouped together leftist parties that identified as Chavista but opposed Maduro ahead of the 2020 parliamentary elections.

State repression, alongside the continuing effects of the economic crisis, is a major reason that the left’s immediate prospects are daunting. There are, however, at least a few reasons for cautious optimism here too. One is that, despite its repressive character, the Venezuelan state remains somewhat responsive to pressure from below. For instance, over the summer public-sector education workers repeatedly mobilized against the government’s decision to pay their annual bonus in installments and calculate it with a formula that would have resulted in a much smaller payment. In August the government agreed to their demands. It should also be noted that there remains a leftist current within the ruling PSUV, which has continued to pressure party leaders despite tremendous obstacles. Maduro has long used conflict with the opposition and the US to deflect criticism from the left, portraying it as aiding the enemy. To the extent that a thawing of tensions continues in the coming year, there should be more space for leftist dissent.

Read on: Julia Buxton, ‘Venezuela After Chavez’, NLR 99.

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Starless Sky

If the three wise men were to travel on their camels to the stable in Bethlehem this year, they would almost certainly get lost. Along vast tracts of their route, they would be unable to rely upon their guiding star, for the simple reason that it would not be visible. Baby Jesus would have to forego his gold, frankincense and myrrh.

A paradox characterises our society: we know more about the universe than ever before – we know why the stars shine, how they are born, how they grow old and die, can perceive the swirling motion of galaxies invisible to the naked eye, listen (so to speak) to the sounds of the origin of the universe emitted some 15 billion years ago. Yet for the first time in human history few adults can recognize even the brightest of stars, while most children have never witnessed a starry night. I say most because the majority of the world’s population today – now surpassing 4 billion – live in urban areas, where artificial light obscures the stars from view.

(This is a form of contradiction common to modern life. The moment we are able to satisfy our desire to fly across the world to exotic beaches and get a tan, the hole in the ozone layer makes the ultraviolet rays of the sun dangerous and carcinogenic. As soon as we realize our desire for cleanliness – see my previous article on eliminating odours – water becomes a limited resource, and so on.)

The awesome spectacle of the star-filled sky is quite unknown to most of us today. Rarely do we raise our gaze to the skies, and if we did, we would see only a handful of dull glimmers of light. To think than on a clear night in ‘normal’ darkness as many as 6,000 celestial bodies are visible to the naked eye, the furthest being the Triangulum Galaxy, some 3 million light years away (we see it as it was three million years ago). And this is nothing compared to the many billions whose existence observatories and telescopes have revealed to us, as our eyes have become ever more blinded by artificial light.

In Darkness Manifesto (2022), the Swedish writer Johan Eklöf tells us that in Hong Kong (together with Singapore the most illuminated city in the world) the night is 1,200 times brighter than without artificial lighting. To realise the enormity of the transformation, you only have to look at this map which records light pollution (you can zoom in and see the situation where you live). In 2002, the amateur astronomer John Bortle devised a scale which measures the darkness of the night sky: level 1 corresponds to an ‘excellent dark-sky’, level 3 ‘rural sky’, level 5 ‘suburban sky’; at level 6 (‘bright suburban sky’) only 500 stars are visible to the naked eye; at level 7 (‘suburban/urban transition’) the Milky Way disappears. At level 8 (‘city sky’) and 9 (‘inner city sky’) only a few celestial objects are visible (nearby planets and a few clusters of stars).

A case could be made that artificial lighting is the industrial innovation which has most profoundly affected human life. It won the multi-millennial war against darkness, driving away the terror of the night; its nightmares and its monsters. Only a few centuries ago, when night fell, not only homes but entire cities were barricaded, their gates bolted. The night was populated by demons (Satan, of course, was the ‘Prince of Darkness’); it was the time when the forces of evil gathered, when witches celebrated the Sabbath riding pigs or other animals, as Carlo Ginzburg recounts in his Ecstasies: Deciphering the Witches’ Sabbath (1990).

Illuminating cities has been a practice for over three centuries, long preceding the invention of electrical lighting. Ancient Romans knew night lighting, but a millennium would pass before oil lamps appeared in city streets. It is perhaps no coincidence that the Enlightenment was coeval with urban lighting; its definition of the ‘Dark Ages’ may not have been simply a metaphor. In Disenchanted Night: The Industrialization of Light in the Nineteenth Century (1988) Wolfgang Schivelbusch details the ‘chemical enlightenment’ brought about by Antoine Lavoisier’s modern theory of combustion, according to which flames are not fuelled – as has hitherto been assumed – by a substance called phlogiston, but by oxygen in the air. It is with this that the modern history of artificial illumination begins. ‘The light produced by gas is too pure for the human eye, and our grandchildren will go blind’, Ludwig Börne feared of gas lamps in 1824. ‘Gas has replaced the Sun’, Jules Janin wrote in 1839. Illumination was also a means of control: the first target of the revolutions of 1830 and 1848 were the street lanterns. A new profession appeared: the lamplighter, who becomes a literary figure, as in Andersen’s ‘The Old Street Lamp’ (1847) and ‘The Lamplighter’ (1859) by Dickens. Saint-Exupéry’s Le Petit Prince (1943), upon arriving on the fifth planet, encounters only a streetlamp and a lamplighter:

When he landed on the planet he respectfully saluted the lamplighter.

‘Good morning. Why have you just put out your lamp?’

‘Those are the orders’, replied the lamplighter. ‘Good morning.’

The carbon filament lamp that Thomas Edison presented at the Exposition Universelle in Paris in 1878 swept away gas lighting, and became the new artificial sun, just as blinding as its natural counterpart. Schivelbusch cites the following medical text from 1880:

In the middle of the night, we see the appearance of a luminous day. It’s possible to recognise the name of streets and shops from the other side of the street. Even people’s facial expressions can be seen clearly from a great distance and – of particular note – the eye adjusts immediately and with the least effort to this intense illumination.

With electricity, humanity conquered the dark. Mealtimes shifted, as did those for socializing, for entertainment, for work – the ‘night shift’ became possible. A new rhythm now regulated daily life, one in conflict with our circadian one (a term derived from the Latin circa diem, ‘around the day’).

By making the night disappear, we alter the rhythm with which hormones are produced, in particular melatonin, which regulates the sleep cycle, and is synthesised by the pineal gland in absence of light. When darkness falls, its concentration in the bloodstream increases rapidly, peaking between 2 and 4 am, before gradually declining before dawn. Thus long periods of high melatonin levels are normal during winter months, while the opposite is true in the summer, when days are longer and brighter. According to the website Dark Sky, melatonin has antioxidant properties, induces sleep, boosts the immune system, lowers cholesterol, and helps the functioning of the thyroid, pancreas, ovaries, testes and adrenal gland. It also triggers other hormones such as leptin, which in turn regulates appetite.

Nocturnal exposure to artificial light (especially blue light), inhibits the production of melatonin. A brightness of only eight lux is enough to interfere with its cycle. This is a direct cause of insomnia, and therefore also of stress and depression and, through the deregulation of leptin, of obesity. Certain studies show that night shifts increase the risk of cancer (melatonin and its interplay with other hormones help prevent tumours). It’s therefore understandable that artificial lighting has generated the term ‘light pollution’.

This much concerns us humans. But the effect on other living beings is far more dramatic – after all we’re diurnal animals. As Eklöf writes, ‘no less than a third of all vertebrates and almost two-thirds of all invertebrates are nocturnal, so it’s after we humans fall asleep that most natural activity occurs in the form of mating, hunting, decomposing and pollinating’. The prey of nocturnal predators has far less chance of escape. Today elephants, who are also diurnal, are said to be becoming nocturnal in order to evade poachers. Toads and frogs croak at night as a mating call; without darkness their reproductive rate plunges. The eggs of marine turtles hatch on beaches at night; the hatchlings finding the water by identifying the bright horizon above it. Artificial light thus draws them away from it: just in Florida, every year this kills millions of newly-hatched turtles. Millions of birds die every year from colliding with illuminated buildings and towers; nocturnal migratory birds orient themselves with the moon and the stars, but are disoriented by artificial light and lose their way.

The worst effects are felt by insects. According to a 2017 study, total insect biomass has dropped by 75% in the last 25 years. Motorists have been aware of this for some time, through the so-called windscreen effect. The number of insects that get squashed on the front of cars is far smaller than in previous decades. There are many causes for this decline, but artificial lighting is certainly one, because the majority of insects are nocturnal. We don’t realize it, but illuminated cities are a major migratory destination for insects from the countryside. Light also disturbs their reproductive rituals. Moths are exterminated by their attraction to light, and more plants are pollinated by moths than bees (which are also declining). The problem of pollination is so serious that, as Eklöf recounts, a few years ago photos of an orchard in Sichuan showed workers with ladders pollinating flowers by hand. Working quickly, one might be able to pollinate three trees a day; a small beehive can do a hundred times that number.

A further side-effect of artificial lighting is that non-lit areas become even darker, because it takes time for the eye to adjust and reactivate the rods (which are sensitive to the intensity of light) and deactivate the cones (sensitive to colour) in the retina. The human eye is one of the most precise senses, capable of perceiving a single photon. It has been calculated as equalling a 576-megapixel camera. At night, when our eye has adjusted to very low levels of luminosity, we’re able to see quite a lot. With the full moon, we’re capable of walking briskly along a rugged path. But artificial light blinds us to everything that we would have seen with ease in earlier periods. Here is another case of the technological revolution simultaneously giving and taking away.

Light pollution has today created a market for darkness tourism; the hunt for (by now rare) places where darkness is total. Great sums can be spent in search of what we have gone to such lengths to defeat. As Paul Bogard tells us in his The End of Night: Searching for Natural Darkness in an Age of Artificial Light (2013), to find darkness in Las Vegas one has to go all the way to Death Valley. One of the darkest places on the North American continent, there, Bogard writes, the light of the Milky Way is so intense it casts shadows on the ground, while Jupiter’s brightness is strong enough to interfere with his night vision. It was in the Atacama desert, one of the darkest places on earth, that in 2012 Noche Zero, the first global conference in honour of darkness was held, attended by astronomers, neurobiologists, zoologists and artists.

A community of ‘lovers of the dark’ has thus formed, with its own cult books such as Junichiro Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadow (1933), a veritable eulogy to the penumbral; its groups such as the International Dark Sky Association, founded by a handful of American astronomers in 1988; and its sanctuaries, parks and reserves. They cite studies according to which, rather counterintuitively, the lighting of roads can decrease safety by making victims and property easier to see. Theirs is a noble fight, though one with doubtful prospects for success, given the hunger for light that consumes our species. Speaking of consumption: LED bulbs consume far less energy than filament ones, and for this reason far more of them are used, increasing total light emission. It has been calculated than in the US and in Europe unnecessarily strong or badly directed lights (which are pointed at the sky, or other spaces that don’t need to be lit) generate emissions of carbon dioxide equal to that of 20 million cars. And every year the illuminated portion of the planet grows inexorably. I realize it’s banal to do so, but I can’t help but think of those two things which for Immanuel Kant ‘fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe, the more often and steadily we reflect upon them: the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me’. Could he ever have imagined the sky above us no longer filled with stars? We might ask if the moral law within us is also waning, or if it has already been lost.

Translated by Francesco Anselmetti.

Read on: Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Witches and Shamans’, NLR I/200.

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Et Alors?

The autofictional project of the French writer Constance Debré describes a woman ‘packing it all in’ to lead an anti-bourgeois, vagabond existence – rejecting conventions and dumpster-diving for Ladurée macarons in the sixth arrondissement. Seven years ago Debré, whose monastically shaved head and multiple tattoos have become iconic in Parisian literary circles, renounced her career as a lawyer, along with her role as a wife and mother, to become, in her words, ‘a writer and a lesbian in the space of the same week’. Her first work of autofiction, Playboy (2018), was an account of exiting the straitjacket of heterosexuality. Her second, Love Me Tender (2020), recently published in English by Semiotext(e), unravelled the association of womanhood with motherhood by recounting the legal battle between Debré and her ex-husband over the custody of their son Paul. Nom, which appeared in France this year, is the third instalment in this literature of severance – challenging the readers attachments to family names, as well as other markers of lineage and heritage. Debré’s writing aims to eradicate all origins and backstories, and with them the social roles they enforce, replacing them with an ethos of radical self-fashioning.

Debré’s biography justifies her aversion to origin stories. Born in Paris in 1972, she was the only child of journalist François Debré and debutante-turned-model Maylis Ybarnégaray, both of them long-term heroin addicts who shared a dealer with Françoise Sagan. Her grandfather on her father’s side was the French Prime Minister Michel Debré, the so-called ‘father’ of the Fifth Republic; on her mother’s Jean Ybarnégaray, a onetime minister in the Vichy government who was arrested for his involvement with the Resistance. The Debré family, which also includes world-class concert pianists and seven members of the Académie française, has been labelled the ‘French Kennedys’.

Debré, for her part, studied law at Panthéon-Assas University and was elected second secretary of the Conference of Lawyers of the Paris Bar in 2013 – an honour for which she was profiled in Le Monde. Her first two published works, Un peu là beaucoup ailleurs (2004) and Manuel pratique de l’idéal (2007), read more like philosophical reflections than works of narrative fiction; both are indebted to the auto-theoretical writings of Georges Perec and Roland Barthes. The first interrogated the experience of ‘opening to nothingness, to slowness, and to latency’ from the perspective of an unidentified narrator. The second offered a ‘dictionary of survival’, in the mode of A Lover’s Discourse. It name-checked various exclusive Parisian nightclubs and poured scorn on the suburbs: ‘La province is a very ugly space one has to traverse when going between Paris and the countryside.’ The critical reception was hostile. In keeping with her impulse to leave the past behind, Debré has since excised them from her public bibliography.

Arriving after a decade-long hiatus (during which time Debré left her job and marriage), Playboy abandoned this philosophical mode and attempted to sketch a portrait of ‘Casanova in the feminine’. Casting Debré as ‘the boy of the story’ (le garçon de l’histoire), it shattered expectations of a ‘good girl’ from a haut-bourgeois family. The author was unapologetic about equating traditional images of masculinity with the pursuit of personal autonomy. Her literary heroes – Hervé Guibert, Jean Genet, Guillaume Dustan – were, she claimed, bolder in rejecting social mores and carving out distinct identities than any of their female counterparts. Accordingly, Debré’s descriptions of lesbian sex were such that feminist critics denounced them as misogyny dressed up as queerness (one particularly incendiary passage stated that women were ‘made to be handled’ (‘Une femme est faite pour mettre la main‘). A more generous interpretation would be that Debré’s target was not women per se, but anyone who fails to ‘think for themselves’, or substitutes passivity for self-reliance.

Love Me Tender contained familiar elements from Playboy (lawyers’ hearings, sexual conquests, wandering around Parisian garages and kebab shops), but was more concerned with the role of the mother, whom Debré presents as the ultimate scapegoat in French society. ‘Mother is worse than “woman”’, she writes. ‘It’s closer to servant. Or dog. But less fun.’ The work recounts how, as a result of institutional lesbophobia, Debré lost custody of her eight-year-old son after she began to pursue her project of sexual and artistic emancipation. Yet it steadfastly refuses to reify or idealize motherhood, which is cast aside just as Debré’s panoply of feminine accessories – dresses, high heels, makeup – were jettisoned in Playboy:

I don’t see why the love between a mother and son should be any different from other kinds of love. Why we shouldn’t be allowed to stop loving each other. Why we shouldn’t be allowed to break up. I don’t see why we shouldn’t stop giving a shit, once and for all, about love, or so-called love, love in all its forms, even that one. I don’t see why we absolutely have to love each other, in families or elsewhere, and why we have to go on about it the whole time, to ourselves, to each other.

Élisabeth Badinter’s theory of maternal ambivalence predates Love Me Tender by several decades, but the novel breathes new life into her ideas: ‘I haven’t seen Paul for six months… Sometimes I can’t remember his face’. The narrator is adamant that guilt or shame will not compromise her commitment to a new life, lived on her own terms. Walking through her old neighbourhood one afternoon, she comes across her former family home:

I guess the windows on rue Descartes should bring back memories of my second life, my family life, my life as a straight person, before I took an automatic rifle to it. I guess these things should make me feel nostalgia, sadness, regret. But no, nothing.

Debré’s sprezzatura writing is the literary equivalent of a shrug: a swashbuckling ‘Et alors?’ that goads the reader into calling the author’s bluff. (‘Do you really not give a shit about other people?’ one of her lovers asks halfway through the book.) But despite her persistent efforts to obliterate sentimentality, Debré’s narrator struggles with the reality of an affectless existence. ‘It’s important to have limits so you don’t lose yourself in the chaos’, Debré writes. Her various practices of self-improvement and self-assessment can appear as attempts to cover the void opened up by the loss of her son and husband. She does daily lengths in a public swimming pool, a ritual that persists throughout the trilogy, punctuating its narrative. Yet this attempt to impose discipline on her life also signals Debré’s desire for weightlessness, her impulse to float above the surface of events.

Beneath Love Me Tender’s wise-cracks – ‘You gain ten years when you become gay. Everyone knows that’ – there is a serious argument being made: that French society has rendered motherhood and lesbianism incompatible. Debré imagines what her former social circle are saying about her now – ‘She isn’t really a mother because she isn’t really a woman because she doesn’t really love men’ – and reflects on the inescapability of such attitudes. Towards the end of the novel, she observes that her most recent relationship with a woman only began to progress once she renounced her connection with her son. Debré presents this as a legitimate decision to elevate her own desire above the sanctioned bonds of dependence and care-giving. Yet the note struck at the end of Love Me Tender is equivocal: ‘Now I send Paul texts, I have his number. Sometimes he replies, sometimes he doesn’t.’

Nom continues to track this evolution from unapologetic divestment to a more complex state of emotional ambivalence. Whereas Playboy and Love Me Tender staged offensives on straightness and maternity, Nom rakes over Debré’s storied childhood to disentangle family history from functional selfhood. (In spoken French, ‘Nom’ can easily be heard as ‘Non’, or a robust ‘No thank you’). ‘A name is nothing, it’s like the family, it’s like childhood, I don’t believe in it, I want nothing to do with it,’ her narrator claims. Yet the defensive posture of maintaining a persona who ‘cares about absolutely nothing’ softens a little, here. The cataloguing of a parade of women lovers gives way to more abstract meditations in the vein of her first books: musings on how our collective obsession with origin stories might be traced to the decline of Marxism and the ongoing popularity of psychoanalysis (at least in a French context). To arrive at such insights, Debré dedicates a fair amount of pages to the life of her intimidating father and glamorous mother. Yet her incisive, manifesto-like pronouncements pierce through this history. Above all, a fierce refusal of victimhood prevails. Her priorities are clear: ‘It’s not my name, it’s my body which most interests me.’

It is tempting to conclude that Debré’s project is about forging one’s own laws rather than submitting to society’s: becoming the highest sovereign of one’s own state. But it may be more accurate to say that her fiction aspires to a kind of lawlessness – a condition of detachment that rejects bourgeois codes and comforts, in line with the author’s aristocratic upbringing, but does not offer a coherent alternative. Debré is part of a recent crop of Francophone writers who write about sexuality as a principled decision, a commitment to a particular way of life. Like them, she gives readers a roadmap for combusting their lives and starting anew. Yet she is also aware of the bruising fallout that can follow such acts of self-invention. Radical decisions have radical consequences; Debré’s trilogy could be read as a sober attempt to take responsibility for them. As she puts it, ‘Writing in the first person is always to write about the people you love, and to hurt them in the process. That’s the way it is.’ Et alors?

Read on: Ryan Ruby, ‘Privatized Grand Narratives’, NLR 131.

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Shadows of an Ideal

In his 1908 ‘Notes of a Painter’, Henri Matisse wrote, ‘A work of art must carry within itself its complete significance and impose that on the beholder even before he recognizes the subject matter. When I see the Giotto frescos at Padua, I do not trouble myself to recognize which scene of the life of Christ I have before me, but immediately understand the sentiment which emerges from it, for it is in the lines, the composition, the colour. The title will only serve to confirm my impression.’ A little over fifty years later, in the lecture ‘Modernist Painting’, Clement Greenberg articulated a similar idea: ‘Whereas one tends to see what is in an Old Master before one sees the picture itself, one sees a Modernist picture as a picture first. This is, of course, the best way of seeing any kind of picture, Old Master or Modernist.’

The idea shared by the painter and the critic, that painting communicates most powerfully by way of a syntax and semantics internal to itself, rather than through its overt subject matter, has become an unpopular one. Today, artists and critics are inclined to be suspicious of claims to understand a work through its formal elements alone, and to give more weight to a work’s subject – and to the correct reading of it – than Matisse or Greenberg would have allowed. But who would dismiss the significance of a painting’s form altogether? We’re all still modernist to at least that degree. And it’s worth noting that this belief that one can and should see a painting in formal terms before (not to the exclusion of) considering its subject – what one might well call an abstract way of seeing – was held in common by a critic best known as a passionate proponent of abstraction and by a painter who could never quite abandon the model, and who, in an interview toward the end of his life, decried ‘the so-called abstract painters of today’ as having ‘no power, no inspiration, no feeling, they defend a non-existent point of view: they imitate abstraction.’

So having an abstract way of looking at painting never required the artist to paint abstractly, nor the viewer to seek out only nonrepresentational art. This is something that Jed Perl seems to have forgotten when writing his recent essay for the New York Review of Books, ‘Between Abstraction and Representation’. Perl sees the twentieth-century differend between the two modes as nothing less than ‘a war of ideas’. And like an old veteran who feels he was most alive in the heat of battle, he has deep nostalgia for the old conflict.

Perl has long been a defender of contemporary representational painting. Having trained as a painter himself, he began his career as a critic at The New Criterion in the 1980s. Despite being a protégé of its then-editor, Hilton Kramer, Perl did not evince anything of the latter’s hardcore neo-con political views. His aesthetic conservatism, however, was never in doubt. In the mid-1990s Perl moved to The New Republic, where he continued to denounce what he saw as the meretricious fashions of contemporary art – titles like ‘The Wildly Overrated Andy Warhol’ (and then, three months later, ‘The Curse of Warholism’) give the tone. One of his last pieces for The New Republic, in 2014, was ‘The Art World Has Stopped Distinguishing Between Greatness and Fraudulence’ – a takedown of Sigmar Polke, whom he lambasted as a ‘megalomaniacal show-off’. Since then, he’s been a regular at the New York Review of Books. Yet despite the prominence of his venues, Perl’s has never been considered a voice to reckon with by the art world – as even Kramer had undoubtedly been. Presumably his readers among the literary intelligentsia don’t quite realize how quaintly eccentric his views often seem to most artists. Perl’s stance has been to present himself as the courageous objector to the art world’s decadent values, and the defender of the overlooked and underrated artists who’ve continued to mine modernist-inflected modes of figurative painting. But in preferring the likes of Gabriel Laderman or Stanley Lewis to Polke or Gerhard Richter, he merely demonstrates his unerring preference for the less over the more interesting.

In the recent essay on abstraction and figuration, Perl starts from an observation that’s hard to gainsay: that recent years – decades, really, by now – have witnessed ‘a tendency to embrace abstraction and representation as vehicles rather than avowals, means to an end rather than philosophical imperatives’. Well, let’s say, instead, that they can be philosophical propositions rather than religious dogmas. I’ve always felt that I belong to my time in this belief that an artist’s choice between using images and abjuring them could not be an absolute imposed from without, and must be the product of an inner inclination, perhaps even an inner necessity, but not one that is frozen in place. Philip Guston the abstractionist was just as firm in his conviction as Philip Guston the figurative painter would be, and for the same reason. Guston the abstractionist eschewed what he called ‘recognizable art’ because ‘it excludes too much. I want my work to include more. And “more” also comprises one’s doubts about the object, plus the problem, the dilemma, of recognizing it.’ He went back to painting images when he came to feel that his abstraction excluded too much – and that among the things it had come to exclude was the doubt he felt so deeply.

In Perl’s view, today’s artists have lost the passionate commitment that artists of Guston’s time felt toward their artistic choices. They ‘appear to think that it’s possible to be a representational artist one minute and an abstract artist the next’, he huffs. And yet, while he loves the idea of a battle between abstraction and representation, he says they should not be ‘regarded as ideologies’. That puzzles me. If abstraction and representation don’t amount to what he calls ‘ideological absolutes’, then why dig yourself into the trenches for one of them?

What’s strange is that, in an essay lamenting that artists and others no longer take sides on behalf of either abstraction or representation, neither does Perl. In fact, he never even says what he thinks either of those terms means. Instead, he simply takes a pair of examples, Piet Mondrian and Diego Giacometti, as totemic names who stand for all the rest. As Perl rightly says, ‘A creative process is a philosophical search, shaped by matters of practice and procedure that extend from the first touch of the artist’s pencil, brush, or chisel to the final decisions about what constitutes completeness.’ That’s a truism worth repeating, but the critic needs to undertake his own philosophical search before berating others for failing to do so. Perl is confident that the creative process can only be undertaken within the conventional boundaries of established, unexamined categories. Abstraction and representation, he believes, have ‘deep implications’ to be explored but their intersection, or the structures of seeing that underlay both of them? Apparently not. Perl sees that Julie Mehretu, for instance, has a long-standing practice of ‘overlay[ing] abstract and representational elements in her immense canvases’, but doesn’t seem to understand why anyone would pursue such a course or recognize the difference between this consistently developing style and the more eclectic approach of someone painting abstractly one minute, representationally the next. Nor does he address the profound difference between the referential forms that Mehretu employs – schematic and diagrammatic notations – and traditional representation. The referential systems she works into her paintings are also a kind of abstraction – almost the opposite of the ‘mere images’ Perl says they are, though in the same breath he also calls them ‘fixed, inscrutable elements’, which is perhaps more to the point.

Perl seems to be looking past Mehretu, and a couple of other painters whose work he discusses more briefly, at the man whom he appears to consider the big bad wolf of contemporary painting, Gerhard Richter. Richter, of course, unlike Mehretu, really does paint sometimes abstractly and sometimes representationally. To Perl’s mind, it seems that the German artist has been cheating by working in such a way that ‘the juxtaposition of representational and abstract works and their impact as a totality’ is what has made him so admired. That art lovers can savour the way Richter executes these paintings is something that Perl refuses to believe. Twenty or so years ago, Perl unleashed a tantrum of a review on Richter in The New Republic. Its fire-breathing opener: ‘Gerhard Richter is a bullshit artist masquerading as a painter’. Since then, though, Perl seems to have lost some of his polemical energy. Now his grousings could almost be taken for neutral description: ‘Entropy is Richter’s subject. The stylistic free-for-all that in Richter’s work suggests an artistic endgame can as easily suggest a kind of comedy.’ Sounds respectably, if unexcitingly, Beckettian to me.

Perl goes on to cite the critic and representational painter Fairfield Porter – who was a great admirer of much abstract art – for his contention ‘that many artists who identified themselves as abstractionists or realists were producing little more than illustrations – “shadows” – of an idea or ideal.’ That, of course, is what Matisse had already said of the abstractionists, and I suspect he’d have said the same of most realists. The artists capable of raising themselves out of the slough of academicism are the exceptions. Why Perl imagines, contra Porter, that plunging oneself once more into some exclusive conception of abstraction or representation would offer an exit from these imitations of imitations is a mystery.

And while Perl admits that premier venues for new American art in the 1950s and 60s, such as the Tanager and Tibor de Nagy Galleries, ‘embraced a pluralistic view’ and showed abstract and figurative works side by side, he finds it suspicious when today’s galleries do the same. In illo tempore this was apparently done in authentic recognition of the crucial nature of the distinction; these days the same practice is ascribed to ‘muddleheaded eclecticism’ and ‘high-end shelter magazine’ aesthetics. One of the shows he didn’t like paired works by Josef Albers and Giorgio Morandi. And while either of those artists’ work would, for that matter, look good in a high-end shelter magazine, I wonder if he’d really be prepared to argue that that’s all there is to either one of them? And if not, what’s different about showing them together – except that it happened in 2021 at David Zwirner and not in 1961 at Tibor de Nagy?

But here’s where my beef with Perl gets personal. Another of his ‘muddleheaded’ targets was a presentation of paintings by Thomas Nozkowski (a committed abstractionist) and Jane Freilicher (a lifelong representationalist) at the Milton Resnick and Pat Passlof Foundation. Perl doesn’t voice any particular complaint about either of those artists’ work, but he doesn’t understand why their work was shown together. Apparently, it’s not enough to know that Nozkowski – who passed away in 2019 but was still alive when the exhibition was first being planned – was a passionate admirer of Freilicher, who died in 2014, aged 90. But isn’t that in itself worth dwelling on – that Nozkowski’s dedication to his own abstract path was no barrier to his recognition of the worth of a very different kind of art, that the pursuit of his idea did not entail a war against another artist’s idea? And doesn’t that imply that in those ideas there might be some commonality worth contemplating? At least one reviewer of the show, David Carrier, found it succeeded in suggesting ‘shared ways of looking that Freilicher and Nozkowski achieved independently’, despite their practising such different modes of painting.

Perl, on the other hand, complains that ‘when the people involved reached for an organizational principle to explain what they were doing, all they could summon were banalities like “There is a commonality more significant than all their significant differences put together: Let’s call it integrity.”’ Here, I’m the one who has to beg the reader to excuse my having committed a banality. I wrote the catalogue essay from which Perl quotes without mentioning my name – I don’t know whether he thought that in veiling my authorship of that sentence he was being kind, or if he thereby meant to condemn me all the more absolutely. No matter. What’s revealing there is Perl’s sloppiness about imputing intentions – his willingness to attribute my words to the exhibition’s organizers, which is to say its curator, Eric Brown, and the Resnick and Passlof Foundation’s executive director, Susan Reynolds, and its president, Nathan Kernan. My contribution to the catalogue came, as it were, after the fact; I was asked for it, I suppose, as a critical supporter and longtime friendly acquaintance of Nozkowski’s who had also written appreciatively about Freilicher, but it was never my role to explain what the organizers had in mind. Beyond that, I’d be curious to understand better why my ‘banality’, which Perl allows ‘could be made about any work that succeeds to some degree’, is more banal than his banality in pointing out that ‘the experience of a work of art isn’t a matter of theory (which isn’t to say that artists and audiences can’t be interested in theories); it’s visceral, whether Mondrian’s spare abstractions or Giacometti’s roiled portraits.’

Yes, there is – must be – something visceral in one’s response to ‘any work of art that succeeds to some degree’, and it’s worth reminding ourselves of this familiar fact. Actually, what Perl says is true even of work that might not succeed: his rejection of Mehretu’s work, which he calls ‘a visual shouting match’, is nothing if not visceral. Like him, I find her work too chilly for my taste, and I question her success in allegorizing grand socio-political themes via abstraction – there’s a lack of mediation that rubs me the wrong way. But I object to his presumption that her attempt lacks seriousness, comparable to every philistine’s favourite example of artistic blague, Marcel Duchamp’s moustache on the Mona Lisa. This points to the great problem with Perl as a critic: his inveterate belief that today’s artists (except for a few personal favourites of his) are all somehow acting in bad faith, and that it was only in the good old days that people pursued art with seriousness. ‘Whether we want to or not’, Matisse insisted, ‘we belong to our time and we share in its opinions, its feelings, even its delusions.’ We should be critical of our time, and to do so we must be self-critical, but we can’t hide our heads in the past.

Read on: Saul Nelson, ‘Opposed Realities’, NLR 137.

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Blue Shifts

In the United States’ 2022 midterm elections, the Democratic Party narrowly averted the devastating rout predicted by most pundits. The GOP will have a slim majority in the House of Representatives while the Democrats will enjoy a 51 seat edge in the US Senate on account of Raphael Warnock’s reelection in Georgia to a full Senate term. As with every major election since 2016, the refrain of many Democrats throughout the campaign was that democracy itself was on the line. Months of handwringing over inflation stoked fears that MAGA candidates would repeat the Tea Party’s success during Obama’s tenure – a red wave credited with hastening the collapse of Democratic power across the South and Midwest, fuelling the emergence of Trumpism. Now, the avoidance of this humiliating outcome is being touted as tantamount to a blue victory.

In assessments of the results, the campaigns of two key Senate candidates, Representative Tim Ryan of Ohio and Lieutenant Governor John Fetterman of Pennsylvania, have been frequently cited to illustrate the Democrats’ vulnerabilities and prospects in the industrial Midwest and interior Northeast. Ryan, who has served in the House of Representatives since 2003, had spent the majority of his political career in the ideological wilderness – yet his previously marginal policy concerns have since become mainstream. He ran on his record as a pro-labour protectionist and champion of declining manufacturing regions who had helped sustain his party’s links with industrial workers. Nonetheless, he was roundly defeated (by a margin of 264,675 votes) by Republican JD Vance, a conservative memoirist and venture capitalist who, with Peter Thiel’s financial backing, adopted a demagogic ‘postliberal’ persona. In Pennsylvania, however, Fetterman’s successful campaign deployed many of the same themes, thereby raising hopes for the Democrats that they may recapture certain deindustrialized regions that have gravitated toward Trump. A charismatic former small-town major with a giantesque stature and uniform of Carhartt sweatshirts, Fetterman prevailed over TV personality ‘Dr’ Mehmet Oz by a five-point margin (just over 260,000 votes) despite suffering a stroke in May.

Both Ryan and Fetterman pledged to revive high-wage manufacturing jobs while protecting abortion and LGBT rights from Republican advances. They also shared a hawkish line on China, an unambiguous defence of Israel, support for fracking, and opposition to activist calls to ‘defund the police’. Yet, in spite of their similar messaging, most progressives were antagonized by Ryan and energized by Fetterman. Mainstream liberals, too, were generally wary of the former and fond of the latter. What explains such divergent perceptions? And what do their respective campaigns mean for the future of the party?

Pessimism over the Democrats’ prospects in Ohio dampened Ryan’s campaign from the outset. Vance was always the poster candidate of his party’s right, thanks to his combination of evangelical conservatism and fervent MAGA populism (one of his campaign ads asked the viewer, ‘Are you a racist?’). Yet in a state that had voted for Trump by eight percentage points in both 2016 and 2020, Ryan’s supporters nevertheless hoped for an upset. Indeed, the early signals for Ryan were good: in the primary, he easily beat Morgan Harper, a young progressive lawyer who touted her support for Medicare For All and a Green New Deal, raising expectations that he had the backing of both the party establishment and progressives.

Ryan’s support for industrial policy made him an outlier in his party until Joe Biden declared a ‘paradigm shift’ at the start of his presidency. This abrupt departure from the precedent set by the Clinton and Obama administrations reinforced Ryan’s focus on trade and manufacturing workers in his campaign. Ohio is fourth among US states in manufacturing GDP on account of its production of plastics, appliances, autos and other value-added goods, yet its industrial base has been depleted by around 359,000 jobs over the past thirty years due to successive trade shocks – a decline Trump exploited with greater success in Ohio than any other competitive rustbelt state.

Although some of Ryan’s supporters assumed that the neo-Hamiltonian industrial strategy of the Biden White House would aid his chances against Vance, Ryan continued to distinguish himself from the Democratic establishment. He discouraged Biden from running for reelection in 2024 and provocatively declared that he ‘agreed with Trump on trade’ (while also asserting, ‘I don’t answer to any political party’). This rhetorical distancing act may have undermined his ability to secure crucial PAC funds in early October, when he came within a point of Vance’s lead in the polling average, donors clearly sensed a gulf between Ohio Democrats and the bicoastal base. Though Ryan outraised Vance in donations and laid claim to 350,000 small donors, he was left trailing in contributions from his own party’s coffers. While Vance received $28 million from a Republican SuperPAC controlled by Mitch McConnell, his opponent was left to fundraise from labour organizations, small PACs, and ordinary voters. The Democratic Senate Majority PAC praised his ‘remarkably strong campaign’ but reportedly refused to donate a cent.  

Ryan compounded the damage to his campaign by failing to galvanize a younger generation of labour activists or match the tenor of fellow Ohio Democrat Sherrod Brown, who has won three elections to the Senate as a self-styled progressive populist. He could have created a favourable contrast with Vance by defending Ohio’s multiracial working-class (there are signs that Black and other minority turnout in Ohio is declining amid various Republican-devised voter suppression schemes) and emphasizing his social liberalism. But instead, Ryan simply doubled down on economic nationalism while giving it a Sinophobic edge. ‘China’s winning. Workers are losing’, he declared in an early campaign ad, claiming that securing US manufacturing dominance came down to a contest of ‘capitalism versus communism.’ It is hard to see what, if any, advantage may have been gained from reframing his pro-labor protectionism in Cold War terms of national security. In the end, the attempt to outflank Vance as a vociferous trade hawk merely conceded the terrain on which the campaign would be fought.

This strategy, along with Ryan’s persistent attacks on the ‘defund’ movement, also served to alienate the progressive base in urban constituencies. With neither the left nor the Democratic establishment firmly in his corner, Ryan struggled to cement a broad anti-Vance coalition. Winning 47% of the vote compared to Vance’s 53%, his performance conformed to general expectations: his support was concentrated in the reliably Democratic metropolitan areas of Cleveland, Columbus, Cincinnati, Akron and Toledo; he narrowly lost Mahoning County, part of his congressional district, where the small, distressed industrial city of Youngstown had one of the highest poverty rates in the country following the Great Recession. Having flipped only one county that Trump carried in the 2020 presidential election by the barest margin, Ryan did not meaningfully alter the state’s Democratic coalition nor its urban-rural divide. A redistricting process overseen by state Republicans following the 2020 census will implement new boundaries in 2023, intensifying gerrymanders that favour conservatives.

At a glance, the electoral map of Pennsylvania suggests that Fetterman was equally unable to reshape the Democratic constituency. The former factory towns and micropolitan locales that make up most of central Pennsylvania and its northern and southern borders voted decisively for Oz, while Fetterman dominated greater Philadelphia and Pittsburgh – the latter still a vital if diminished centre of heavy industry and advanced manufacturing, even as it has increasingly relied on growth in the healthcare and education sectors. Yet, from the New York Times to Jacobin, the near-unanimous assessment was that Fetterman improved prospects for progressives in the state, partly by breaking with the orthodoxies of Pennsylvania’s Democratic machine and spearheading a new electoral strategy. 

The leading concern for both Fetterman and Ryan was the unspoken need to regain the trust of white industrial workers and the working poor in regions outside of Democratic strongholds. Like Ryan, Fetterman emphasized the importance of domestic industry and unions to the economic revival of hard-bitten communities. Both backed the currently thwarted PRO Act and opposed ‘right-to-work’ laws that have spread in Republican-dominated states. And both adopted the economic argument that re-shoring supply chains would reduce inflation and consumer costs. The central plank of Fetterman’s platform, ‘Make More Stuff in America’, was yet another example of a Democrat telegraphing agreement with Trumpian trade policy, even as it was couched in terms meant to appeal to left-leaning audiences. On top of this, Fetterman echoed Ryan on China, attacking Oz for producing his campaign merchandise there and reiterating bullish arguments about American competitiveness. ‘I’ll always stand up to China and anyone who threatens the Union Way of Life’, he declared. ‘We know Oz won’t get tough on China.’

But whereas Ryan’s sabre-rattling cast him as a provincial and perhaps untrustworthy red state Democrat, Fetterman’s nationalistic rhetoric did not elicit the same criticism. On the contrary, a liberal-left coalition rallied behind the Pennsylvanian candidate in a rare show of unity, with an enthused core of national organizers – the same Senate Majority PAC that refused Ryan funneled $42 million into the election – who saw him as the key to winning back the target constituency of ‘non-college educated white working class’ voters.

What explained this variance? Political timing was a crucial factor. Back in the spring, Ryan had alienated key Democratic constituencies while Vance had simultaneously emerged as one of the strongest ultra-MAGA congressional candidates, making the race seem like a foregone conclusion. Fetterman, meanwhile, was boosted by the early mobilization around his insurgent primary campaign, in which he prevailed over the centrist Conor Lamb, and the subsequent recognition that the balance of power in the Senate would likely hinge on his performance. Since Pennsylvania, unlike Ohio, remains integral to the success of the Democratic presidential nominee in the Electoral College, the ramifications of an Oz victory were especially significant. In this context, the left seemed willing to tolerate or ignore Fetterman’s muscular expressions of ‘labour patriotism’ amid worrying signs that Oz was closing the polling gap during the final stretch of the campaign. Such high stakes made it easier for Fetterman to forge the coalition that eluded Ryan: progressives, stalwart Democrats, party elites and swing voters.

Of course, contingent elements also played a part in determining the outcomes in Ohio and Pennsylvania. Fetterman, aided by a savvy communications team attuned to the state’s challenging political terrain, defied speculation that the stroke would undermine his credibility and managed to sustain his momentum throughout the summer. In fact, his recovery fed into the underdog narrative which his campaign had begun crafting ever since the outset of the primary contest with Lamb. Whereas Fetterman was perceived as an insurgent outsider turned national politician, Ryan was viewed as an emblem of his party’s declining fortunes in the region. In both cases, the Democrats’ fragile position in these key manufacturing states set the tone of their campaigns. But while Fetterman translated this struggle-against-adversity into an electoral asset, Ryan was haunted by the apparent inevitability of defeat. This was partly due to the relative strength of their opponents, Vance being a far better political operator than the hapless Oz.

Fetterman’s success, however, does little to change the Democrats’ pattern of episodic victories and long-term structural weakness in the rustbelt. While Biden has committed to backstopping domestic industries, particularly the emerging renewables sector and advanced chip production, new plants are not opening at a war economy’s clip. Though there are promising signs of fixed investment in Ohio – encouraged, perhaps, by this past summer’s CHIPS Act as well as the American Rescue Plan and bipartisan infrastructure bill of 2021 – this will not be enough to reverse decades of working-class dealignment and blue-collar animus toward the Democratic establishment. Future candidates may look to Fetterman as a model of pragmatic progressivism; but, as Ryan’s case shows, this is far from a straightforward election-winning formula. Indeed, with influential Democratic strategists and pundits now insisting that the metropolitan Sunbelt offers more opportunities to grow the Democratic base, Fetterman’s nostalgic affinity for industrial labour may turn out to be unrepresentative of the party’s overall direction. In either case, the Democrats will struggle to rebuild their regional power beyond the Northeast and West coast in the absence of a national programme capable of mobilizing progressive cadres as well as disaffected former supporters.  

Read on: Tom Mertes, ‘Hell with the Lid Off’, NLR 132.

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After Castillo

If the former Peruvian dictator Alberto Fujimori’s self-coup of 5 April 1992 was a tragedy for democracy, then Pedro Castillo’s attempted self-coup of 7 December 2022 was little more than a farce. Whereas the legacy of the former endures to this day, the latter was over in a couple of hours. After an abortive attempt to dissolve Congress, install a ‘government of exception’ pending new parliamentary elections and undertake a root-and-branch overhaul of the judiciary, Castillo set out for the Mexican embassy, where he presumably intended to claim asylum. He was arrested by his own security detail while stuck in traffic en route. In an ironic twist of fate, Fujimori and Castillo are now detained in the same jail.

It is not entirely clear why Castillo made this move. True, he faced a third impeachment process. But as with previous attempts to unseat him, the votes simply weren’t there. He may have feared that the investigations into his alleged corruption posed an imminent danger, and decided it was either now or never. Or perhaps he thought that shuttering Congress and calling new elections would reinvigorate his popular support. If so, he was mistaken. The manoeuvre was condemned across the board, his cabinet ministers resigned, and the armed forces refused to support him.

In the 2021 elections, Castillo secured a razor-thin majority by pledging to increase social spending and reform Peru’s broken economic model. His success was hugely symbolic: an indigenous teacher and trade unionist from the impoverished highlands had come to power the same year as the country’s bicentennial. With Castillo in power, some thought, deep-rooted inequalities could finally be addressed. Yet, since then, his presidency has been an abject failure, with no major political or economic reforms to speak of. Most of the blame lies with Congress and the media, which have been relentless in their attempts to bring him down. But Castillo also bears some responsibility for this disaster. He has made one poor decision after another – on ministerial appointments in particular – and allowed his administration to be tarnished by corruption and incompetence.

Peru’s primary political cleavage is between the forces of fujimorismo and anti-fujimorismo. In 2021, those who opposed fujimorismo’s return to power – a varied constituency spanning rural indigenous voters and urban liberals and leftists – succeeded in defeating Keiko Fujimori, the daughter of the former dictator. Yet the fujimoristas, concentrated in populous urban centres, refused to recognize the election result and vowed to prevent Castillo from governing. Over the next year, the division between these groups drove constant conflict between the executive and legislature. The bulk of opposition to Castillo came from the right, but parts of the left also turned against him – including Perú Libre, the nominally Marxist party that supported his election bid and later expelled him for abandoning his social programme. In the resultant atmosphere of political turmoil, with meaningful reform rendered impossible, both the president and his opponents in Congress lowered their horizons and began to focus on the basic task of ensuring their political survival. Ideological differences were subordinated to each group’s attempts to protect their status and extend their opportunities for graft.

Now, with Castillo gone, vice-president Dina Boluarte, a lawyer with limited political experience, has become the country’s first female premier. Again, the symbolism is significant: Peru is a socially conservative country where many of the changes achieved by feminist movements in neighbouring states are still out of reach. What her presidency will mean for women’s rights remains to be seen. Her public profile is less toxic than Castillo’s, but she will inevitably face the same Congressional bombardment and hostile media coverage, without the legitimacy conferred by an election victory. It is doubtful whether she will be able to stay in office until Castillo’s term expires in 2026. To survive, she will have to build bridges with the electorate, particularly those who voted for Castillo and are now calling for new elections. Much will depend on what type of cabinet she puts together and the signals it sends about how she plans to govern. She has expressed her intention to make the government a broad church, yet a technocratic cabinet that seeks to appease Congress may encounter resistance among the voters that elected Castillo.

In recent years, the armed forces have refrained from directly intervening in the political sphere. This may change, however, if figures such as Antauro Humala gain greater traction. The brother of former president Ollanta Humala (2011-16), Antauro served a prison sentence for his role in the failed military uprising in 2005. He now leads a nationalist movement called ‘Etnocacerismo’ (a reference to Peruvian military hero and former president Andrés Avelino Cáceres) with a highly visible paramilitary element. It has so far won the support of some rural communities and retired soldiers, and Humala hopes to use it as a launch-pad for his 2026 presidential campaign. If he manages to cast himself as an alternative to the deadlock between fujimorismo and anti-fujimorismo, Peru may well witness the emergence of a new and uniquely dangerous political tendency.

For now, though, Boluarte’s presidency will probably offer more of the same. Political instability has become the norm in Peru. The country has had six presidents since 2016, none of whom has served a full term. Castillo proposed a new constitution to challenge the country’s neoliberal model, but not even the establishment of a constituent assembly – now a remote prospect – would resolve this systemic political crisis. The president’s removal may give the new administration some temporary breathing space, but the dynamics that generate political instability – parties that operate as kleptocratic machines, divided branches of government, the polarization between fujimorismo and its opponents – will persist.  

Read on: Efrain Kristal, ‘Screening Peru’, NLR 42.

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Rural Sensualist

To say that I knew Jean-Marie Straub (1933-2022) and Jean-Luc Godard (1930-2022) equally well is another way of saying I knew them equally poorly. Yet I know that they wound up dying sixty-odd days apart in the same Swiss village (Rolle), close to where Godard spent much of his childhood and later shot some of his best (Nouvelle Vague, King Lear) as well as his worst (For Ever Mozart) work – an area I’ve never visited. Straub was born in Metz, which I don’t know either – a small city that belonged to Germany before World War I and then for a spell during World War II before reverting to France, giving him a sort of divided nationality like Godard – who, although born in Paris, was Swiss-French, straddling another kind of division.

From 1963 to 2006, Straub was half of a two-headed, four-handed filmmaking team – based in Paris, Munich and close to Rome – with Danièle Huillet, his French wife, the more practical-minded member of the couple, who only gained full credit as co-author about a decade after they started, which she then retained until her untimely death in 2006. Circa 2011, Barbara Ulrich, who was Swiss, became Straub’s producer, partner, occasional actress and business manager, most likely occasioning their move to Rolle.

One thing that tended to make both Godard and Straub indigestible to Anglo-Americans was their having grown up in a French culture where avant-garde art and mainstream entertainment weren’t mutually exclusive, as the careers of René Clair, Jean Cocteau and Marcel L’Herbier amply demonstrated. Moreover, the fact that both of these chain smokers belonged to the Cahiers du Cinéma crowd (with Straub qualifying as a junior member, like Luc Moullet), which embraced Hollywood populism but shied away from avant-garde elitism, meant that their own avant-garde practices, including a reluctance or inability to tell stories, were couched in mainstream terms even as they confounded mainstream editing protocols.

Godard had anonymously helped in the financing of Straub’s first full-length feature, Chronik der Anna Magdalena Bach (1968), and politically as well as aesthetically, they remained comrades-in-arms for well over half a century, effectively serving as the two most imposing pillars of cinematic modernism in Western Europe, particularly as this applied to their grappling with texts, their love of direct sound, their preoccupations with history and their sharp critical reflexes.

I knew each of them only fleetingly. I interviewed Godard in 1980 and 1996 and curated the first Straub-Huillet retrospective (supplemented by about a dozen films from others that they considered exemplary) held in the US in 1982, with an accompanying catalogue that benefitted from their input. At the Viennale in 2004, where they were presenting a John Ford retrospective, I had dinner with the two of them and (quite awkwardly) a colleague I wasn’t speaking to, a critic who unlike me was fluent in Italian; the fact that they showed no awareness of the incompatibility and discomfort of their two guests was characteristic of both their single-mindedness and their social clumsiness. (An English friend once described the problems she faced upon presenting them with a gift, which they didn’t know how to receive.)

Another thing Godard and Straub-Huillet had and have in common is that no one quite knows what to do with their work. In the case of Straub-Huillet’s reception in the UK, Screen magazine appeared to be far more comfortable printing their screenplays than explaining why it was important to do so. As for their reception in the US, the silence and/or incomprehension prior to 1982 was such that I was moved to turn the catalogue into an angry polemic. Jean-Marie himself was livid that the New York Times’ Vincent Canby had reviewed their Moses and Aaron as Aaron and Moses, and he seemed equally irritated when another reviewer added a ‘the’ before Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach (an error shared by Wikipedia and many others), implying that they had adapted an existing document rather than compiled one of their own invention. (The New York Times’ recent Straub obituary is no less befuddled, maintaining that the lengthy subtitle of their Othon Les Yeux ne veulent pas en tout temps se fermer, ou Peut-être qu’un jour Rome se permettra de choisir à son tour – was given in English and that Straub-Huillet didn’t even care if people walked out of their films.) As for Godard, even in this journal, Fredric Jameson recently found himself asking ‘what we were to do with the final works of the “humanist” period, where they came from, and whether they meant a falling off or a genuine renewal.’

The most significant difference between these figures, at least for me, is that Godard was a city slicker and Straub was a rube, a hillbilly – by which I mean existentially if not literally. In both cases, this was for the better as well as for the worse. It applied to both their respective social skills and (especially in Straub’s case) their lack of the same, which paradoxically seemed just as evident. Both of them were snobs as well as populists, gadflies as well as traditionalists. Each reinvented the medium for his own purposes, as did Alexander Dovzhenko, Federico Fellini, Jia Zhangke (three other inspired hick directors of innovative epics), and indeed William Faulkner (who reinvented the novel in comparably epic and innovative ways).

Straub’s undeserved marginality derives in part from the way we tend to regard country folk, especially when they display the unbridled freedom of avant-garde artists. Many of us unconsciously adopt the city-bred bias that innovative art belongs to urban audiences and depends on some form of city smartness, reluctant to believe it can also come from hillbillies. That these artists seem to reinvent their own art forms may lead us to think that they somehow arrived at their discoveries by brute instinct rather than by study or intellect, but this means overlooking that Faulkner read Joyce and Dovzhenko was exposed to modern art in Warsaw, Berlin and Odessa. Straub and Huillet studied both the subjects of their films (music by Bach and Schoenberg, texts by Böll, Brecht, Corneille, Duras, Hölderlin, Kafka, Mallarmé, Montagne, Pavese and Vittorini, and paintings by Cézanne, among many others) and the films of Bresson, Buñuel, Chaplin, Dreyer, Ford, Hawks, Lubitsch, Renoir, and Tati, their masters.

The ways that they accommodated their subjects to these masters are in some cases fairly easy to detect, as in the traces of Bresson and Dreyer in the performance styles of Straub-Huillet films (especially the early ones); less so for their Hollywood and French commercial models (Ford, Hawks, Lubitsch, Renoir) and comic-independent ones (Chaplin and Tati). But the stamps of these and other populist heroes remained none the less present in Straub’s critical vocabulary and conception of his art. In Pedro Costa’s extraordinary Where Does Your Hidden Smile Lie? (2001), aptly described as a romantic comedy about Straub-Huillet – which shows Huillet meticulously editing one of the multiple versions of their 1999 Sicilia! while Straub advises, kibbitzes, paces, smokes and pontificates – Straub identifies Chaplin, of all people, as the greatest of all film editors (an argument he often made elsewhere) because Chaplin knew precisely when a gesture began and ended. In an earlier documentary by Harun Farocki, we see Straub suggest to a German actor he’s directing in Klassenverhältnisse (1984) that he deliver a line by Kafka the way that Ricky Nelson says a line in Hawks’ Rio Bravo. (Defying the notion that works of art need to be singular, Straub-Huillet sometimes edited several different versions of their films using different takes of shots so that, for instance, the sound of an offscreen rooster crowing might be heard in the German subtitled version but not in the English subtitled one.)

The seeming incongruity of matching a radical vision with a mainstream product also proposes cinema as a grappling or juggling with a text (written, composed, painted, or filmed) in order to approach history, another trait Straub shared with Godard. This in turn redefines both political will and reality as things that Chaplin, Dreyer, Ford, Griffith, Hawks, Lubitsch, Mizoguchi, Renoir, Stroheim and Tati can teach us important lessons about. Such a perspective was especially apparent when I conducted a Q+A with Jean-Marie and Danièle in New York and attended their lengthy debate session with some art students about why Ford was more dialectically correct than Eisenstein, which left many of the kids speechless. Straub’s often inflammatory rhetoric tended to be leftist and/or anarchist, but the underlying feelings were often related to conservative paeans to preserving the status quo such as Rio Bravo, ably put together by storytellers with often-bittersweet conclusions about upholding the law and bowing to homespun convention. Indeed, Straub’s intense love for the material world arguably suggested a kind of conservativism complicating if not undermining his Marxism.

By the time Straub-Huillet became landscape artists in the 70s and 80s – arguably starting with Moses und Aron (1975) and Fortini/Cani (1976) and climaxing in such masterpieces as Trop tot/trop tard (1982) and Operai, contadini (2001) – the sensuality of places and people, of animals, insects, and vegetation became more central to their art, even as their chosen texts continued to help generate it. (Despite the intermittent power of its visuals, it’s the sound of German being spoken that comprises most of the beauty of Der Tod des Empedokles.) Costa told me that they once spent their spare time translating some of Shakespeare’s plays into Italian, not because they wanted to film the results but simply because they found the existing translations ‘shit’. This passion for exactitude while struggling with texts, meanwhile valuing their resistance to them as well as their predilections, also led them to insert patches of black leader to represent textual cuts in their Einleitung zu Arnold Schoenbergs Begleitmusik zu einer Lichtspielscene (1973). But regarding what they did with landscapes, Huillet, in a letter to Artificial Eye’s Andi Engel about Trop tot/trop tard, may have done a better job of describing their art than any of their more discerning critics, such as Gilberto Perez and Barton Byg:

What is recounted: struggles, revolts, defeats, delays and anticipations, statistics; what is represented: history, topography, geography, geology, light, lights, wind and clouds, land (worked and transformed by men), traces – erased or still visible – and sky (lots of sky); we tried finding the right perspective (the only one), the right height, the right proportions between the earth and the sky, to be able to pan without having to change the horizon line, even at 360-degrees.

Unlike Godard, who had social skills even when it came to informing his public that he wanted to be left alone, Straub tended to create unnecessary scandals and misunderstandings wherever he went. For all its sincerity, the angry bluster of his political rhetoric ­– which inspired him to announce in absentia at Venice in 2006 (where he was receiving a lifetime achievement award), quoting Franco Fortini, that as long as there was American imperialist capitalism, there could never be enough terrorists in the world ­­– seemed motored by nervousness and clumsy shyness, which apparently led him to overlook the terrorism of American imperialist capitalism. It was the same provincialism that reportedly led him to reject a Canadian retrospective because ‘you can’t trust Americans with prints’ and prompted him and Huillet to title their early video Europa 2005 – 27 octobre (2006), as if they assumed that everyone in their audience already knew about the electrocuted French teenagers. But it was also a tender provincialism whose innocence produced the splendours and wonders of workers and peasants in a vibrant, humming forest explaining how to make ricotta. If this sounds like hyperbole, Straub made the very practice of spouting and spreading such hyperbole contagious, and, as with Godard, we will continue to celebrate him not only for what he produced but also for what he inspired in some of his disciples and commentators.

Read on: Jonathan Rosenbaum, ‘The Missing Image’, NLR 34.

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Cézanne’s Withdrawal

The last painting you see as you leave Tate Modern’s Cézanne retrospective is Three Skulls on a Patterned Carpet (1904). Done two years before the artist’s death, it is dark and oppressive, literal in its preoccupations.

The three skulls speak of death and interiority, of subjective meditation on the limits of human life. The carpet which rises all around them, High Victorian with its illusionistic red flowers and brownish folds, is fecundity embodied: all blooming and dying. The painting thematizes a split, ever-present in Cézanne, between lived time – the time, equally, of the painter making the painting and of the human beings whose skulls these once were – and the longer durée of material time, the time of solid objects and raw matter, during which our own skeletons will endure when we do not. The flesh that covers them will recede; the force and intelligence that moves them will vanish; but our bones will live on at a different rhythm, under different forms of propulsion, becoming, perhaps, props on an artist’s table. Skulls, in other words, are like paintings: they outlast their original owners (it is marvellous to see the thick, bubbled paint that still stands off the contours of the left two skulls, a hundred years and more after they were painted).

Paul Cézanne, Three Skulls on a Patterned Carpet 1904. Kunstmuseum Solothurn (Dübi-Müller-Stiftung), C 80.2.

These are morbid thoughts. They make sense coming at the end of a retrospective. But they risk overdetermining our understanding of the artist. Cézanne worked on other subjects than skulls in his last years – the three great Large Bathers for instance, of which only one, belonging to the National Gallery, is on show at the Tate. Or the views of Mont Sainte-Victoire done from his studio roof. Or the mighty portraits of Vallier his gardener. Death was not his sole concern. Nor did death, when it appeared, necessarily call for such seriousness. It could be funny; one need only look at Chateau Noir (1900-4), hung near to Three Skulls, to see this. The painting’s gothic flourishes are absurd. Lancet windows bulge like eyeballs, bare tree branches form skeleton fingers. It is as unsparing a send-up of the tendency to allegorize mortality as Northanger Abbey. We should not look to the Three Skulls, then, for some neat, closed statement on mortality. Certainly, the painting is a memento mori, done in the tradition of Cézanne’s heroes Titian and Poussin. But we should ask what the difference is between such a painting, done by an ageing Cézanne as the twentieth century dawned, and those of the painters on whom he drew. What was death’s social content at this point in the history of modernism? What marked it off from Et in Arcadia Ego?

Answering such questions requires knowledge of where Cézanne was coming from, of the artistic traditions on which he drew, and of the society in which he lived: the norms and expectations of the modernizing French bourgeoisie that come under such pressure in his paintings. Such considerations are well served by the hanging arrangements in the Tate show. With the exception of the last room, which treats the late Cézanne, the exhibition is organized either thematically or pedagogically, not chronologically. There is a room for the views of L’Estaque; one for the artist’s beloved Mont Sainte-Victoire; one for the bathers; one for the still lives; and another for portraits of the artist’s wife and young son. We go on encountering early paintings, from the 1860s or early 1870s, throughout. Sometimes, these encounters prompt re-evaluation.

Room 2 hangs some of the great landscapes, typically read in terms of close empirical observation, across from a few of the more fanciful products of Cézanne’s sexual imagination. What does it do to The Francois Zola Dam (1878-9), whose swirling precipitous landscape the formalist art historian Roger Fry found so perfect, to come upon it opposite the seldom seen 1876-7 version of L’Après-midi á Naples, and realize these works were almost contemporaneous? Or to turn from MoMA’s peerless Still Life with Fruit Dish (1879-80) and find The Battle of Love (1880)? Fry thought paintings like L’Après-midi and The Battle spoke to a weaker strain in Cézanne’s painting, ‘the baroque contortions and involutions with which his inner visions presented themselves to his mind’. ‘Baroque contortions’ is not a bad term for what is going on in L’Après-midi. Its central two figures embrace so closely that their bodies almost fuse. Look where the left-hand woman’s left leg and back meet the right leg of her androgynous companion, how they seem to issue from a single body united by her loose black plait. Attraction and revulsion are mingled here, and attached to the naked human form, in a manner that is further allegorized by the wrestling (or coupling?) figures in The Battle of Love.

Paul Cézanne, L’après-midi à Naples (avec ervant blanche) 1876-7. Private Collection.

Fry could never muster much affection for such ambiguities. He preferred the ‘ordered architectural design’ achieved in Cézanne’s images of the external world: landscape and still life in particular. It is a nice touch to see Fry’s notebooks displayed next to Still Life with Fruit Dish. His diligent, rectilinear sketches and excited handwriting convey the breathlessness of his attempts to comprehend the sheer novelty of what he was seeing. The words he found – words for Cézanne’s muteness and impenetrability; his bizarre conservative politics; the ‘tragic, menacing, noble or lyrical’ sides of his art; its repeated efforts at ‘synthesis’ – these go on resonating. But the gap between the sketches on the page and the canvas on the wall is glaring. Fry’s drawings are neat and ordered. They reflect his conviction that logic and synthesis were the paintings’ ultimate results. Cézanne’s painting, on the other hand, fairly pulses with sickly illumination. The blue wallpaper flowers take on a life of their own. I can never escape the impression that the back wall is no wall at all, but sky. Blue seeps around the objects. It makes the yellow and red highlights on the apples blaze brighter.

Moving from the sexual fantasies of paintings like L’Après-midi and The Battle of Love to Cézanne’s more innocuous subjects helps us discern the mingled presence of desire, uncertainty, and fear in both. Take the two paintings of The Bay of Marseille Seen from L’Estaque that hang side-by-side in Room 5. The first was done in 1878-9 and usually hangs in the Musée d’Orsay, the other is most likely from 1885 and comes from the Art Institute of Chicago. Both meditate on the painter’s desire to fix the view before him into comprehensible form, to have it add up, and the failures and frustrations implicit in the attempt. The splendid ridge of deep, scrubby green that descends from left to right in the Orsay painting encapsulates this feeling. It is broken at its centre by the odd pairing of a tiny, dun coloured house and a tree with an ochre canopy. The house is bright and inhuman, with the merest ghost of a window. The tree is bizarre, thrusting up from all that green, haloed in blue and white. Is it dead? Killed by some blight that will carry off its dry leaves? Is it no tree at all, but a puff of smoke from the chimneystack directly below? Or a tree viewed through smoke? The foreground piles up questions and uncertainties. They are the fruits of sustained looking. In the Chicago picture, smoke streams from another chimney, its blue-grey scrawl a synecdoche for the power and deficiencies of the painter’s brush. Form is fixed, only to endlessly unravel.

Paul Cézanne, The Bay of Marseille, Seen from L’Estaque 1878-9. Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

The question posed in such passages is this: what if an image of the world won at the greatest cost, at the greatest proximity, returns as something ungraspable? What if knowledge, at close range, adds up to confusion? The view across the bay of Marseille, at the opposite shore, speaks to this fear. In both paintings, distance has ironed out the peculiarities of the foreground, but at the cost of all lived particularity. It is as if in order to understand the scene, the painter had to kill it. The shadows that wreak havoc in the foreground of the Chicago painting have been pushed right off the hills on the other side of the bay. They balance on top of them like rakish hats. The diagonal ridge, tinged green, that runs down to the bay’s far shore on the right of the Orsay painting, reads like an answer to the broken diagonal in the foreground with its smoking tree. Nothing living breaks its surface. Its rationality is chilling.

The paintings at L’Estaque are typical of Cézanne’s mature landscapes. We can never get a grip on them. The space they offer for imaginative participation is always either too close or too far away. Something similar happens in the still lives, of which the show contains an astounding selection. A single wall in room 7 is worth the price of entry alone: it holds the two versions of Still Life with Plaster Cupid, from the Courtauld in London and the Nationalmuseum in Stockholm, as well as Still Life with a Ginger Jar and Eggplants (1893-4) from the Met and the Getty Museum’s Still Life with Apples (1893-4). All were done between 1893 and 1895, at Jas de Bouffan, the family estate where Cézanne moved after the death of his father. The sheer range of effects achieved across contemporaneous paintings with similar, often identical subject matter, is remarkable. Just look at the shift in atmosphere between the Met’s Still Life and the Getty’s, how two paintings in which blue is the dominant note – the blue of the walls, of the air, of the fabric à l’indienne, of the stalwart ginger jar – make such different material out of the same colour. The former is icy; the latter suffused with a green that seems to emanate from the melon’s bowling-ball surface. Look at the different kinds of disorientation achieved in the two Cupids. Space, in the Courtauld painting, is tipped and tilted. The cupid rocked on its table, the canvases stacked against the walls and the bucking floor that rises up almost parallel with the picture plane describe a mad architecture. The Stockholm version came later. It resolves its predecessor’s space into a comprehensible linear construction; I imagine even Cézanne pulling back from the full implications of his earlier Cupid. Now, at least, we are level with the tabletop. The studio-floor, so productive of spatial confusion (why is ground-level in Cézanne never a source of certainty?), is out of sight. But in its absence, the objects on the table are transformed. The cupid’s mutilation reads more clearly from this angle. Whole patches of canvas poke through its plaster face. Spilling across the table, its folds twisted up into a clam’s mouth, the blue fabric acquires an eerie vitality.

Paul Cézanne, Still Life with Plaster Cupid 1895. The Courtauld, London (Samuel Courtauld Trust). Photo © The Courtauld. 

There was a time when the effects of such paintings – the way they have of at once framing a scene, with dazzling immediacy, and rendering it alien, incomprehensible – were read in terms of autonomy. Like Cézanne himself, leaving behind theatrical subject matter and Paris salons for the peasants and produce of Aix, these paintings withdraw. They are dense, negative, particular. This negativity seemed to answer the question of their modernity: how it was that this most innovative of painters, a beacon to generations of subsequent modernists, could have assembled his greatest achievements from such defiantly pre-modern subject matter. Turning from modernity in revulsion, seeking more and more extreme models of refusal, the paintings registered modernity’s effects with unprecedented sensitivity. This has been one answer to the biographical problem of Cézanne’s later political sympathies: his mistrust for revolutionary politics, his anti-Dreyfusism, his increasingly conservative Catholicism. None of it mattered if the art itself registered a different set of aesthetic and political commitments. Fry put it this way:

At bottom this strange man, who seemed in life to be of an exasperating innocence, this man who read nothing but the Catholic daily paper, trusted always to the Pope for direction, and believed all the reassuring plausibilities of the social and intellectual reaction, had none the less a great intellect where his one passion was concerned, in whatever affected his art.

The contemporary art world no longer has much tolerance for this kind of argument. We do not insulate art from the world around it. We want our artists to share our politics. Their lives should be exemplary. The Tate show makes no mention of Cézanne’s later opinions. Instead, in room 3, titled ‘Radical Times’, the curators attempt to unsettle the image of an isolated reactionary pursuing his art in denial of wider society. They make the case for a man whose paintings, at least in his youth, responded to progressive causes. Scipio (1866-8) depicts a half-clothed black man, a model of the same name at the Academie Suisse about whom little else is known. Cézanne has shown him seated, eyes shut, resting on a white sheet with arms thrown forward. It is a beautiful painting, muscled like a mannerist nude, a figure study in exhaustion that draws, clearly, on prototypes developed in the imagery of abolitionism. The American Civil War had barely ended; slavery in the French dominions was a none-too-distant memory. It is fascinating to see Cézanne responding sympathetically to this discourse. But one needs to ask why this interest in racial justice, briefly gained, was so quickly lost. Why do the great paintings of the following decades shed the signs of human struggle? What was the character of this loss, this withdrawal, accompanied as it was by an art of unprecedented aesthetic boldness? Was it flight from the modern world – from its horrors and its challenges – or a confrontation with some of its deepest implications?

At stake here is the character of Cézanne’s withdrawal. What was lost and what was achieved? One answer to this is given by the treatment of death in Three Skulls, and two paintings that hang near to it at the end of the Tate show – Still Life with Apples and Peaches (c.1905) and Still Life with Ginger Jar, Sugar Bowl and Oranges (1902-6). In each, the blue that suffused a whole moment of Cézanne’s still lives has been all but extinguished. The shutters are closed, the outside world banished. Touches of blue remain – on the creases of a cloth or the highlights of a piece of fruit – but the overwhelming tones are the browns of the wall and the reds of the patterned carpet. The sense of loss is overpowering. The world collapses to the dimensions of an interior. Fruit has turned rust-coloured. Death appears in these paintings as a withdrawal into the private sphere, a shuttering-up of the artist in his grand house, with his beloved objects. In the process, the whole tragedy of modern capitalism which is Cézanne’s great theme – the myth of the private individual, the demolition of nature, the erosion of public life, the death of Europe’s peasantry – comes into a new focus. The skulls on the table are no generic memento mori. They are our ancestors.

Read on: Saul Nelson, ‘Opposed Realities’, NLR 137.

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Finite Worlds

At the New York Film Festival this autumn, two new films by South Korean director Hong Sangsoo played as part of the main slate. The Novelist’s Film and Walk Up represent Hong’s twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth features since his 1996 debut, The Day a Pig Fell into the Well, meaning that on average he produces more than one film every year. In the last decade, he has made two per year several times, and in 2017 he made three: On the Beach at Night Alone, Claire’s Camera and The Day After. A regular of the festival circuit – the former film premiered at Berlin, the latter two at Cannes – Hong is much loved by its presiding critics, chief among them artistic director of the New York festival, Dennis Lim. This year, in addition to his festival programming, Lim curated a retrospective of the director’s work, screened in randomly paired double features, accompanied by ‘The Hong Show’ – a quiz night where Lim answered audience questions on ‘the ne plus ultra of the modern auteur’. The Hong Show doubled as a celebration of Lim’s elegant new monograph, Tale of Cinema, which grapples with what he describes as ‘the difficulty of seeing Hong clearly, of orienting oneself within a shape-shifting hall of mirrors’. Published by Fireflies Press, Tale of Cinema is the latest of the Decadent Editions, a series set to comprise ten books on ten films made in the 2000s, with works by Nick Pinkerton, Erika Balsom and Melissa Anderson already in circulation.

Lim focuses his attention on Hong’s sixth film, from which his book takes its title. Tale of Cinema (2006), he argues, can serve as an ‘inflection point of sorts’: it was the director’s first self-produced film, his first to employ devices – zoom and voiceover – which became signatures, and the first to foreground the practice of filmmaking. Yet, Lim concedes, there is no keystone: ‘It is a critical truism – and only partially true – that Hong makes the same movie over and over’. That partial truth is found in certain constants. Hong’s films generally take the form of a chamber play, with a cast of recurring characters and players; they are set in the decades after South Korea’s transition to democracy; they play out amidst a consistently middle-class milieu. Their signature frame is of a man and a woman sitting at a table littered with empty bottles of alcohol. The two are likely artists, the man a film director, the woman his muse. He will be lascivious, she – at least in early films – will lack a certain interiority. Conversation will be awkward, sometimes agonizingly so, and this will be exacerbated by Hong’s proclivity for plain framing and long takes. There will be little action and lots of talking, but despite this, the characters will never overcome some fundamental inability to communicate.

Less predictable is Hong’s use of narrative. Walk Up, for example, tells four stories, each corresponding to a different floor of the building where the film is set. Tale of Cinema tells the same story twice, first as a film within a film, then as ‘reality’. ‘Even when they are largely confined to a single plane of reality’, Lim writes, ‘we are compelled to notice the shape of a Hong film, thanks to repeated actions, doubled characters, recurring locations or mirrored situations’. A film might fold back on itself, rhyming like a couplet; at other times, a film may more closely resemble a series of disparate poems, held together by a common metre. This narratological approach is made more intricate still by the fact that Hong’s films all exist in conversation. The oeuvre is recursive, reflexive. In Lim’s view, their ‘meaning and pleasures are cumulative’, and so a ‘single movie gives little sense of his project’. Indeed there is ‘something perverse’, he confesses, about isolating any one film – as the book series demands – given that ‘the parts and the whole are inseparable’. Lim’s solution is a self-consciously ‘Hongian’ one, to take one path ‘through’ the film and another ‘around’ it.

In a 2015 interview with Cinema Scope, Hong doodled a few shapes to explain his working method: two circles side by side, connected by dotted lines (the Locarno festival subsequently made it into a t-shirt design). Beneath them he wrote: ‘infinite worlds possible.’ The two circles, Hong clarified, represent two independent worlds. They exist in parallel. But ‘as soon as there is a clear correspondence between them, these worlds disappear on their own’. This is to say that Hong’s films do not, or cannot, exist in isolation. To see one film without the others is typically to wonder what all the fuss is about. (For me, Claire’s Camera at Lincoln Center. When the screening ended, an elderly gentleman turned to his partner and said, ‘That was the worst movie I’ve ever seen.’ I felt the same way.) The pleasures of watching a Hong film stem from familiarity, not just with the works that came before, but crucially also with the director himself. Corpus fits: Hong himself is the ur-shape. His films are self-expression by way of self-obsession. Across them we see the story of a life: an attempted suicide as a wayward teenager (Tale of Cinema); a trip to America to study filmmaking (Woman is the Future of Man); an affair with actress-muse Kim Min-hee (the 2017 films); many affairs with drinking (most films); teaching filmmaking (Oki’s Movie); enduring audience Q&As (Right Now, Wrong Then); discussing – and justifying – his art (The Novelist’s Film); and more recently, a preoccupation with mortality (Hotel by the River, In Front of Your Face, Walk Up).

A key detail is missing here: Hong’s encounter with Cézanne. While studying at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in the late eighties, where several of Cézanne’s paintings were on display, he experienced a moment of clarity. ‘I saw this apple painting for the first time . . . I was standing there talking to myself, like, “This is enough. I don’t need anything more.”’ Hong has spoken of his love for Cézanne many times, calling his work ‘perfect’, ‘flawless’. During the retrospective at Lincoln Center, he reflected that ‘maybe his way of proportionalizing the abstract and the concrete is just right for me.’ Lim considers the particular balance between these two poles to be shared by the two artists. Other commonalities include ‘the obsessive repetition – those endlessly re-arranged apples – and the proto-Cubist interest in bending the laws of perspective’. I would also add ‘mundanity’, in that Hong’s films are as mundane as a bowl of apples. By this I do mean dull – tedious, monotonous – but also earthly, terrestrial. The root word here, mundus, means simply ‘world’, referring to either mankind or the earth itself. (Another sphere.) Hong’s worlds, like Cézanne’s apples, are microcosmic in this way: gravitons for greater thought.

Cézanne painted hundreds of still lifes featuring the fruit, but his dedication was not to apples so much as painting them, problematizing them. ‘I want to astonish Paris with an apple’, he said. Their simplicity has been cause for much hyperbole. In the apples, we see everything – everything but an apple: ‘this is no longer fruit, nor is it fruit modelled in paint,’ wrote Ernst Bloch, ‘instead all imaginable life is in them, and if they were to fall, a universal conflagration would ensue, to such an extent are these still lifes already heroic landscapes, so loaded are these paintings with mystical gravity and a yet unknown, nameless mythology’. Critics are sometimes guilty of describing Hong’s simple films in similarly hyperbolic terms, but Hong is a director equally dedicated to the problematics of his medium – his signature zoom has the same jarring effect as Cézanne’s oblique brushstrokes. Both foreground the artwork’s materiality, call attention to its making. Lacan describes this as ‘the vanity of the work of art, of the work of the brush’ – that which betrays its ‘imitation.’ But Cézanne is different. When Cézanne paints his apples, Lacan argues, ‘it is clear that in painting those apples, he is doing something very different from imitating apples – even though his final manner of imitating them, which is the most striking, is primarily oriented toward a technique of presenting the object. But the more the object is presented in the imitation, the more it opens up the dimension in which illusion is destroyed and aims at something else’.

What else, if neither reality nor imitation, concrete nor abstract? In the same Cinema Scope interview, Hong drew another diagram to convey the relationship between fiction and reality in his work: a rectangle, labelled ‘Real’, with an arrow curving toward it. The arrow comes close but never touches, swerving away like a near-miss comet. ‘Imagine this rectangle is real life. I try to come as close as possible to it. How? Using details from my life.’ Lim compares the approach to autofiction, the literary genre wherein auto holds far more allure than fiction. Yet in the case of Hong’s films, the consequences of this approach are more severe, with the author’s omnipresence decentralizing the texts themselves. The films are ultimately less important than their maker, and ironically, Hong’s overfamiliarity serves as a kind of defamiliarization.

For example: The Novelist’s Film concerns a novelist (Lee Hye-young) who encounters several old friends, one of them a filmmaker (Kwon Hae-hyo, who also plays a filmmaker in Walk Up). In doing so, she makes a new friend, the actress Gil-soo (Kim Min-hee) and is inspired to make a film. Yet when I watch The Novelist’s Film, I do not care for the characters except that they represent fragments of Hong; I do not listen to their dialogue except to discern his treatises on film, art, life. When Gil-soo enters the frame, I do not see a newly retired actress, I see Kim Min-hee, Hong’s lover, who inspires him in that same way and who has similarly retreated from acting. When the film ends, my viewing method is rewarded: with a film within a film, purportedly the novelist’s film, which is of course not hers but Hong’s. In this epilogue we see Kim Min-hee, with Hong’s voice behind the camera. Soft music plays while she gathers a bouquet of flowers, bride-like. Though Hong and Kim’s relationship has been public for some time, South Korea’s divorce laws mean that the two have never married, and so with this sequence, Hong realizes his forbidden nuptials.

When Lacan refers to the ‘vanity’ of art, what exactly does he mean? We can think of vanity in terms of an object – a vanity – a kind of mirror-stage that shares the same basic structure as the cinema: seat, screen. These films are vanities in the sense of Hong confronting his reflection. But further, the word vanity is rooted in the void: it describes an emptiness, a fruitlessness. Vanitas therefore defines a form of still life concerning death, like a memento mori, as when Cézanne’s apples turned to skulls. Walk Up is a work of vanity in this way. Scaling the building, floor by floor, story by story, we see a director age and become unwell. He curls up in bed, foetal, and we think perhaps he might die. On the building’s highest plane, he recalls an encounter with God, and in the context of Hong’s reflexive filmmaking, we imagine this confrontation as something like Jesus on the cross: monologue made dialogue, a conversation with the self.

Perhaps no director today embodies the nature of ‘creator’ as dictator-patriarch more than Hong. Thierry Frémaux, director of the Cannes Film Festival, has labelled the director the ‘Korean Woody Allen’ – a comparison Lim rejects (it presumably ‘highlights the neurotic male leads and the quasi-autobiographical elements’, but like similar comparisons ‘fails to hold for anyone looking closely enough’). Yet though there are surface similarities – neurosis, lust, self-abuse – Hong’s worlds are yet more insular and more intricate. He is also in greater control. For The Novelist’s Film, Hong acted as director, writer (Hong, since 2010, is said to write each scene upon the day of filming), producer, editor, cinematographer, and composer, while his would-be wife Kim served as production manager. The film was funded by the proceeds of its predecessor; Hong’s self-sustaining economic model allows each new project a budget in the region of $100,000.

Lim argues that this ‘fundamental modesty and pragmatism’ is something ‘radical’. ‘We never think of Hong as a political filmmaker’ – as he notes, other critics have made the argument that Hong’s films are emblematic of a ‘post-political’ Korea – ‘but what is his entire project if not an act of resistance, a rejection of the norms that dictate what movies should be and how they get made.’ I am wary of these words – radical and resistance – especially when applied to art. Dennis Zhou, writing in The Nation, makes the dubious claim that the films are not apolitical themselves, but rather construct ‘an aesthetics of the apolitical which is anything but’. Hong should be celebrated for his artistic autarky, but there is nothing politically radical in his films, and they resist only intrusions on his creative control. Later in the book, Lim suggests that the ‘democracy of incident in Hong’s films, the absence of hierarchy and the evenness of attention, invites an equivalent way of looking and listening,’ but this is only true if we remove Hong from the equation. It is an observation more appropriate to Cézanne: ‘Cézanne painted the heads of his friends and family as if they were apples’, writes Meyer Schapiro. Hong paints them as if they are Hong.

Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas: there is nothing inherently wrong with such an approach. In almost all fiction, auto or otherwise, one life stands in for many, and it is sometimes easiest to speak generally through specifics. But in Hong’s case, his cinema has developed a chronic overreliance on its animating body – and so have its admirers. One question that recurs while reading Tale of Cinema: what are these films without Hong? Lim undoubtedly succeeds in the endeavour of ‘seeing Hong clearly’, but the films themselves remain elusive. In attempting to make sense of them – perhaps to ascertain their value beyond Hong himself – Lim often defers to cinema’s most prominent theorists: Roland Barthes on spectatorship, Andrew Sarris on auteur theory, David Bordwell, André Bazin, Robert Bresson. A consequence of minimalist art is that we project meaning onto it, filling gaps and imposing symbols. In the case of Hong’s work, there is perhaps nothing more to be said about the man and woman getting drunk (again and again), and so we look elsewhere, toward their author, where we can anchor our thoughts and feelings, sow theories, and participate in the cult of personality which has driven Hong to the upper echelon of festival filmmaking. Beyond the filmmaker, however, we have his films: can they be said to contain ‘all imaginable life’, as Bloch said of Cézanne? Are they ‘heroic landscapes’ replete with ‘mystical gravity’ and ‘mythology’? Or are they just apples?

Read on: Kevin Gray, ‘Political Cultures of South Korea’, NLR 79.