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Gaucho-Lepénisme?

The stunning electoral successes of France’s Rassemblement national over the past month have naturally elicited much reflection on the sources of this historic breakthrough for the country’s postwar far-right. The RN won 30 out of 81 seats in the EU elections in June: the largest parliamentary delegation of all parties in Europe, garnering more than double the vote share of Emmanuel Macron’s bloc. In the first round of the subsequent snap National Assembly elections, the RN secured 33% of the popular vote. The Nouveau Front populaire – a broad left-wing alliance that includes the Socialists, La France insoumise, the Greens and the Communists – trailed on 28%, with Macron’s Ensemble on just 20%.

The polls are predicting that the RN will nonetheless fall short of a workable majority in the second round on Sunday, blocked by a ‘Republican Front’ spanning the centre and parts of the left. A total of 221 candidates from the NFP and Macron’s Ensemble have pulled out of the race to avoid splitting the vote, although the distribution is uneven: 132 NFP candidates stood aside compared to 83 Macronists, and anti-RN candidates are still facing off against each other in three way contests in almost 100 constituencies. This reflects the centre’s reluctance to collaborate with Jean-Luc Mélenchon’s LFI, which many of them view as just as dangerous as the far right, if not more so. Some have speculated that in the event of a hung parliament, Macron will resign and use a controversial interpretation of the constitution to run for another presidential term. But such a coup d’état would be extremely risky. It is more likely that he will try to appoint a ‘moderate’ Prime Minister who could assemble a government comprising figures like François Hollande, who has been working hard to launder his reputation, Macron’s former Health Minister Aurélien Rousseau, a candidate for the NFP, and even the LFI dissident François Ruffin. This formation would then pave the way for an anti-Mélenchon unity candidate in the 2027 presidential election, reconsolidating the centre and excluding the ‘extremes’. Even if the RN is prevented from forming a government this time, though, the party will likely be in a strong position to style itself as the country’s sole opposition and bide its time until the next vote.

Which regions and factors are driving the striking upswing in support for the RN? There has so far been little discussion of the RN’s strong showings in parts of the country hitherto resistant to the far-right. In the EU elections, the RN list came out on top in all the socio-demographic categories analysed by the pollsters, including households in the top income quartile. Among intermediate occupations, such as clerical and sales jobs, the RN vote jumped from 19% to 29%. The leap was even bigger among those with at least two years of higher education: from 16% to 29%. The party is also making headway among managers and retirees. It is now on 20% among the former, on par with the Socialist Party (and up from 13% in 2019); among the latter, the RN holds a considerable lead: 29% of retirees compared with 23% for the Macron list. Symptomatic of the normalization of the RN vote, in the European elections the far-right lists came out on top in the affluent 16th arrondissement of Paris, a historic bastion of the liberal right.

All of this urges some reconsideration of the composition of the Lepéniste electorate. The dominant view, relentlessly voiced by the mainstream media and party leaders, has been that the RN vote is a cry from the heart of France’s ‘forgotten people’ – those overlooked by Europe, globalization, the elites and, above all, the left. According to this perspective, formerly Communist working-class communities have drifted to the far-right, driven by the successive betrayals of social democracy and progressive movements. Pundits repeat the notion that the RN – France’s leading workers’ party in the polls – is heir to the conservative, family-oriented values that characterized the old PCF. Geographically, their vote is perceived as rooted in ‘La France périphérique’, to use the phrase popularized by Christophe Guilluy: depressed rural areas far from major transport hubs and dynamic employment centres. This so-called ‘gaucho-lepéniste’ thesis forms the backdrop to Didier Eribon’s Retour à Reims (2009), in which Eribon recounts the political trajectory of his northeastern working-class family, from the PCF to the Front national, the predecessor to the RN.

It is certainly true that the FN has long made efforts to establish a presence in the north and north-east – most emblematically the parachuting in of Marine Le Pen in 2012 and her election in the 2017 legislative elections in Hénin-Beaumont, the heart of the former mining area of Hauts-de-France. However, to locate the FN/RN’s base in deindustrialized areas and former PCF voters is too simplistic. An abundance of social science literature highlights the protean nature of its vote, while the data shows that abstention remains by far the most common option among those who once would have voted for the PCF. Although voting patterns regularly show the FN/RN in the lead among blue-collar workers, it is important to note that the INSEE classification includes small-scale tradespeople, a stratum that has always been drawn to the right. Think of the ‘petits métiers’ of nineteenth-century naturalist novels, whose ambivalence towards both the bosses and revolutionary ideas is evoked in Zola’s L’Assommoir. Today, these occupations – butchers, gardeners, lorry drivers, garage mechanics and builders – are statistically the most numerous among the working class. These are jobs that cannot easily be offshored. Unlike factory work, which has been shrinking since the 1980s, they have been relatively spared by globalisation.

A more nuanced version of the ‘gaucho-lepéniste’ thesis requires a clearer understanding of the evolving and often contradictory politics of the party itself. Many argue that the RN (and the FN before it) are ‘bifrons’, or two-faced – appealing to both right and left. This too can be overstated. The RN’s ‘social’ tilt was promoted in particular by Marine Le Pen’s erstwhile right-hand man Florian Philippot, a former chevènementiste who encouraged the party to present itself as the champion of those caught between the big guys who monopolize everything and the little guys – the unemployed and idle immigrants – who produce nothing. The RN’s 2017 platform included a series of measures such as lowering the retirement age to 60 and raising wages, which positioned the party to the left of the identitarian liberalism of the Sarkozy right. At the same time, particularly in the south-east, the RN continued to align itself with the values of the traditional right – those of small property owners, hostile to taxation and attached to law and order. Yet this orientation, which has deep roots in the FN and is descended from the Poujado-Reaganism of Le Pen senior, became hegemonic once again after the party’s relative failure in the 2017 legislative elections and the ousting of Philippot from the leadership. The ‘social’ elements of the 2017 programme were discarded from the 2022 platform, deemed incompatible with the objective of joining forces with the right wing of Les Républicains.

This changing of the guard refocused the party on its heartlands far from the deindustrialized north: Provence and the hinterland of Nice. After the 2022 elections, one in two MPs in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur (PACA) were from the RN. This region is home to a large concentration of pied-noir repatriates from Algeria and their descendants, whose collective imagination was formed by the colonial era. Support for the FN here was of a piece with rejection of the Evian Accords and hostility towards the ‘bradeurs de l’Empire’, as the Gaullist right was labelled by Jean-Louis Tixier-Vignancour, far-right presidential candidate in 1965. Jean-Marie Le Pen succeeded Tixier as the head of this nebulous movement, which encompassed former OAS militants and various neo-fascist groupings as well as royalists and traditionalist Catholics. Mitterrand, political adversary of de Gaulle, cultivated relations with these ultras throughout his political career, culminating in a presidential amnesty for the generals who staged the April 1961 Algiers putsch. Since then, this fringe constituency has abandoned the Socialists and returned to its natural political home: the RN. Yet this is hardly a movement from left to right, as it is often portrayed.

The racism that characterized social relations in the colonies was thus part of the DNA of the FN. It was originally exacerbated by the fact that the repatriates were themselves victims of xenophobia when they arrived in France. Subsequent waves of immigration thereby offered them the opportunity to join the majority group by distinguishing themselves from the new minorities. Immigration has been a constant of FN/RN discourse, although its significance has shifted: the immigrant is no longer figured as the person stealing jobs, but rather as the welfare recipient stealing money. This has been part of a demographic realignment that has seen the party move from a predominantly urban vote in the 1980s – Jean-Marie Le Pen’s first major campaigns were driven by hostility towards immigrants in physical proximity – to a rural and suburban vote, reaching its peak in areas where immigration is virtually absent.

As Félicien Faury points out in his book on Lepéniste supporters in the PACA region, the cultural dimensions of the FN/RN vote tend to be overlooked in favour of economistic interpretations. In Thomas Piketty and Julia Cagé’s recent book, for example, a sweeping overview of the driving forces behind voting in France since 1789, electoral behaviour is explained principally through income inequalities. Yet the core of the FN electorate has always been middle-class voters, those who can afford to put ‘un peu d’argent de côté’ in the jargon of pollsters. If Jean-Marie Le Pen’s themes appealed to certain fractions of the popular classes, it was because private property had become a cornerstone of working-class identity. As Violaine Girard reminds us, the flip side of deindustrialization was massive access via subventions to small-scale, individual property.

While surveys show that the RN vote, like the LFI vote, is concentrated at the lower end of the income scale, the weight of this variable is qualified by the fact that RN supporters tend to be based in areas where the cost of living is lower. And contrary to perspectives centred on wealth inequality, education level proves to be a greater determinant. Lepéniste rhetoric is most effective in places where social success is not coupled with educational attainment. In these environments, identification with the interests of the boss – often a friend who controls employment opportunities – is predominant. This has been reinforced by the disappearance of traditional relays of left-wing perspectives. As reported by the sociologist Benoît Coquard, author of a long-term ethnography of social life in rural areas, many teachers, who were often also coaches of the sports club and were once considered local notables in their villages, have left and moved to towns. The ethos of the hard-working small businessman – the entrepreneur who doesn’t count his hours – is held up as a model, while voting left has become stigmatised as the choice of the lazy. The ambivalence in these areas towards the gilet jaunes movement bears witness to this trend. Coquard has shown that initial support faded as the movement becomes urbanized, with media coverage shifting from roundabout and tollgate blockades to street demonstrations.

Lastly, while the discourse of ‘peripheral France’ has focused on industrial relocation and economic concentration in the metropolises, for RN voters the main concern seems to be less employment than where they live. In the PACA, the tourism sector accounts for 13% of the economy, compared with 8% nationally. In this respect, globalization has been a boon for the region, but the downside has been an influx of bourgeois from the north and abroad. The ‘great replacement’ of the local middle class reflects a geographical rather than a professional downgrading – the ‘beaux coins’ where people were planning to retire have become unaffordable, trapping small businessmen and middle-class employees in the declining suburbs. This resentment feeds a ‘triangular’ social conscience – both anti-elite and anti-welfare recipient – in contrast to the dichotomous ‘us and them’ of left-wing discourse.

Such an interpretation seems to be confirmed by the breakthrough of the RN in the west of the country, where anti-Covid restrictions and remote working have attracted white-collar workers to the seafront. While these transfuges occupy the charming cabins of the Gironde estuary, independent fishermen are relegated inland, their purchasing power undermined by the explosion in fuel prices. The rise of the RN in Brittany is symbolic. This relatively privileged region benefits from a rate of job creation higher than the national average. But, as in the rest of the country, its economic dynamism is based primarily on the tertiary sector. Historically a land of agriculture and industry – textiles, automobiles, metallurgy, rubber – today the number of second homes and seasonal accommodation is rocketing, leading to the desertification of villages in winter and the phenomenon of ‘volets fermés’. The ‘peripheral France’ thesis describes an inexorable territorial polarisation, yet surveys reveal antagonisms within these areas: between the scenic regions that attract the educated upper middle classes and the neglected places – the ‘endroits moches’ – where the RN has the wind in its sails.

What are the chances of a shift to the left among this electorate? Some commentators insist that winning over the RN base is a lost cause, and that the left would do better to concentrate on areas with a Macronist majority. Yet the polls show a broad consensus in favour of progressive measures at national level: an increase in the minimum wage, which the RN parliamentary group opposed in 2022, and tougher legislation on workplace safety standards, an important issue to strata often employed in high-risk jobs. People living in the suburbs are attached to public services and facilities, as illustrated by the protests in villages and towns against school closures. Setting limits on real estate speculation – the real fuel for the RN vote in areas where the party is growing fast – would send a powerful signal. The RN’s vacillation on the retirement age and minimum wage, and refusal to lower VAT on basic necessities, meanwhile, would seem to present opportunities. Is the party on the side of the small craftsman, stifled by spiking energy prices, or on the side of capital, which has largely benefited from the inflationary crisis? These are the contradictions that the left should throw into relief.

Read on: Serge Halimi, ‘Condition of France’, NLR 144.

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Majority Without a Mandate

Was ever a country, in this humour, won? A majority without a mandate, and a landslide that isn’t a landslide. Labour won 64% of the seats with 34% of the vote, the smallest ever vote share for a party taking office. Turnout, estimated at 59%, was at its lowest since 2001 (and before that, 1885). When a soggy Sunak finally pulled the plug on his flagging, flag-bedraggled government at the end of May, every poll showed Labour with a double-digit lead, at over 40%. Sunak’s litany of unforced errors, as well as the massive funding gap between Labour and the Conservatives and the queue of businessmen and Murdoch newspapers endorsing Labour, ought to have helped keep it that way. Instead, Labour’s total number of votes fell to 9.7 million, down from 10.3 million in 2019.

The Conservatives plunged from 44% to 24%, feeding into a surge for the far-right Reform UK which, with 14% of the vote, took four seats. The combined Tory–Reform vote, at 38%, was bigger than Labour’s share. The latter would not have increased at all, as the pollster John Curtis pointed out, without the Labour gains in Scotland enabled by the SNP’s implosion. Meanwhile the country’s left, despite its tardiness and lack of strategic focus, did well. The Greens increased their vote share from less than 3% to 7% and took four seats. Sitting alongside them in the Commons will be five independent pro-Palestine candidates, including Jeremy Corbyn who defeated his Labour rival in Islington North with a margin of 7,000 votes. Intriguingly, George Galloway’s diagonalist Workers’ Party didn’t win a single seat – including Rochdale, which Galloway has represented since February.

Never has there been such a yawning gap between the fractal pluripotencies of the age and the suffocating politics at the top. Few governments have been this fragile coming into office. There will be no honeymoon. Labour and its leader are deeply unpopular; just less so than the Conservatives for now. Disguised by the commanding scale of Labour’s majority in Westminster is the drastic expansion of marginal constituencies, where the party barely clung on. In Ilford North, independent left candidate Leanne Mohamad came within 500 votes of unseating the incoming health minister Wes Streeting; in Bethnal Green & Stepney, the incumbent Rushanara Ali, who refused to back a ceasefire in Gaza, saw her majority reduced from 37,524 to 1,689; in Birmingham Yardley, the right-wing sectarian Jess Phillips was almost unseated by the Workers’ Party; and in Chingford and Woodford Green, where Faiza Shaheen was blocked from standing as the Labour candidate, she fought her former party to a draw – splitting the vote and allowing the Tories to retain the seat.  

How did Labour do so well, yet so badly? The party’s vote share usually falls during an election campaign. Yet the deeper issue was the basis on which it sought office. The decisive factor here was the cost-of-living crisis and its political metabolism. In periods of low inflation, price rises erode the consuming power of those at the margins of the economy, but in 2021-22, as a combination of supply-chain crises and corporate profiteering drove up costs, even some of the middle class felt the pinch, while the government’s attempt to scapegoat striking workers generated little sympathy. The Tories’ turn to open class war laid waste to their talk of ‘levelling up’ and belied their overtures to ordinary Britons.

The Conservative Party responded to this crisis by turning on itself and its charismatic yet wayward leader, Boris Johnson. The result was the catastrophic Liz Truss interval. Standing as an ‘anti-globalist’ reactionary, attuned to the concerns of a Tory membership protected from the worst of the crisis but stagnant relative to the soaring wealth of the super-rich, Truss crushed the media favourite Rishi Sunak. But her government, after a mini-budget with £45bn worth of unfunded tax cuts, was immediately subject to the kind of institutional aggression usually reserved for the left. The financial sector, Bank of England and national media made short work of her. Sunak was hastily ushered into office without a vote among Tory members, and an assortment of austerians appointed to the Treasury. The strategy since then, continued into the election, has been to combine fiscal sadism with ineffectual culture warring. The result was a realignment of the political centre behind Labour, transforming the electoral calculus.

From that point on, Labour could seek office without a mandate. It abandoned its most ambitious spending commitments, notably the £28bn to be spent on green investment. It positioned itself as a safe, managerial option for the establishment. Its offer to the electorate was telling: a politics that would ‘tread more lightly’ on people’s lives. In a campaign fought less on policy than on vibes, it offered an insultingly vague manifesto. Its tax and spend commitments amounted to just 0.2% of GDP: small change given the crisis of British infrastructure, health, schools, water and housing. But then ‘small change’ is Keir Starmer’s forte: small change on the last government, small change in spending, small change in the share of votes. Labour’s tiresome mantra has been ‘growth’. It was never explained how this was to be achieved, given Labour’s unwillingness to raise taxes on higher incomes or corporate profits to fund investment, barring vague references to planning law.

Late in the campaign, however, it became clear that Labour is hoping for asset managers to lead a spurt of private-sector investment. BlackRock boss Larry Fink, who endorsed Starmer, has positioned his firm as a means of providing resources for green investment without raising taxes on the rich. ‘We can build infrastructure’, he writes in the Financial Times, ‘by unlocking private investment’. This is the ‘public-private partnership’ boondoggle on a massive scale. BlackRock already owns Gatwick Airport and has a substantial stake in Britain’s crumbling, sewage-spewing water industry (70% of which is currently owned by asset managers). As Daniela Gabor writes, ‘the profits BlackRock will hope to generate through investing in green energy are likely to come at a huge cost.’ As Brett Christophers points out in his critique of ‘asset manager society’, owners are far removed from the infrastructures they control, and have little incentive to care for them. They just create vehicles for pooling investment capital, milk the asset for what it’s worth, and move on. This is the big idea on which Labour is pinning its fragile fortunes: no wonder they didn’t want to explain it to the electorate.

The obvious danger is that an unpopular government, made complacent by its grossly disproportionate majority, systematically imposes an agenda that the majority don’t want, and which will make most people worse off. Waiting in the wings to claim scalps, if the left doesn’t get its act together and stop merely coasting on transient mass campaigns, will be grifters of the farraginous variety, attuned to the darker side of public passions. Grace Blakeley has warned that Starmer may be the next Olaf Scholz – or, we may now add, Emmanuel Macron. Yet the left has been warning the centre for decades, to no avail. For all their feted ‘pragmatism’, centrists are at heart absolutists of necessity, even more rigorously deterministic and unilinear in their reading of history than Stalinism at its peak. They have repeatedly walked willingly into electoral oblivion to deliver austerity and war, their ‘morituri te salutamus’ echoing in the halls of power as they went. Starmer will do the same, and anyone on the left still hitching their fortunes to his will go down with him.

Read on: Daniel Finn, ‘False Compromise’, Sidecar.

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Familiar Faces

In recent years, Britain has been gripped by a clichéd image of the country’s working class: socially conservative, almost entirely white and based in small, depressed towns in the Midlands and the North – the ‘left behind’ voters of Labour’s post-industrial ‘heartlands’ who supported Brexit in 2016 and then the Conservatives three years later, and have apparently returned en masse in 2024 (at least if you ignore the enormous votes in the North and Midlands for both Reform UK and pro-Palestine independents). This outdated caricature, drawn from grainy images of the 1984-85 Miners’ Strike and propagated by pollsters, think-tank reports and vox-popping journalists, has blocked reflection on the lived realities and culture of Britain’s actual working class: who composes it, what they look like, where and how they live.

These are the sorts of questions addressed by After the End of History, a travelling exhibition of photographs taken between 1989 and the present, curated by the writer and photographer Johny Pitts. The show has just arrived at the Focal Point Gallery in Southend-on-Sea from Coventry’s Herbert Gallery, the appropriate municipal modernist space where I saw it. The effect – of seeing contemporary working-class life, represented in its real complexity and variety, on gallery walls – is startling. The first thing you see is a hyper-realist image by Trevor Smith of Prince Naseem Hamed, an Anglo-Yemeni boxer from Pitts’ native Sheffield. Prince Naseem was a charismatic cult figure in the 1990s, his persona equal parts gangsta rap-inspired, devoutly Muslim and extremely Yorkshire. Smith, who ran a photography studio in Chesterfield, represents Prince Naseem in a heroic pose, the bright colours slathered in gloss; this is not how coalfield towns are supposed to look, at least as imagined from London.

Pitts’ selection is extremely broad, including work by 26 photographers, ranging from local jobbing professionals like Smith to artists like Khadija Saye. There are frenetic photographs of youth at UK Garage parties in Ayia Napa, and quieter ones: a white plastic chair outside a corner shop the height of summer; a West Midlands council estate falling into desuetude. There are sketches and photographs made by a waitress in a Soho strip club depicting her leering clients, there are rural labourers in tracksuits, there’s a gentrifying street in Hackney, its barber shops and greasy spoon cafes in the midst of being replaced by artisanal emporia with their unmistakeable white-on-black shop signs.

The visual unity of the exhibition, however, is impressive – in part the result of its 1990s presentation, designed by Sheffield’s once-famous record sleeve artists The Designers Republic.If you grew up in the British urban or suburban working class in the 1990s, these photographs will produce a shock of recognition. Spaces you dimly remember or had wanted to forget, familiar faces or people you crossed the street to avoid, bygone shop signs and ephemera: all are on show for what feels like the first time. The Hoggart-inspired popular imaginary of a working-class past of cosy collectivity is totally absent; so too are images of poverty, misery and deindustrialisation, at least explicitly, as well as the sneering ‘chav towns’ caricatures of post-Blair TV shows like Little Britain. There’s a strange, saturated brightness to it all, recalling the sometimes tawdry, sometimes glamorous sheen of a late 1990s style magazine.


Installation View ‘After The End of History’ 
Photograph: Anna Lukala, Courtesy the Artist, Focal Point Gallery and Hayward Gallery Touring 

After the End of History is the most recent instalment in a curious project of cultural entryism. It follows Afropean, a dazzling travelogue through ‘Black Europe’ Pitts published in 2019. The book’s deadpan monochrome photographs and dense text detail a kaleidoscopic journey from Sheffield to Lisbon – via the Stockholm suburbs, the Paris Banlieue, Claude Mackay’s Marseille, the old Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow, among other places. Since then Pitts has become one of the most interesting artist-intellectuals in Britain, seemingly on a mission to free discussions of art, class and race from social media clout-chasing and academic reputation-building.

Yet, perhaps in part due to the lack of jargon and posturing in his writing, the radicalism of Pitts’ work is seldom appreciated. His subjects tend to be people on buses or trains, loitering outside shops, wandering the streets, doing nothing in particular. He is attracted to what hides in plain sight. Visibility (2022) was his subversive contribution to Tate Britain’s ‘Look Again’ pamphlet series of politicised, often decolonial ‘responses’ to its collection. Pitts sidestepped the brief, filling his booklet with photographs of and interviews with the museum’s predominantly Black security staff (the ‘proletariat beneath the paintings’), as they observe the gallery-goers, look at the artworks and articulate their own highly sophisticated responses to them. Home Is Not a Place (2023), an exhibition at Soho’s Photographers’ Gallery and a book with the poet Roger Robinson, showcased Pitts’ matter-of-fact colour photographs of Black Britons; nearly everyone looks straight at the camera, evoking an intimate complicity between subject and photographer.

Although part of what makes Pitts’ work interesting is its refusal of the standpoint epistemology of the 2020s, it is often strongly autobiographical. He grew up in Firth Park, a Victorian multicultural interzone in Sheffield, between the city centre and the low-density interwar council estate of Parson’s Cross. He is the son of a White English mother and a Black American father who played in a cult Temptations tribute act, and Pitts himself has mainly made a living as a voice actor, continuity announcer and presenter (in the early 2000s he presented a kids’ pop music show on Saturday morning television). He is steeped in the history of photography but his lack of formal academic training gives his work an effortless originality – he has little interest in the clichés of radical chic – and this absence of pretension confers a kind of directness. He’s here to communicate, if not necessarily to tell people what they want to hear. At the Herbert Gallery, people responded to the photographs in a similar spirit. As we were looking at the British Indian photographer Kavi Pujara’s images of the interiors of South Asian family homes in Leicester, a stranger turned to us and pointed out the polystyrene tiles on the ceiling in one photograph – an aesthetically questionable fire hazard ubiquitous in working-class houses between the 80s and 2000s.

But if this is working-class photography – of and by working-class people – it is a long way from the overtly politically engaged and programmatic ‘Worker Photography’ movements of 1920s Berlin or 1970s Hackney. There’s a class in itself here, not a class for itself. Describing the nightlife photographs of Ewen Spencer – off-the-cuff snapshots of dancing youth with six-packs and pressed shirts, showing off at raves in Ayia Napa or the Old Kent Road – Pitts’ wall-text reads: ‘Spencer is not interested in what people want the working class to look like, but what actually goes on: brand names, VIP areas, aspirational drinks and cocktails’. Explicit politics occasionally strays into Pitts’ work, from the nostalgia for Communist Internationalism that is a surprising thread running through Afropean, to the more consciously iconic photographs in Home Is Not a Place. One of these, titled ‘The Black Activist’, depicts a young woman in a puffa jacket standing in front of a long block of sixties council flats, holding a home-made cardboard placard emblazoned with a hammer and sickle and the words ‘THERE IS NO CLIMATE JUSTICE UNDER CAPITALISM’. But the story told by Pitts’ pictures is not of an always resistant, always resilient proletariat. There are no strikes or brass bands. The defeat happened some time ago, and life goes on.

Some of the most exciting photographs in After the End of History are of revolutionary cultural moments, especially musical ones – from Eddie Otchere’s thrilling, kinetic images of the Jungle scene in mid-1990s London, to Barbara Wasiak’s Neue Sachlichkeit-style photograph of Sheffield techno producers Parrot and Winston staring out from the streets-in-the-sky of the long-demolished Hyde Park Flats. There’s little outward sign of the possibility of change through collective action, but change happens nonetheless. One large-format photograph by Hannah Starkey shows a young woman walking past some UDA murals in Belfast wearing the sort of outré garb that emerged in Harajuku, Tokyo, in the 1990s and was for a time described as the ‘Gothic Lolita’ look: wild pink hair, short skirt, thigh-high socks and cartoonish platform boots.

This juxtaposition – Japanese dreaming in a working-class neighbourhood overpowered by a particularly grim history – runs through Pitts’ new project. Visit his Instagram account and you’ll find image after image of Japan in the 1980s and 1990s. Outrageous futurism and lurid kitsch rub up against each other; there is no trace of the ‘healing’, folksy Japan sold to middle-class readers via Marie Kondo or books on ‘Old Kyoto’. This series is once again rooted in Pitts’ autobiography. His father toured Japan with an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical in the late 80s, which meant Pitts was as a child whisked out of depressive, post-Miners’-Strike Sheffield into the giddy futurism of the bubble economy at its delirious height. In the last few years, Pitts has been working on Sequel to a Dream, a piece about the experience of moving from Sheffield to Japan and back. So far there have been photographs, some from the family archive, others freshly taken on the bright, distorted film stock of the era, in an effort to evoke some of its atmosphere, to ‘bend time in the present’. Some of the project’s themes were summarised in a Radio 4 documentary, The Failure of the Future, though it remains to be seen what final form it will take. What is clear is that these images of a semi-real, semi-imaginary Japan completely scramble received ideas about race and modernity. Pitts seems to regard this as a redemptive project – one in which the ‘end of history’ can mean something other than the hegemony of neoliberalism, the death of solidarity and the crushing of working-class resistance, but can instead point toward something else: a future of leisure and technological abundance, and a future that is neither European nor American.

Read on: Rebecca Lossin, ‘The Multiple Gaze’, NLR 147.