Mon dieu, Bourdieu!

In my presentation the other night, I mentioned that Martin Parr’s photography seems to be bound up in an awareness of looking. I linked this to voyeurism, and an aesthetic that implies a distancing or a sense of detachment in the viewer. I share Susan’s hunch that there’s something important relative to boredom here, though I still can’t put my finger on what it is. However, this morning I read the introduction to Pierre Bourdieu’s treatise on aestheticism (Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste), and it blew my mind! Maybe I can articulate some of the connections I was making here.

Bourdieu distinguishes between two ways of relating to artistic production. Firstly, there’s the ‘pure gaze’ of the educated elite. This is attributed to a social class who has been schooled in the kinds of reading, deciphering and decoding necessary to engage with art on the level of form. Whether they are aware of it or not, the privileged class is educated in these modes of communication from an early age, endowing them with Bourdieu calls “cultural competence.” This competence is what allows someone to identify an artwork as ‘Impressionistic’ or ‘Dadaist,’ or what have you, seemingly without having to consult any explicit system of knowledge. Alternately, it’s what allows someone to intuitively distinguish the mediums of photography and painting based on aesthetic criteria.

Yet, as Bourdieu points out, this kind of intuition is an illusion, since “aesthetic perception is necessarily historical” (1811). It is bound up in the individual’s relationship to culture. The pure gaze cannot be separated from knowledge of the form's history, and therefore an awareness of art as art. As Mike pointed out with his Nick Hornby quote, the intellectual’s cop-out explanation for a lot of art is something like “this is a film about film itself,” or “this is a painting about painting itself.” It seems wanky and silly, but for Bourdieu this kind of reading is in fact a social signifier: it implies that the elite viewer is more concerned by the ‘form, manner, and style’ of the artwork than by its function, something that would concern only a less educated audience. And that function can be something as simple as the act of meaning, of “signifying, saying something” (1811).

Central to this manner of perception is a cultivation of ‘disinterestedness’ or detachment. The further the artwork is removed from the demands of the everyday, from the demands of the body, for comfort, or for emotional fulfilment - essentially the needs that kitsch attempts to meet - the higher it is valued by the cultural elite. Bordieu writes: “the pure gaze implies a break with the ordinary attitude towards the world … and nothing is more distinctive, more distinguished, than the capacity to confer aesthetic status on objects that are banal or even ‘common,’ … or the ability to apply the principles of a ‘pure’ aesthetic to the most everyday choices of everyday life” (1812-13).

The tension lies between this first kind of perception, and that of the less privileged class. Bourdieu calls this second manner of perception the ‘popular aesthetic.’ In contrast to the pure aesthetic gaze, it can be characterized as something like a refusal of the refusal to engage with art on the level of content and enjoyment – it refuses distance. Rather, the popular aesthetic gratifies the senses, and affirms the “continuity between art and life” (1812).

So Martin Parr. When I was fumbling to explain the ambivalence of my reaction to his photography the other day, I think what I lacked were the terms to describe these two different ways of looking. Is it possible that our reactions to Parr are so complex because they occasion both ‘aesthetic’ and ‘popular’ modes of perception? We can read his work as a social commentary on the nature and value of art, on representation, but we can also identify with much of its content. This is because it speaks to the banal and ordinary concerns of our everyday lives: shopping, vacationing, riding the subway. It also satisfies the senses with its bright colours, interesting composition and even its humour.

One piece of evidence that points to this conclusion is that, despite the usefulness of Bourdieu’s terms, they are somewhat reductive in their opposition of high and low culture. In the Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, the introduction to Bourdieu notes this weakness, stating: “ in the more mixed forms of postmodernism, bodily pleasures are not outlawed and outright commercial ambitions on the part of artists do not lead to immediate condemnation by the elites” (1808). Is anyone’s opinion of Parr’s work affected by the knowledge that he does much of it commercially? Furthermore, I think our class has demonstrated that various factors, besides social class, come into play in our judgements of an art form. For instance, we've showed an unwillingness to dismiss certain forms of pop music based on their appeal to a mass audience.

But how does this relate to boredom? I still can’t say. Perhaps the key lies in disassociation and distance: the more detached we are from the object we’re observing, and the more we're made aware of its form rather than its content, the more bored we are...? But that seems over-simplistic. I’m not always more bored reading Joyce than Zadie Smith (though sometimes, sometimes…). What do you think?

Bourdieu, Pierre. “From Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste.” The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. Ed. Vincent B. Leitch. New York: Norton, 2001. 1809-1814.

to be bored, or not to be bored

One of the things I noticed during our in-class Warhol screenings was that not everyone spent the whole time watching the films. When the screen didn’t hold our rapt attention, some of us did our readings, surfed the internet, went for bathroom breaks or even took little naps. Whether we attempted to hide our diversions or not, the fact is that these activities were in some ways small acts of defiance. Turning away allowed us to express our dissatisfaction with the films and look for interest elsewhere. I think this highlights one of Warhol’s basic challenges to his audience, and an important one for boredom more generally: that is, the notion of choice.

In the “Time” essay, Warhol asks: “What makes a person spend time being sad when they could be happy?” (112). He argues that whether we want to laugh or cry at a something is our prerogative - a person with a flexible mind can take what she wants from a situation and make it work for her. He presents his argument almost as a challenge to his reader: “You decide what you want to do and how you want to spend your time” (112). Ironically, he adds that this trick is easier for him because he lacks ‘responsibility chemicals.’ On the contrary, isn’t choice bound to responsibility? In choosing how to feel about things we claim accountability for the way the world affects us.

This idea comes up again in some of the interviews on Susan’s handout. Warhol claims that movies and television are superior to plays or concerts because they allow you to “do more things” (44). Particularly with his films, he argues, a spectator doesn’t have to just sit there: “You could eat and drink and smoke and cough and look away and then look back and they’d still be there” (44). Consequently, the film becomes more about the viewer, and how she chooses to respond, than its own content. Warhol seems bent on emphasizing this quality in his pictures, even going physical lengths to provide his audience choices during their viewing experience. In another interview, he says:

The first time we showed [Sleep], we had a radio on in the theatre. Instead of recording a soundtrack, we just put a radio next to it and every day put on a new station. And if a person were bored with the movie, he could just listen to the radio … I put two things on the screen in Chelsea Girls so you could look at one picture if you were bored with the other. (46)

Both Kiss and Empire, and even “The Tingle” confront the audience with a similar choice: we can look away. And often we exercise it, either by skipping over a few pages when B’s narrative gets too tedious, or putting our heads down when the flickering window light stops being interesting. Many critics note that Wahol’s films seem to demand a machine-like tolerance for monotony, “a massive, absurd act of attention that nobody could possibly want to give or sit through” (58). Yet what they emphasize is in fact a very human quality: the ability to select our responses, or at least to direct our attention elsewhere.

The notion of choice also came up way back when we looked at Kierkegaard. The very structure of Either/Or suggests the possibility of selecting one set of discourses over another: either A’s or B’s. Yet, as I recall mentioning in class, I’m not sure I feel this is a particularly empowering version of choice. The unreliability of both narrators, the inherent contradictions in both of their arguments, and the way they simultaneously contradict and complement one another complicates the idea that it’s reasonable to privilege one over the other. Kierkegaard practically presents this choice as irrelevant, writing as Victor in his Preface to the papers: “Read them or do not read them, you will regret it either way” (56).

However, in the chapter we read, “Crop Rotation,” A does present a version of choice that is in some ways similar to Warhol’s (weirdly also known as A). He argues that the way to not feel bored is simply to choose not to be. Rather than turning continuously to outside sources in the hopes that they will provide more stimulation, we can choose to adjust our feelings about the things at hand. He writes: “One’s enjoyment is not immediate but is something quite different which one arbitrarily injects. You see the middle of a play, read the third part of a book. In this way one derives quite a different enjoyment from the one the author has been so good as to intend for you” (70). The choice, and therefore the responsibility not to be bored lies with the individual, not the artist.

But I remain sceptical of both Warhol’s and A’s solutions for boredom. Both seem to want to turn it into something that it’s not. Warhol says: “I like boring things,” but how can something be enjoyable if its boring? I think it’s choice he enjoys, the power to transform the meaning of boredom into its opposite. Is this really a way out of boredom, or merely a way of avoiding the issue?

The fact is, very few people, given the choice between boredom and excitement, would pick boredom. Nevertheless, we all experience it. “To be bored or not to be bored”: is that really the question?

the work of art in the age of cultural overproduction

Last night I was listening to an old CBC interview with an electronic/ambient artist named Tim Hecker. I’m far from an electronic music buff, but I do like some of the stuff on Montreal’s Alien8 recordings. Tim Hecker’s particularly endearing to me because he grew up in the same leafy Vancouver suburb as I did. (You can listen to some of his music if you click on the album covers listed on this page).

Hearing this interview was timely considering that this week’s readings have raised the question of Boredom and Machinery. A few people now have wondered whether there’s a genre of music we can characterize as self-consciously boring. As a result, I’ve been thinking about electronica as a genre that links all three of these ideas - boredom, music, and mechanization.










One feature that aligns electronica with Warhol’s concept of mechanical action is its use of sampling and looping techniques. It’s not only created with machines, but often consists almost entirely of ‘inorganic’ material: guitar riffs, voices, bleeps and bips that are lifted from other recordings. Even when electronic artists record their own material, it’s often only with the aim of sonically deconstructing it later. Frequently these sounds and samples are so distorted that their original source is unidentifiable. Witness Hecker’s “My Love is Rotten to the Core,” an entire album consisting of plundered Van Halen riffs. You’d never know.

This technique of reworking familiar sounds shares similarities with the situationists’ practice of de-familiarization. Yet the effect is quite different. Despite the layering upon layering of details that goes into these recordings, the resulting experience is as often holistic as it is detail-oriented. Hence ambient recordings’ equal suitability for “headphone listening” and “background music” (Alien8). The repetition of certain elements and the often overwhelming sense of static lures a listener into a state of perceptual boredom. Yet I wouldn’t call it unpleasant – perhaps ‘hypnotic,’ or ‘soothing.’ It’s as if the music’s impenetrability presents boredom as an aesthetic experience, one that isn’t predicated on the transcendence of tedium but on its enjoyment.

I’m also interested in this idea as a means of continuing Felski’s line of thought about the redeeming elements of repetition. I’ll pilfer Susan’s quote, which states that “the potential of the loop, as an exact repetition, opens the emptiness of meaning (in its infinite proliferation) in a way that directs our attention to new terms of thought while watching the same exact thing.” I can’t think of a better way to express what I mean. Granted, electronic music isn't always engaging. But the techniques of sampling multiple sources, levelling them through mechanical production, and constructing repeated loops creates a listening experience that often renders repitition beautiful.

Could electronic music be the quintessential boring art form?

strangeness at the heart of SFU

Anecdote time!

This morning I had arranged to meet a friend from Halifax for lunch up at SFU. He’s in town for a few days on his way back from a conference in Prince George, and there was no other time or place we’d both be able to meet. (I’m not actually in the habit of entertaining visitors by inviting them to school with me). After some confusion, and some difficulty on his part in navigating our school’s maze of a campus, he arrived with an equally out-of-town acquaintance in tow. It was actually pretty fun getting to guide a little tour. They were both impressed by how big (?) and unique SFU’s campus is.

Weirdly, someone was filming some sort of movie or t.v. show today, and as I was showing around my two visitors, already feeling self-conscious about how my university appears to outsiders, I was picking my way around movie sets filled with actors who were posed and dressed up all “student-like.” I actually came upon a “scene” before I even noticed it was being filmed, and felt like there was something very peculiar about the way everyone was stationed evenly around the convo mall, looking colourful and happy and ethnically diverse. It was strange to experience this place where I so spend much of my everyday life as “other." Suddenly I felt like I was inhabiting someone else’s idea of a university rather than the real thing.

This made me think of two things: firstly, Highmore’s discussion from “Figuring the Everyday” about finding strangeness in the day-to-day. He says that everyday life is made ‘sensational’ when we put it on display. Frequently, he argues, these kinds of representations are concerned not with “everyday ‘everyday life,’ but the everyday life of ‘others.’” (14). As I mentioned, I think part of the reason I felt so odd was that I was witnessing the material of my own everyday life being other-ized. When I tried to frame my daily experience for my visitors, and as the film crew did so on a grander scale, SFU became an object of display. For a moment I didn’t see it as simply the backdrop to my daily routine, but strange and exotic, as I imagine it is in the eyes of people not accustomed to post-apocalyptic style architecture.

Second, the event got me thinking about tourism. Often when we visit new places we do so with the intent of escaping our everyday lives. But don’t we also travel in order to ogle the everyday lives of others? Not to suggest that my visitors were out to make me feel exploited, or that I necessarily felt that way. But there’s something inherently voyeuristic about the desire to observe, and to consume the experience of other people’s daily lives. Is it really possible? I guess my question is somewhere along the lines of something Susan asked last class. That is, when we put the everyday on display, or put a viewfinder around it and label it “the everyday,” (as in, “the everyday life of university students,”) does it retain or transcend that category?

I don’t know, but I’ll be happy when all the film crews are gone and I can walk distractedly to the library in peace.

DIY or die (of boredom)

This week was my first encounter with Adorno, and I have to say I found him quite unpleasant. In “Free Time” it felt as though he was deliberately constructing a theory that would justify his feelings of superiority over all manner of non-intellectual types, whom he refers to repeatedly and sweepingly as “people.” “People” encompasses sun-tanners, hobbyists, vacationers, amateur artists, and athletes, to name a few, and always implies the exemption of the author.

I was particularly struck by his discussion of the “do-it-yourself” ethic. Adorno associates this with “people’s” resentment at mechanization, a product of the industrial age that “unburdens people, without … their having any use for the newly acquired time” (193). According to Adorno, no one actually undertakes tasks that others could perform more efficiently for them out of sheer desire. Secretly, they despise these tasks, but take them on in a misguided attempt to express their individuality and throw off “the yoke that weighs upon them."

Adorno goes on to explicitly connect ‘do-it-yourself’ activity with “those people who regard themselves as anti-establishment” (194). I can’t help anachronistically thinking about this in terms of the DIY punk/grassroots ethic, a movement of the last 30 years that has been responsible for championing everything from self-publishing through zines, self-tutelage in music, and self-promotion through touring, all while assuming a counter-cultural attitude. Adorno would refer to these types of projects as “pseudo-activity,” activities designed to give the individual the illusion that s/he is challenging the status-quo, while simultaneously allowing them to ignore their “dim suspicion” of the actually miniscule possibility for change.

Adorno has a point when he states that pseudo-activities are “fictions and parodies” of the same productivity that society calls for. One of the contradictions in the DIY ethic is that it purports to challenge capitalist ideology by championing some of the very values that sustain it: for instance, productivity and individuality. In some ways DIY simply recreates the capitalist modes of production on a smaller scale, and it places a similar demand on the individual to be productive in their leisure time.

However, I think Adorno misjudges some of the motivations for doing things oneself. Doesn’t the will to write a zine, or form a band, or build your own bicycle stem from the desire to create personal meaning, even if it is within the constraints of a dominant system? I think the idea is that if we can reinvest both time and objects with meaning that isn't "predigested" we are subversively challenging a system that attempts to keep us complacent through boredom. Perhaps this sentiment takes us back to Svendsen’s claim that we are all hopeless Romantics, ever seeking self-actualization, but it also reminds me a little of something that came up in the Langbauer article: that is, that one can accomplish things by working within ideology rather attempting to escape it.

I have a feeling I am rambling and now it’s time for class. Next post should be more directly boredom-related!

making a list, checking it twice

Is Canada boring? I think it was during one of our first classes that Susan mentioned that one of our candidates for “Greatest Canadian” was the guy who invented the zipper. I think she may actually have been confusing CBC’s Greatest Canadian contest with its list of Greatest Canadian Inventions, but no matter. In addition to the zipper, the latter list boasts our country’s claims to the automatic lubricating cup, the caulking gun, the fog horn, instant mashed potatoes, the green garbage bag, the paint roller, the Wonderbra, and standard time, among others. Canada has a reputation for obsessing over its own cultural identity, or lack thereof, and one of the results of this anxiety seems be a prevalence of excessive cataloguing. From the top 10 Canadians, to the top 50 Canadian songs, we are a country of list-makers.

Love him or hate him, Douglas Coupland seems to have put his finger on this tendency with his bafflingly popular Souvenir of Canada books (and now, film!). In them, Coupland takes a stab at defining the Canadian identity by assembling a seemingly random collection of what he calls “intuitively Canadian” objects in photographic form. These objects include everything from Kraft dinner and stubby beer bottles to plastic geese and medicare. Notwithstanding the broad and highly subjective statements Coupland is making about our collective psyche, I find the list-making tactic a seductive approach to the problem of identity, and it reminds me of some of the topics we’ve been discussing in relation to boredom.

In his introductory section on Boredom and Modernity, Lars Svendsen writes about the increase in boredom as a factor of society’s failure as a conveyor of meaning. He says that we become socialized within an “overall meaning” (aka, culture), and that this overall meaning “gives meaning to the individual elements in our lives” (22). But, he asks, when the overall meaning has disappeared, what happens to the status of the cultural products that supposedly bear a relation to this larger concept? Do they maintain any sort of unified influence on a culture? (Do things still thing??? [23]).

As Canadians, we seem to think they do. By making lists of all the things that supposedly make us Canadian, we are engaging in a desperate attempt to construct meaning out of the mundane bits and pieces that make up our everyday lives. If plastic geese and maple syrup say something important about our relation to the world, then perhaps they, and by extension we, aren't as boring as one might think. But to what extent does this really work? Or perhaps a better question is, to what extent do the items on these lists actually constitute meaning, rather than simply information? (Svendsen makes this distinction on page 29). I might be intrigued to know that a Canadian invented the caulking gun (or not), but I’m not sure what possessing this piece of information does for my sense of national identity. If nothing else, for the five minutes I spent reading the Greatest Canadian Invention list, I wasn’t bored.

first post

This is a student blog for ENGL 465 at Simon Fraser University.