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Iain Chambers

from roots to routes

African roots, African routes di Iain Chambers

from roots to routes
African Roots, African Routes
di Iain Chambers

Africa as modernity
These notes were inspired by the exhibition Road to Justice at the MAXXI museum in Rome (22.06.2018 – 14.10.2018) and the works of the artists that were exhibited: Michael Tsegaye, Wangechi Muti, Johm Akomfrah, Marlene Dumas, Kendell Geers, Bouchra Khalili, Moshekwa Langa, Sue Williamson and Malik Nejmi. Thinking in the vicinity of these works drew me into considering the critical path between an image of Africa and African images, between our European constructions and the cultural and historical practices occurring in contemporary Africa. To explore this space and its subsequent friction clearly means to abandon the lazy habit of considering Africa solely as an object framed by our gaze and definitions. It means to consider Africa as a place peopled by historical subjects whose activities daily dismantle the idea of Africa as the underside and unsaid of modernity.

This prospect is not merely proposed in order to correct the picture and insist on another way of telling the tale of modernity. It means more than this. As the African American writer James Baldwin pointed out many decades ago, people who live beneath and below the power bloc, those constituting the subaltern worlds of the marginalised, the negated and the forgotten in the multiple souths of the planet, know far more of the hegemonic world than that world knows about them. In the asymmetrical relations of power that structure the histories of the present there lies not only the registration of brutal powers and accompanying violence but also the potential of a critical cut and epistemological interruption. Like the black figures found in a north European rural landscape in John Akomfrah’s reworking of Albrecht Dürer’s study of a black male and female figure at the beginning of the sixteenth century in his video work Peripeteia (2012), matter out of place pushes a historical episteme and its arrangement of knowing the world out of joint. Not only to comprehend that the world is wider and far more than us, but to begin to listen and to learn from what exceeds and refutes our authorisation means to crease the existing map and perforate it with other trajectories.

John Akomfrah, Peripeteia (2012)

This immediately implies abandoning the binary distinction between here and there, between Europe and Africa, in order to recognise the deep and reciprocal entanglements that produced both in a world worlded by planetary modernity over the last five hundred years. This also means to confront the colonial formation of the present and the violent subordination of the rest of the world through discoveries and conquests that were justified by a racialising hierarchy based on the presumed moral superiority of the West over the rest. Insisting that Africa is an integral part of modernity from its very beginnings is to touch the centrality of racialised slavery in the making of the modern political economy of the Atlantic. It is also to follow the deep inscription of that history in the formation of Western democratic institutions and their visions of ‘freedom’ (Fanon, 1986; Baldwin, 1972; Sharpe, 2016). This centrality, no matter how often it is refused and negated, historically insists and persists in the diaspora of black music and its becoming the soundtrack of the modern metropolis.
Precisely in this key, I think that the visual arts, just as with music and literature, configured within the long history of modern Africa propose a critical space where it becomes possible, I would say imperative, to consider other temporalities and rhythms within a modernity never simply authorised by Europe and the West. Opposed to the sequential logic that considers ‘progress’ as the linear extension of Europe towards the rest of the planet, here a worldly and creolised formation proposes a series of interruption and interrogations that interrupt all ideas of a linear and homogeneous temporality.
Just to consider the multiplicity of Africa in its urban realities – from Cairo to Cape Town, from Kinshasa to Casablanca – shatters the frame of unique modernity that is ours to define and manage. Neither, when considering social processes and cultural practices in Nairobi or Luanda, is it a mere mirroring or poor imitation of the West. What we encounter is the perpetual translation and transformation of a modernity that has always been planetary in its economic, political and cultural formation.

Language migrates in multiple directions. The poetics of the arts not only illustrate this perpetual movement, but also the historical and critical centrality of a migratory modernity. Or, and to insist, this means to think and reconsider modernity itself in terms of migration, and not merely of financial capital and goods, but also of people, histories, cultures, and their possibilities. This evokes the complex, messy, always unfinished, business of cultural and historical processes, rather than the rationalising chain of our conceptual categories. In this landscape the realities that emerge from metropolitan Africa art propose a heterotopia; that is, a diverse configuration of the spacetime of modernity that interrupts and interrogates our version, As the ‘southern question’ critically intersects with the world to interrogate the historical making of modern subalternities, we encounter places and practices proposing other ways of conceiving and constructing the contemporary.
Cities are sites of complex encounters, of the mixing up and mixing down in creolised cultural mutations (invariably accelerated by those once colonised migrating to the metropole). This point was already made in the Fourteenth century by the great arab historian Ibn Khaldun. Today, more than ever, local traditions become sites of translation that connect the diversity of postcolonial cities – both London and Lagos, Nairobi and New York – in a series of shared networks that simultaneously sustain local differences and diversities. Here the visual arts, music, poetry and writing, continually reconfigure another sense of urban space, disseminating a planetary coexistence that queries the asymmetrical relations of power that define the present. Proposing languages in movement, a migratory poetics, is also to prose a diverse politics. Such languages – in the specificities of their grammar and aesthetics turn – themselves become critical languages.
The challenge at this point is that of taking lessons from elsewhere, of learning from Africa, from its cities and from their artistic practices that circulate in a world that is not only ours. As Adorno once put it, this means to begin an apprenticeship in being at home when we can now no longer be sure to be at home. Resisting the established maps, even insisting with Édouard Glissant on the right to opacity and refusing to render oneself transparent to Western eyes, a negated and repressed colonial past and its constitutive role in modernity – in this case Africa – becomes an unsuspected archive within our culture and its formation. Not yet recognised it is destined to arrive from the future in an as yet uncharted Afrofuturism. At this point contemporary African art flees from the reserve of white hunters and merchants through promoting and promising a modernity still to be registered, configured, imagined and invented.

Electric Avenue
On the street at night: it is warm but not too humid. Nairobi is over 1600 metres above sea level. We are strolling on Electric Avenue in the Westlands district. This is the heart of Nairobi clubland. The volume is incredible. Even walking in the open it is impossible to converse. This is musical warfare. Between cars and pedestrians, sounds battle each other seeking their auditory claim on the territory. We stop to take a beer outside on the sidewalk while music bellows out of an open door leading down some steps into a sonorous density so thick as to reverberate through the body, denuded of words or explanation. In the interiors of the body of sound we discover folds in time that permit other times to be heard. Reasoning with sounds as living archives we encounter unsuspected genealogies, other modalities to rhyme, rhythm and reason the world that ruffle and disturb the singularity of the approved narrative. Such sounds promote counter-histories. They disseminate intervals and interruptions in the well-tempered score which the hegemonic account plays to itself’.
Is this a different or an emergent public sphere? It is certainly the active formation of a critical discursive space (Hauser 1999). We could even suggest that a form of citizenship, that is perhaps elsewhere formally denied or truncated, is here publicly sustained in sound. Such transitory geographies of musical belonging connect us to the altogether more complex unfolding of the immediacies of the world. We are drawn into multiple temporalities and spaces that link us to what we can rarely fully comprehend or attest to. This takes us beyond the rational conversation that apparently typified the Eighteenth-century coffee house and the measured prose of the modern press promoting public debate proposed by Jürgen Habermas (Habermas 1992). That particular sense of the public sphere, and associated model of citizenship, is contaminated and remixed down here in sub-Saharan Africa (and certainly not only there). In the diverse urban spaces of Nairobi, Naples, Lagos, Lisbon, Luanda, Kiev, Johannesburg, Berlin, Bristol and Cairo, public space is also lived, moulded and reconfigured in an on-going set of practices that scratch, bend and splinter the presumed model of European provenance, rendering explicit within the folds of the universal abstraction the problematic relationship between citizenship, social space, everyday culture and democracy.[1] Here, European and extra-European scenarios are unsuspectedly conjoined in a ‘general questing for democratic agency in an era of declining electoral participation, compromised sovereignties, and frustrated or disappointed citizenship’ (Eley 2002). Caribbean and Turkish diasporas in Bristol and Berlin, illegal immigrants in the backstreets of Naples, rap in Arabic, all further underline that other versions of public life, citizenship and modernity are at work. Sharp distinctions between public and private life come undone. Just as in Kenya where everything is modern – both the ubiquitous cell phone and the poverty, the midnight car wash in the club complex and the urban slum – a democratic participation lies alongside and often independent of the formal manifestations of public politics. In noisily taking the lid of the institutional can, the contents of modernity that can be observed and heard in a Nairobi night invite us to reconsider our lexicon, uncoil our certainties and take a further walk in the world.

Ten Cities Project
promoted by the Goethe Institute
Click to LISTEN

After all, the democracy and citizenship that we claim in the West, fully depends – in both its economic structures and cultural tissues – on the subordination and exclusion of the bodies and histories of those who inhabited the colonial world and who now live in the postcolony. Not only has our ‘freedom’ been structurally dependent on the extension of non-freedoms (slavery, indenture, genocide), but the liberal formation of modern, European democracy on both sides of the Atlantic is riddled with the perversities of power and property that makes its citizens the bearers of planetary injustice. The rule of law, that is the universal claims of a property-owning class and its political economy to legislate for the world, not only reveals the arbitrary and unilateral powers of a European derived sovereign will on the planet. It also exposes that very same logic to both translation and treason. Elsewhere within modernity, the terms of the modern polity are not merely a sham to be wielded by dictators and oligarchs while pursuing their own particular interests. Ideas about citizenship, democracy and the public sphere are everywhere taken up and embodied by subjects engaged in the multiple languages of modernity. In particular, in the immediacies of the simultaneously local and trans-national spaces of the city, lives, cultures and prospects are both inhabited and appropriated. Time is technologically coordinated in mobile circuitry, DJ mixes, satellite connections, social networks. Traditions are transmitted, transformed, translated. All of this is part of what David Featherstone calls the ‘geographies of subaltern connection’ (Featherstone, 2008).

Interrupting the narrative
Let us remain in this space and consider Africa as the site of what Jean and John Comoroff have called ‘Afromodernity’ (Comoroff and Comoroff, 2012). It is here that the colonial past emerges in our midst as an uninvited guest, casting a persistent shadow over the archive. The history of the modern south, constructed in the political economy of a planetary modernity to be colonised by the predatory capitalist concerns of Euro-America, now becomes an unsuspected element in the equation. Rather than a residual or underdeveloped place to where the material refuse and racist refusal of the modern world is directed, it becomes a critical site of interrogation in the very midst of a modernity that consistently considers it to be marginal.
So, this is not an archive simply to be mined and exploited, but rather one that is still to be registered; that is, to be acknowledged as a central component in the modernity that tends to exclude its presence in the narrative. If Africa is still presented as trying to ‘catch up’ with the modern Occidental world, the arts of Africa, their travels and transformations, narrate another history. This is a history, relayed in contemporary sound and images, that draws us into mapping a very different set of itineraries crossing the formation of modernity. The point here is not only to disturb accredited historiographical tools of explanation and propose another modality of archiving and research proposed by the audio and visual arts. It is also to suggest a critical configuration that evidences the historical presence of Africa in European modernity as much as the usual tale of a colonial Europe in Africa. This is less about collating the historical evidence of Black Athena or pointing to the deep history of mankind’s long march out of the Grand Rift Valley towards the rest of the world. Rather, and more urgently, it is to insist that modernity has always depended on planetary coordinates and coordination. Here, re-drawing inherited geographies and historical pathologies, Africa emerges as a central element in its formation. This is to contest the externalisation and marginalisation of the non-European world in the making of modernity that Jacques Derrida once designated a ‘white myth’.

These considerations can clearly be extended to contemporary African art. Here works exist along multiple scales that not only and most obviously confute such binary distinctions as the local and the global, but also prove impossible to be slotted into the categories prepared for their reception: African and authentic. African artistic practices subtract themselves from subordination to the categories of anthropology and sociology where they are expected to confirm Occidental perspectives. Today, this desire is consistently dissimulated. An artist such as Yinka Shonibare MBE, who ironically insists on his paradoxical historical membership of the British Empire in his very name, deliberately reworks the past of Europe in Africa while conjoining it to the present of Africa in Europe. Recovering, replaying and redressing the past in this manner evades simple accommodation or fixed locations. The historical and cultural fluxes proposed by such work crosses the art world with histories of complex belonging. These speak of multiple belongings. The heterogeneous assemblage of materials and icons in Shonibare MBE’s works – Dutch colonial wax prints, West African couture, British naval heroes, the Ancien Regime and Victoriana – queries the cultural construction of a consensual aesthetics when the materials of empire are reworked into another narrative.[2] Against the predictable lineage of Occidental art history an altogether more complex and undisciplined archive overflows the frame, proposing a supplement that cannot be readily accommodated or incorporated.
Such art proposes less an object to be analysed and explained according to the logics and languages of artistic and disciplinary canons and more a critical dispositif or apparatus with which to think, live, cross and interrogate a discursive regime that thinks it is able to explain and render art an object to catalogue and explain. In this scene, the past with its memories and archives proposes a diverse genealogy and a different modality for receiving its presence in the present. There is no pure or isolated object, nor a definitive explanation of the past, to be discovered. Rather, there are historical and cultural processes to be acknowledged. What counts is not the object that is unearthed but rather the processes that constitute both it and the manner of its unearthing. This marks the critical passage, of Foucauldian memory, from registering the stratification of archaeology to arriving at the critical constellation of a productive genealogy (Revel, 2012). This to propose breaks and discontinuities; that is, a working of the past into new critical configurations.

This also suggests that rather than simply tracking Africa in Europe, it becomes urgent to think with Africa. Here Africa is retrieved from being a mute object of analysis as it becomes an emergent critical space, an ongoing interrogation and interruption. This is rather beautifully captured in Abderrahmane Sissiko’s cinematic enactment of the hypothetical trial of the IMF for holding modern Africa hostage to debt in Bamako (2006). With this we step beyond the colonial division of the world that has only considered Europe in Africa, and never of the constitutive role of Africa in Europe. Moving beyond such binaries is to suggest a critical space in which the existing cartographies of power are dis-assembled and re-mixed in an economy of signs and sounds that challenge the conceptual confines of Occidental art history and its critical language.

Abderrahmane Sissiko, Bamako (2006)

This deviation is not set in train simply in order to recognise alternative and subaltern realties. Initially, this may be important and necessary, but it is a point of departure, not of arrival. To travel further into the question is to register the worlds that have persisted and resisted within modernity from its inception as part and parcel of its global web. Unrecognised and negated, Africa in Europe, like the black slave in the history of capitalism, or colonial troops deployed in Europe’s imperial wars, is a constant shadow interrogating the modernity that consigns them to its margins. These are realities whose presence have not simply been repressed and are now being belatedly recognised. Rather, their historical and cultural centrality to the making of a modernity we consider ‘ours’ forces us rework the archive that once authorised us; that is, to break it open and spill its contents into further critical contours and another manner of narrating the world.
At this point the limits and location of the European narrative is sustained, as Olu Oguibe puts it, in the ‘divergent historical trajectories that constitute a colonial or postcolonial modernity’ (Oguibe, 2005, 419). Here it becomes imperative to ‘read within the frames of a larger historical moment’ (Oguibe, 2005, 420). This means to measure and evaluate the terms of participation in modern art and modernity, rather than being simply incorporated or co-opted as an external and exotic ‘other’. It further means to inaugurate breaking the spell of Occidental legitimation for, as Rasheed Araeen puts it the ‘structure of colonialism cannot be dealt with only by those who are colonised’ (Araeen, 2005). So we arrive at the necessary unwinding of the history of art as a liberal, humanist Occidental discourse that has historically and culturally contributed to the elaboration of the colonial apparatuses that also legitimated its voice and authority.

The absence of contemporary African art in Occidental institutions is therefore not simply the symptom of a colonial pathology that continues to think of Africa as ‘down there and back there’, and desires only the anthropological authenticity of local African arts and crafts. For what it poses is a hole in the epistemological fabric that clothes the West. It is a hole that cannot simply be patched up with threads drawn from existing disciplinary protocols. This would only be a further colonial move. The idea that an artist or curator working in Lagos or Luanda moves and is sustained in the material and immaterial circuits that constitute the international art world is still rarely considered. Of course, he or she operates within unequal relations of cultural power and recognition: Lagos is not Los Angeles, Luanda is not London. Still, connections and a potential resonance are undeniably in play. There simply does not exist a shadowy exterior cast by the light of Occidental progress. The sounds and images of James Brown in Mali in the 1960s, and their unsuspected conversations with local youth styles and photography, is far less about obvious US cultural imperialism in the so-called underdeveloped world and altogether much more about multiple connections to black diasporic aesthetics both after European colonialism and beyond local post-independent nationalism (Diawara 2001). If Africa has always been part of the historical constitution of modernity, it has also consistently been inside the cultural and aesthetic networks of its modernism. Alongside the noted art history narrative of Cubism and Surrealism sampling the continent we finally begin to touch the deeper economy of the circulation and translation of ideas, perspectives and practices that never move in a single direction nor respect rigid centre-periphery distinctions.

Notes
[1] The ten African and European cities evoked here refer to a project called Ten Cities, promoted by the Goethe Institute in Nairobi. The project examined the construction and extension of public space through music, DJ practices, dance and critical discussion. Details available here: http://blog.goethe.de/ten-cities. It can also be consulted in series of essays published in Hossfeld 2019.
[2] For examples of Shonibare MBE’s work: http://www.yinkashonibarembe.com/home/ [Accessed 23-11-2018]

Bibliography

Araeen R., Modernity, Modernism, and Africa’s Place in the History of Art of our Age, in «Third Text», 19, n.4, 2005.
Baldwin J., No Name in the Street, Viking, New York 1972.
Comoroff J., Comoroff J., Theory from the South. Or, How Euro-America Is Evolving Towards Africa, Paradigm, Boulder 2012.
Eley G., Politics, Culture and the Public Sphere, in «Positions», 10, n.1, 2002.
Diawara M., The 1960s in Bamako: Malick Sidibé and James Brown. link
Fanon F., Black Skin, White Masks, Pluto Press, London 1986.
Featherstone D., Resistance, Space and Political Identities: The Making of Counter-Global Networks, Wiley-Blackwell, Oxford 2008.
Habermas J., The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, Polity Press, Oxford 1992.
Hauser G., Vernacular Voices: The Rhetorics of Publics and Public Spheres, University of South Carolina Press, Columbia 1999.
Hossfeld J., (ed), Ten Cities, Spector Books, Leipzig, 2019.
Oguibe O., The True Location of Ernest Mancoba’s Modernism, in «Third Text», 19, n.4, 2005.
Revel J., Foucault, une pensée du discontinue, Fayard, Paris 2010.
Sharpe, C., In the Wake: On Blackness and Being, Duke University Press, Durham 2016.

Iain Chambers teaches Cultural, Postcolonial and Mediterranean studies at the University of Naples. He studied with Stuart Hall at the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies and is the author of many books including Urban Rhythms (1985), Migrancy, Culture, Identity (1994) and Mediterranean Crossings. The Politics of an Interrupted Modernity (2008).

Continua
PERFORMING HISTORY

In memory of Stuart Hall di Iain Chambers e Lidia Curti

PERFORMING HISTORY
In memory of Stuart Hall
di Iain Chambers e Lidia Curti

Without Guarantees

Lidia and I have read so many of the comments and testimonies in the wake of Stuart’s death; all of them striking so many different chords, sounding out such a vibrant and irrepressible legacy. I suppose working and living here in southern Italy, outside the immediate circuits of the anglophone and North Atlantic world, I would perhaps simply like to recall some of the wider resonances of Stuart’s work, words and life.
After all, Stuart came with what Derek Walcott famously described as a ‘sound colonial education’ from the edges of the empire. He was from the Caribbean that was also the home of C.L.R.James, Aimé Césaire, Frantz Fanon, Édouard Glissant, Bob Marley and the creolising procedures that crossed politics and poetics in new configurations. Such a journey from the perceived periphery of the metropolitan world, had necessarily to disturb and radically rewrite the intellectual script while redrawing the cultural map of being ‘English’, British, European and white. It was inevitable, like Fanon, Assia Djebar, Edward Said and even Jacques Derrida, that he would reshuffle the cultural pack he had been handed by colonialism and the culture of the ‘mother country’.
For while Stuart was deeply committed to capturing the profound political sense of British culture and its everyday life, his cultural itinerary was also and always an undertaking that was nurtured by his roots/routes from elsewhere: beautifully captured by John Akomfrah in The Stuart Hall Project (2013). Offspring of the violent colonial formation of the Caribbean, of a diaspora initiated by the Atlantic slave trade and subsequently legitimised by an imperial order, his critical gaze unavoidably had an oblique edge that cut into and across more provincial, home-grown, understandings of the historical and political powers exercised by metropolitan culture.
While many of his intellectual influences have been mentioned – including his tussles with Althusser and Foucault and his enveloping them in a Gramscian-inspired understanding of the culture of power, and the power of culture – there was always this deeper current that flowed through Stuart’s critical attention.
To suggest that this critical heritage haunts his influential pronouncements on race, identity, politics, nationalism and the black arts that he did so much to foster in his later years is to understand why Stuart was never merely an academic or a scholar with a private biography. To use a phrase that these days sounds wooden in English, he was a committed intellectual. His intellectual militancy was tied to understanding the complex making and mutations of the modern world. As a pioneer of trans-disciplinary thought and research his work was destined to travel far afield. It laid the foundations for transnational itineraries – from Naples to Shanghai and Buenos Aires – like unauthorised blue lines traced over the globe by his beloved Miles Davis.
The critical cut his work operated on the body of British (and European) culture has provided and provoked another set of coordinates with which to map, navigate and negotiate a world that is now irreducible to the concerns of London, Paris, Berlin or Washington. In his detailed understandings of how the British Empire had fallen in upon the centre (that is, of how the ex-colonial world has fallen in upon the West), Stuart opened up a critical path in which the particular and the planetary increasingly resonate in a political scenario that we have yet to understand in all its consequences… that is, if we dare to follow him into what he always considered to be a space ‘without guarantees’.

Iain Chambers, Naples, 16 February 2014

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The Stuart Hall Project – trailer (2013)

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By the volcano

As to me I cannot but recall Stuart’s sunny face when I first met him in 1964. He was starting his work in Birmingham, and I was a newcomer to the Centre with a copy of Gramsci’s Lettere dal carcere, not yet translated into English, and there to carry out research on English working class theatre. In spite of being by then far from his previous concerns with literature and theatre, Stuart showed interest and offered guidance as the real educator he was, though of course Gramsci was far more interesting for him. We were both in our early thirties and on the utopian journey to a revolution that seemed not too far away.

We were close friends and comrades through the excitement of ’68, and the pangs of its aftermath that Stuart resumed in his essay ‘The missed moment’. Our respective paths crossed many times mostly at and through the Centre where I was welcomed nearly every summer and then for over a year in 1974-75, in the moment of my abandonment of the Italian Communist Party that was becoming something else.

From the mid-sixties onwards, there were Stuart’s and Catherine’s constant visits to Naples and the Orientale where he brought his intellectual insight, his revolutionary perspectives on knowledge and politics, his extraordinary oratorial gifts and his capacity to listen and communicate to our students, some of whom were quite eccentric and a bit out of their heads. His generosity in keeping the link between Naples and cultural studies never wavered: from being contested by the Maoists in those heady days to recent times, more tranquil alas, when his health made it difficult and his contribution even more generous.

He came to speak, together with Catherine, on my retirement in 2006, and again in 2008 when the Orientale recognized his intellectual stature and critical militancy with a Laurea honoris causa, one of the many he had already received. Alongside the speech he gave on my retirement, I wish to remember the one he gave on a similar occasion for Avtar Brah that subsequently became a beautiful essay published in the Feminist Review issue on “Recalling. The scent of memory” (n.100, 2012). On both these occasions he spoke for our bodies of work and gave a close appreciation of it. As Nirmal Puwar has already said, Stuart’s support and siding with women’s causes and thought was very important to what feminists had already been doing and would be doing since.

Alongside all this there were the many holidays Iain and I spent together with him, Catherine, Becky and Jess around the Mediterranean, and the one in Jamaica when he offered us unforgettable days in Kingston. Their children were growing up and so were we through our intellectual links and an enduring friendship. Stuart was a perfect fellow traveller, loved laughter, companionship and dance. Yes he was a great dancer, too.

Lidia Curti

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Iain Chambers teaches Cultural, Postcolonial and Mediterranean studies at the University of Naples. He studied with Stuart Hall at the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies and is the author of many books including Urban Rhythms (1985), Migrancy, Culture, Identity (1994) and Mediterranean Crossings. The Politics of an Interrupted Modernity (2008).

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Lidia Curti formerly taught English and Feminist studies at the University of Naples, “Orientale” and is now Honorary Professor in the same institution. She is the author of Female Stories, Female Bodies (1998), La voce dellaltra (2006), and co-editor (with Iain Chambers) of The Postcolonial Question. Common skies, divided horizons (1996).

Continua
ARTE E POLITICA

Con l’immagine oltre l’immagine di Iain Chambers

ARTE E POLITICA
Con l'immagine oltre l'immagine
di Iain Chambers
“La creatura, quale che siano gli occhi suoi, vede
l’aperto. Soltanto gli occhi nostri son
come rigirati, posti tutt’intorno ad essa,
trappole ad accerchiare la sua libera uscita.
Quello che c’è di fuori,
lo sappiamo soltanto
dal viso animale; perché noi, un tenero bambino
già lo si volge, lo si costringe a riguardare indietro e vedere
figurazioni soltanto e non l’aperto che ch’è sì profondo
nel volto delle bestie.”
Rainer Maria Rilke, Elegie duinesi – Ottava Elegia
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L’arte, come ci insegna Maurice Blanchot, è l’opposto del potere: una alterità che resta irriducibile al potere1. In questo senso, l’arte dà voce ad un mondo che una razionalità disincantata cerca di sradicare dalla conoscenza. Nel proporre il rifiuto incessante di concludere e con ciò accettare lo stato attuale delle cose, l’arte propone uno spaesamento. Nel respingere l’ancoraggio dell’oggettività fissa, l’opera è sempre in partenza verso un altrove sconosciuto. L’arte non conquista la razionalità, ma l’attraversa, proponendo un altro spazio dove l’interrogazione della volontà alla finalità viene deviata, piegata, dispiegata. Da qui emergono sia l’autonomia, sia la politica dell’arte.

Forse questa prospettiva ci aiuta a capire perché le distinzioni di genere tra i fatti e le finzioni, tra il documentario e la rappresentazione immaginaria, tra l’arte e l’antropologia, tra la poetica e la prosa del quotidiano, scivolano verso uno stato più fluido che rivela, racchiusa nella condizione precedente di distinzione, l’autorità non incline a considerare le pulsioni estetiche ed etiche che eccedono il suo dominio.  Con questa prospettiva in mente posso trovarmi in navigazione per il Mediterraneo, e la modernità, approdando alla questione dell’arte, spingendomi in viaggio sotto il vento inquisitorio della memoria. A questo punto emerge dall’arte stessa la tempesta turbolenta del sublime, dove la bellezza di linguaggio, suono e immagine, è  elaborata in una vita crudele, ferita dall’oblio, dall’ingiustizia e dall’esercizio brutale di poteri arbitrari. Si delinea qui una poetica scomoda ed inquietante che promette di disturbare e deviare la configurazione sedimentata nel senso scontato, per spingerla verso i territori moribondi di una topologia pronta a essere abbandonata.

In questa ottica, l’opera d’arte, nel richiamare l’altrove, l’alterità, propone e promuove qualcosa che eccede l’atto dell’essere appropriato.

Era la seconda giornata, verso sera, quando abbiamo incontrato il poeta. Alto, abbronzato e con un codino, lui ci fermò sul sentiero per chiederci da dove venivamo. Santa Cruz: aah, il paese di quella gran poetessa Adrienne Rich. I nomi – Robert Duncan, Gary Snyder – cadevano sui prati delle montagne. Italia… Parlando di Fellini, il poeta del cinema, ci siamo ritrovati nell’atrio dell’Hilton di Beverly Hills nel 1952 per raccontarci come l’arrivo di Anita Ekberg faceva fermare tutto.

Lui ha settanta anni e vive tutta l’estate qui nella Sierra, portando la gente a cavallo tra le cime di mattina presto. Più tardi quella sera, passando lungo il sentiero vicino alla sua tenda, abbiamo sentito il ritmo misurato della poesia che arrivava da un mangianastri. Sotto le stelle, i nostri sacchetti appesi agli alberi lontani dagli orsi, le parole restavano sospese nell’aria dell’alta montagna: il ritorno… la ripetizione… la replica…2

Come scheggia del tempo che apre uno squarcio sull’altrove, l’arte interrompe e interroga qualsiasi inquadratura che cerchi di radicare il mondo nel senso fisso o assoluto di sé. L’arte ­– quella che entra ed esce dall’inquadratura – è dunque l’interrogazione dell’atto di inquadrare il mondo, l’intervallo che evita la riduzione di una rappresentazione razionalistica, ossia trasparente ai nostri sensi. Forse, è questa ‘immagine del mondo’, che secondo Heidegger nasceva per la prima volta con la modernità, forse è questo modo di inquadrare tutto secondo il punto di vista singolo, astratto ed universale del soggetto umanistico che l’insistenza dell’arte fa incrinare. Qui il mondo oscilla sulla soglia di un archivio poroso ed un’eredità misconosciuta, da cui emerge la continua ‘minaccia’ critica dell’opacità. Qui, come ci suggerisce Benjamin, l’analisi che orbita attorno alla continua conferma dell’occh-io perde di senso in confronto al linguaggio, che pone perpetuamente il transito di una traduzione che sfugge a qualsiasi arresto soggettivo. E’ nell’estetica del transito, nell’insistere del mondo stesso, che l’opera d’arte svela la precarietà della verità e la storicità radicale del suo accadere3. Nel rendere sospetta la metafisica dell’Arte, l’opera annuncia la morte di qualsiasi umanesimo.

Tra i limiti del linguaggio, i confini della rappresentazione, e la promessa del non-detto, e la storia del silenzio che avvolge ogni linguaggio e la sua rappresentazione del mondo, l’arte fa emergere la tensione tra il conscio e l’inconscio, tra la chiusura della certezza e la vulnerabilità dello sconosciuto. L’arte propone un percorso destinato a rendere tutto incerto. Incamminandosi nelle ombre gettate dall’opera d’arte, la presunta omogeneità discorsiva della politica, dell’identità, della storia stessa, si annuncia invece come luogo del raddoppiamento, del perturbante e della dispersione. L’unicità desiderata dal soggetto umanistico si è scontrata con altri desideri, altre ragioni, altri…  Il suo punto di vista universale è dislocato e disperso in un corpo, in una formazione storico-culturale… in transito. Il ‘mondo’ si è frantumato in diverse geografie, ognuno il luogo di sensi e direzioni diversi. William Blake pretendeva di raccogliere il mondo in un granello di sabbia, Walter Benjamin cercava nel frammento urbano, nei detriti della metropoli, il sintomo di una costellazione che illuminava il senso del tempo della modernità. Tolta dalla sua astrazione metafisica, l’arte si ritrova nel viavai del mondo, i suoi linguaggi promuovono un tragitto tra l’ordinario e lo straordinario, aprendo una spaccatura nel tessuto del quotidiano.

Come interrogazione l’arte vera, non quella superficiale dell’abbellimento, fa vacillare le cose domestiche con l’annuncio dell’estraneo, della presenza inquietante di qualcosa che non si riesce a ‘vedere’ o mettere a fuoco. L’arte rivela in sé la sollecitazione dell’alterità e la fuga del senso nell’altrove; con ciò essa si offre come il cancello sul futuro ed annuncia il futuro prossimo nell’accadere ora: il Jetz. Qui, per esempio, nel contesto del festival Sintesi della musica elettronica che si svolge a Napoli, si vive l’esperienza di salire lo scalone massiccio di un edificio barocco mal illuminato, per poi uscire dalla luce gialla, crepuscolare, e ritrovarsi bagnati dalle onde di suoni elettronici nell’istante in cui il futuro investe il passato.

Citare il tempo in cui accade la fusione transitoria tra il passato e il presente nella configurazione del futuro, significa insistere sul tempo come limite della mortalità dove ci si ritira dal compito violento di inquadrare, e perciò disciplinare, il mondo secondo le esigenze idealistiche del soggetto onnipotente. Indagare sui linguaggi e nei linguaggi — visivi, musicali, letterari, critici — che tale rappresentazione impiega (e, allo stesso tempo, nega) offre a tali linguaggi la possibilità di prendere un altro cammino.

Insistere sulla valenza ontologica dell’arte significa non solamente ripristinare i ‘margini’ inosservati della vita quotidiana, ma soprattutto rifiutare quell’inquadramento che cerca di rendere il mondo trasparente, vuoto e perciò pronto a essere gestito dalla logica unica e universale che stabilisce il suo senso, e quindi la conferma del soggetto che si impone sul vuoto che ha prodotto. L’arte propone un senso diverso, in transito, aperto, un sens, una via per cui ci si incammina senza la garanzia della comprensione piena, completa, finale, concludente. Al posto dell’occhio sapiente e universale dell’umanesimo occidentale da cui ogni comprensione parte per ritornare e concludersi, forse sarebbe il caso di adoperare la figura artigianale più umile e immediata del Disk Jockey. E’ una figura che non pretende di inventare le cose, che non pretende che i linguaggi partano da lui o lei, ma solo di rimaneggiare i linguaggi, cercando di farne un nuovo ritmo, una nuova figura, sforzandosi di individuare un percorso incerto che riconosce che tutti  i linguaggi ci precedono e ci eccedono.

Qui il tempo-spazio della modernità stessa, quel tempo-spazio omogeneo e vuoto che sta aspettando l’arrivo del ‘progresso’, viene piegato e rielaborato in modo vario per permettere che emergano dalle sue ondulazioni altri tempi, altri luoghi, altre storie. Citare il passato in questa chiave ci invita ad abbandonare uno storicismo per cui la Storia è intoccabile, racchiusa in sé, che ci rende vittime di un destino già deciso alle nostre spalle. Citare il passato come luogo di frammenti sospesi e rivisitati nell’operato dell’arte significa re-citarlo per svelare i percorsi contingenti che ci chiamano indietro mentre ci portano in avanti. La memoria… di un’infanzia berlinese, di un giardino zoologico, di una città dove ‘perdersi, come ci si perde in una foresta, è un’arte da conquistare’ (Walter Benjamin)… di un’adolescenza a Belfast, ‘dove si sentiva il silenzio alle undici e mezzo nelle lunge notte estive mentre suonava Radio Luxemburg e le voci sussurravano sul fiume di Beechie…’ (Van Morrison). Qui la memoria come linguaggio dell’ora offre un tempo piegato per spiegarsi nelle scintille temporali, temporanee…

Qui, nel canto di Van Morrison, un corpo maschile si articola e si trasmette attraverso la musica:  l’insistenza della voce, la ‘grana’ direbbe Roland Barthes, richiama dei limiti mentre contemporaneamente si estende oltre, quando la voce scende nella respirazione del senso, nell’essere e nell’infinito del suono. Mi trovo ancora in California, al sud di Big Sur, osservando l’oceano attraverso i pini, nella speranza di avvistare delle balene, e nel mio orecchio intimo sento un’altra canzone:

Foghorns blowing in the night
Salt sea air in the morning breeze
Driving cars all along the coastline
This must be what it’s all about… 4

Il tentativo di spiegare tale musica richiede un’attività destinata a fallire, destinata a cadere prima di arrivare all’oggetto desiderato; significa trovarsi a mormorare davanti all’indicibile.  Allora come mai si scrive di queste cose? Forse puramente per lanciare un segno, lasciare una traccia, collegarsi ad un suono e il sogno che esso dissemina nella sua scia, e cercare lì un passaggio nel mondo. La canzone non significa qualcosa di preciso. Essa è un evento sonoro dove l’accidentale e l’intenzionale sono congiunti. Non si tratta di un’appropriazione verbale, di un tentativo di spiegare e rendere trasparente il suono come se fosse un nucleo di senso e intento stabile. Si tratta, invece, di cercare nel passaggio del suono, nel frammento che arriva alle mie orecchie, una risposta che sollecita il mio, il nostro, senso di essere.

Tutto questo significa ancorare il proprio sapere in un modo diverso e accettare che il carattere incompleto, piegato ed aperto del paesaggio offra un senso diverso del proprio posto nel mondo. Se la prosa pretende una sequenza lineare, una traduzione trasparente e la riconferma di chi parla, la poetica, l’intraducibile, ci offre il discorso frammentario, spesso opaco:  un viaggio lungo uno spiraglio che tende verso l’infinito.  Renderci conto di questo connubio complesso, non significa solamente radicare la storia in una maniera diversa, è anche un invito a rompere la barriera tra storia e poetica. Da questo movimento emerge la dispersione e la dislocazione della prospettiva del soggetto dell’umanismo occidentale. L’unicità del punto di vista unico da cui parte tale prospettiva viene disturbata dai cambiamenti di visuale nel passaggio terrestre, e perciò aperto. La logica che permette la corrispondenza immediata tra l’oggetto osservato e la semantica del soggetto che osserva si perde nel profilo di un movimento che muta costantemente.

Qui si passa dall’appropriazione del mondo sostenuta dall’insistenza grammaticale di una logica lineare che parte dal soggetto per concludersi e chiudersi nell’oggetto ad una comprensione composita, frammentaria, sostenuta dagli elementi in cui ci muoviamo – il paesaggio, l’aria, il terreno sotto i piedi, l’acqua intorno, il vento sulla faccia, i segni nella strada, i rumori nella notte, il sangue che canta nell’orecchio: una poetica del luogo, una intensità storica che precede ed eccede lo spazio astratto nominato dalla Storia. Si passa dalla ‘verità’ come proprietà statica, atemporale, sradicata e metafisica, dove lo spazio risulta vuoto e neutrale, e l’ambiente fornisce solamente uno sfondo per gli atti della ragione, ad un ambiente carico dove linguaggio ed essere sono iscritti nel profilo del paesaggio, nell’insistere dei suoni, delle situazioni e dei luoghi che forniscono il piegamento e lo spiegamento del mondo che si sta attraversando.

Invece di cercare la spiegazione e racchiuderla nella conferma dello stato delle cose attuali, si tratta di essere interpellati ed investiti da qualcosa che resta irriducibile al proprio possesso. L’immagine – visiva, acustica, letteraria – che ci si trova davanti non rappresenta una fetta della realtà congelata in una fotogramma, in un quadro, in un testo, in un suono, ma promuove l’apertura sull’altrove: i luoghi fuori luogo, per prendere in prestito il titolo della manifestazione artistica che si svolge ogni anno nelle montagne del Matese5. Non si tratta di un documento astratto della vita, ma del testimone delle vite vissute, negate, dimenticate; quei paesaggi invisibili ancora da venire e da vivere. In questa ‘schisi fra l’occhio e lo sguardo’ del mondo che ci guarda, si registra il trauma che investe l’io completo e possedente, rivelando le crepe e le linee di fuga nell’altrove6.

Il mondo che emerge dall’immagine fornita dall’arte precede ed eccede il senso che ognuno di noi cerca nella rappresentazione. In questo eccesso possiamo riconoscere l’operato del linguaggio. È il linguaggio che dissemina il desiderio per un senso che viaggia sotto un cielo troppo vasto per essere posseduto o spiegato in modo esaustivo o concludente. Da questa movimento e migrazione del linguaggio, dalle sue derive e dalle sue pieghe, affiora una poetica che riscrive il senso abituale, esponendolo all’altrove, allo spaesamento e alla deriva. In questa maniera, viaggiando con e dentro l’immagine, possiamo raccogliere l’interpellanza perpetua – quell’aperto annunciato da Rilke (e in seguito da Heidegger) – e dunque i limiti dei nostri modi di appropriarci del mondo.

Nella fenditura fornita dall’immagine artistica, l’immaginario emerge bruscamente dal silenzio della memoria per interrompere e interrogare la costellazione del senso con il desiderio di qualcos’altro, qualcosa in più che ci prometta un mondo ancora da narrare. Qui un’eredità eterogenea, complessa e sempre incompleta, si trasforma in una partenza e un divenire che ci permette, nelle parole di Ingeborg Bachmann, di affrontare ‘le strade inesplorate sulle pareti ripide del cielo’7.

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1 Alcune di queste osservazioni sono state elaborate inizialmente per presentare le opere di Isaac Julien (Fantôme Afrique, 2005) e Trinh T. Minh-ha (The Desert is Watching, 2003; Bodies of the Desert, 2005) a Letino, nel Parco Regionale del Matese, il 7 agosto 2006, all’interno della rassegna «Luoghi fuori luogo».
2 Appunti da un viaggio nel Kaiser Wilderness, Sierra Nevada, California, giugno 1994.
3 Beatrice Hanssen, Walter’s Benjamin’s Other History. Of Stones, Animals, Human Beings, and Angels, Berkeley & Los Angeles, University of California Press, 2000.
4 Van Morrison, ‘So Quiet in Here’, Enlightenment, Polydor 1990.
5 Questa manifestazione è affiancata da «Villaggio dell’Arte» che ha visto la partecipazione di persone locali con artisti invitati nella realizzazione di opere in loco. Nel  2005 e 2006 gli artisti seguenti hanno aderito al progetto: Laloba, Thomas Link, Feld 72, Bill Hackney, The Harrison Studio, Giuliano Mauri, Bruno Donzelli, Cristina Piza Lopez, Luigi Spina, Michele Iodice, Pasquella Musella, Giuliano Orsingher, Stalker/Osservatorio Nomade.
6 Jacques Lacan, Il seminario. Libro XI. I quattro concetti fondamentali della psicoanalisi 1964, Torino, Einaudi, 2003.
7 Ingeborg Bachmann, «Salmo 2», Anterem, n.72, p.39.

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Iain Chambers teaches cultural and postcolonial studies at the University of Naples, “Orientale”, and is author of Urban Rhythms: pop music and popular culture (1985), Popular Culture. The metropolitan experience (1986), Border dialogues. Journeys in postmodernity (1990), Migrancy, culture, identity (1994), Hendrix, hip hop e l’interruzione del pensiero (with Paul Gilroy) (1995), Culture after humanism (2001); and most recently, Mediterranean Crossings. The Politics of an Interrupted Modernity (2008) and Mediterraneo Blues. Musiche, malinconia postcoloniale, pensieri marittimi (2012).

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