Die Schildkröte im Apfelschrein

Katharina Hoins, Zeitungen. Medien als Material der Kunst
Reimer Verlag, Berlin 2015
broschiert, 318 Seiten
ISBN 978-3-496-01485-0

Das Rascheln beim Blättern der dünnen Seiten, die straffende Handbewegung, die das zerknitterte Papier glatt streift und dabei – wie man immer erst zu spät merkt – die Finger schwärzt: Jene charakteristischen Materialzüge, die sofort ein gezielt haptisches Bild zeichnen, setzt Katharina Hoins als Ausgangspunkt für ihre Untersuchung der Zeitung als Material der Kunst. Quer durch das 20. Jahrhundert verfolgt sie in ihrer breit angelegten Forschungsarbeit künstlerische Positionen, theoretische Vektoren und mediale Umbrüche. Hoins steckt damit erstmals jenes weite Territorium ab, das die Zeitung als Material im Diskursfeld der Kunst eröffnet.

Mit Nachdruck situiert die Autorin ihre Dissertation, die sie als „Beitrag zur interdisziplinären Debatte über die Materialität der Medien“ (10) verstanden wissen möchte, im Spannungsfeld von Medienwissenschaft und Kunstgeschichte. Grundlegendes terminologisches Instrumentarium hierfür sind drei zentrale Begriffe: Materialität, Medialität und Semantizität. Der Materialitätsbegriff wird als eine Ausprägung jenes Oszillierens zwischen physischem Trägermaterial und dem aus und auf ihm Geschriebenen eingeführt. Medialität wiederum bezeichnet, in Abgrenzung zur Kommunikation abseits technischer Medien, die jeweilige Form der Vermittlung: Durch ihr spezifisches Merkmalsgefüge und dessen Inszenierung wird die Zeitung von anderen Vermittlungskanälen unterschieden. Den Begriff der Semantizität entlehnt Hoins dem Vokabular Jan Assmanns: Die Verbindung von „direkt Bezeichnetem“ und „weniger konkret dinglich Bedeutetem“ sieht sie als Qualität des Assmann’schen Begriffs an, mit dem bezeichnet wird, „dass und welchen Inhalt sie [die Zeitung] über Schrift und Bild vermittelt“. (18) Insgesamt wird in der Einleitung ein klares Ausgangsfeld für die folgende Untersuchung formuliert, deren theoretischer Schwerpunkt eindeutig in der Medienwissenschaft liegt. Erstaunlich ist die Reihenfolge, die den drei zentralen Begrifflichkeiten eingeschrieben ist: für die Medialität ist die Materialität als Bedingung gesetzt, für die Semantizität ist die Lesbarkeit grundlegende Voraussetzung. Hoins betont zwar, dass sie in ihrer Arbeit kein chronologisches, sondern ein systemisches Vorgehen verfolgt – jedoch ist damit nicht die Frage nach einer aus der Begriffssetzung hervorgehenden Reihenfolge beantwortet.

Mit der Technik der Collage wird das erste Kapitel eingeleitet: Zunächst liegt der Fokus auf dem Ausschneiden, der Transformation und Rekonstellation. Schnell jedoch wird anhand der Berliner Dadaisten die „relative Rückführbarkeit der Inhalte“ (25) wichtig: Aufgrund der offensichtlichen Herkunft des Zeitungsausschnitts – der nicht nur Teil eines (medialen) Alltagsgeschehens, sondern auch Teil einer bestimmten, also dechiffrierbaren Presseöffentlichkeit ist – legte etwa Hannah Höch die „Konstruktionsprinzipien“ (27) ihrer Collagen offen und generierte dadurch ein Bild mit gezielten Bezügen zum Außen. In der zeichentheoretisch geprägten Besprechung der Werke von Georges Braque, Juan Gris und Pablo Picasso betont die Autorin die besondere Stellung, die Zeitungsausschnitte in dieser Konstellation einnehmen, da „sie gleichsam ein Scharnier […] bilden […] und sowohl Gegenstand sind als auch Text ins Bild bringen.“ (43) Dieser Weg führt sie weiter zu Robert Rauschenberg, anhand dessen Black Paintings die Diskussion in das Diskursfeld von Figur und Grund beziehungsweise Trägermaterial erweitert wird. Die Zeitung wird hier als Sediment gedacht und stellt damit – wenngleich durch den Farbauftrag unsichtbar geworden – einen essentiellen Bestandteil des Gemäldes dar: „Papieruntergrund und Zeichensubstanz verschmelzen zu einem pastosen Relief, zu einem untrennbaren Amalgam.“ (47) Dieser Amalgamierung stehen „zeitungssichtige“ Arbeiten gegenüber, in denen die Zeitung als Material sichtbar bleibt: „das Changieren zwischen Figur und Grund“ scheint Rauschenberg, so Hoins, regelrecht zu provozieren. (51) Im Dialog mit Arbeiten von Willem de Kooning, Jasper Johns und Franz Kline zeichnet die Autorin ein umfassendes Bild unterschiedlicher, jedoch zeitlich parallel laufender künstlerischer Strategien im Umgang mit Zeitung als Bild-Material. Leider kommt hier die Diskussion um die Ausdehnung der Malerei in den Realraum, insbesondere mit Blick auf die aufkommende Objektkunst und den Diskurs um die Medienspezifität, etwas zu kurz. Interessant ist die ausführliche Besprechung von Rauschenbergs Hoarfrost Serie (Abb. 1), in der Rauschenberg die Druckerschwärze vom Zeitungspapieruntergrund auf verschiedene Gewebe und Stoffe übertrug und damit eine „Verwandlung“ der Zeitungen vollzog. (58)

Robert Rauschenberg, Glacier (Hoarfrost), 1974, Transfer auf Satin und Chiffon, mit Kissen, 304,8 x 188 x 14,9 cm, Houston, The Menil Collection.

Abb. 1: Robert Rauschenberg, Glacier (Hoarfrost), 1974, Transfer auf Satin und Chiffon, mit Kissen, 304,8 x 188 x 14,9 cm, Houston, The Menil Collection.

Als theoretisches Pendant zu den künstlerischen Entwicklungen wird schließlich Marshall McLuhan herangezogen: Auf Basis der „Rekordausgaben für Werbung seit dem Wirtschaftsboom der Nachkriegszeit und [der] Diversifizierung der Medien“ hat sich dieser in den 1950er Jahren einer wissenschaftlichen Analyse der „Phänomene der Mediengesellschaft“ angenommen. (70) Spannend ist in diesem Kontext McLuhans Vergleich des „industriellen Menschens“ mit einer Schildkröte, die nichts von ihrem Panzer weiß. Diese im Inneren „befangene“ oder vielmehr gefangene Wahrnehmung entspräche der praktischen Anschauung des Menschen, der die Schildkröte eher verspeisen, denn ihren Panzer bewundern würde: „Derselbe Mensch würde lieber in die Zeitung eintauchen, als irgendein ästhetisches oder intellektuelles Verständnis ihrer Beschaffenheit und Bedeutung zu besitzen.“ [1] Mit McLuhan kommt Hoins zu dem Schluss, dass sich die Pop-Art-KünstlerInnen der Materialität und Medialität der Medien zuwandten und „mit Motiven aus der Populärkultur“ dazu aufforderten, „die Beschaffenheit der Medien in den Blick zu nehmen“. (71) Ähnliche Bestrebungen attestiert die Autorin auch der Malerei in Westdeutschland; sie analysiert – vor dem Hintergrund einschlägiger Vertreter der amerikanischen Pop-Art – Gemälde von Sigmar Polke, Wolfgang Tillmanns und Gerhard Richter. Abschließend werden die Bestrebungen der „Ideenkunst“ Joseph Kosuths thematisiert, der „das Phänomen der relativen Durchsichtigkeit der Zeitung […] als neutrales und transparentes Medium, das der Betrachter in seiner Materialität und Medialität zu ignorieren gewohnt sei“, aufgreift. (84) Die Zeitung, so wird Kosuth paraphrasiert, könne für die Konzeptkünstler als neutraler Informationsvermittler fungieren, als „bereits gestaltete – und damit quasi neutrale – Form der Vermittlung ihrer Ideenkunst“. (84) Damit wird bereits im ersten Kapitel ein breites Spektrum künstlerischer Positionen aufgespannt, die „von der Amalgamierung über die breite Fächerung bis zum Versuch der Ablösung“ reichen. (89)

Das zweite Kapitel wendet sich der Inszenierung von „Räumlichkeit, Körperlichkeit und direkte[r] Berührung mithilfe der Zeitung als Material“ zu. Um der zeitgenössischen Medienentwicklung Rechnung zu tragen, verknüpft Hoins die Analyse einzelner Arbeiten mit Wahrnehmungstheorien und dem Fernsehen, dessen Entwicklung zum neuen Leitmedium „als Bezugsrahmen [dient], da das Konkurrenzmedium wesentlich zur Veränderung der Bewertung und Wahrnehmung der Zeitung führte.“ (93) Am Horizont des Kapitels steht die „Verklammerung von Raum und Körper“, die, der Autorin zufolge, auf eine bewusste Wahrnehmung dieser Kategorien zielte. (94)

Mit Raoul Hausmann und George Grosz stehen zunächst die künstlerischen Strategien des Berliner Dadaismus im Zentrum, die die Verzerrtheit der Wirklichkeitsbeschreibungen durch die journalistischen Medien zu entlarven und zu hinterfragen suchten. Dabei wird erneut die politische Agenda der Dadaisten virulent, was angesichts der einleitenden Fokussierung auf Körperlichkeit und Raum durchaus überrascht. Etwas verwirrend ist hier, dass das Erleben und die Wahrnehmung als zentrale Rezeptionsmodi im Sinne eines Lesens und bildlichen Identifizierens von journalistischen Produkten verstanden werden. Die körperliche und räumliche Erfahrung hingegen – etwa von Installationen oder Performances – gerät zunächst teilweise in den Hintergrund.

Als theoretische Referenz hinsichtlich der „Abdichtung der Information gegen die Erfahrung“, wie sie in journalistischen Printmedien der Fall sei, wird in diesem Kapitel Walter Benjamin herangezogen. Dessen Blickwinkel auf das Zeitungswesen als Ort der Schilderung „vermeintlicher Erlebnisse von ‚schockförmiger‘ Ereignishaftigkeit“ wird mit den Bestrebungen der Dadaisten enggeführt. (99) Die etwas unvermittelte Bezugnahme auf Martha Rosler dient der Explizierung künstlicher Distanzierung von Kriegsereignissen durch deren mediale Vermittlung. Hoins legt im Folgenden präzise die historische Geschichtsauffassung in der Zeit um den Ersten Weltkrieg dar; daran wird deutlich, inwiefern das möglichst unvermittelte, direkte Nah-Erleben auch in der medialen Situation der Zeit als erstrebenswert galt. Durch die Konzentration auf den Dadaismus ergibt sich eine Fokussierung auf Krieg und Kriegszustände; derlei gesellschaftspolitische Ausnahmesituationen werden als Gradmesser für die realitätsabbildende Funktion der Medien herangezogen.

Johannes Baader, Plasto-Dio-Dada-Drama, 1920, Assemblage mit verschiedenen Materialien, darunter Zeitungen, Ofenrohr, Schaufensterpuppe, Zahnrad, Plakate, wohl über 2 m Höhe, nicht erhalten.

Abb. 2: Johannes Baader, Plasto-Dio-Dada-Drama, 1920, Assemblage mit verschiedenen Materialien, darunter Zeitungen, Ofenrohr, Schaufensterpuppe, Zahnrad, Plakate, wohl über 2 m Höhe, nicht erhalten.

Unter dem Gesichtspunkt der Authentizität wird Robert Gobers Arbeit für die Zeitschrift Parkett mit dem ikonischen Kaffeetassenabdruck besprochen: Hier sei eine „Installation von Präsenz“ vorgenommen worden – eine Formulierung, die die Autorin von Rosalind Krauss entlehnt. Auf die körperliche Erfahrung der Installationssituation kommt Hoins schließlich anhand von Allan Kaprows Arbeit Apple Shrine (Abb. 2) zu sprechen. Die Wände dieses Environments waren mit zerknüllten Zeitungen tapeziert, „so dass die Besucher beim Betreten […] zwangsläufig in körperlichen Kontakt mit dem Papier gerieten“. (113) Am „Ende des labyrinthartigen Ganges“ konnten die BesucherInnen wählen: zwischen essbaren und künstlichen Äpfeln. Die Beleuchtungssituation im Inneren erschwerte jedoch die visuelle Unterscheidung der beiden Sorten: Mit Jeff Kelley sieht Hoins daher in den Äpfeln eine „metaphor of the relation of truth to appearances, originals to copies, pleasure to abstinence and body to mind“[2] verkörpert, die – wie die omnipräsente, exaltierende Zeitungstapete  – dazu anregte, diese Polaritäten im Kaprow’schen Schrein zu reflektieren. (114)

Es folgt ein Exkurs in die vorwiegend amerikanische Mediendebatte über das neue Leitmedium Fernsehen, die sich auch als interessante Parallelisierung zum medienreflexiven Diskurs über die Zeitung lesen lässt. Hoins fasst treffend zusammen und liefert einen umfangreich recherchierten Überblick über die teilweise durchaus kontroversen Positionen zu den medialen Entwicklungen der 1950er und 1960er Jahre. Hier bespricht die Autorin auch partizipative Kunstformen und deren performativen Einsatz von Zeitungen – die nun, im Angesicht der televisuellen Welteroberung, zu einer Inkarnation des Wirklichen, des Materiellen und damit des buchstäblich Greifbaren geworden sind. Zeitungen, vormals unter Beschuss aufgrund vorgetäuschten Erlebens und vermeintlich unvermittelter Realitätswahrnehmung, figurierten knapp fünfzig Jahre später bereits als skulpturale Interventionen und als Mittler und Träger von Körperlichkeit, so ließe sich das zweite Kapitel summieren.

Im dritten Kapitel fokussiert Hoins die Bezugsdimension Zeit, die für den Materialeinsatz von Zeitung als zumeist tagesaktuellem Medium im Kunstkontext grundlegend relevant ist: Für die Kunst der zweiten Hälfte des Jahrhunderts sei die Zeitung das Medium der Vergänglichkeit beziehungsweise des Verfalls schlechthin, dessen Aktualitätsbezug durch das Fernsehen überholt wurde.

Zunächst erläutert Hoins aber die „Organisation und Zusammenstellung der Inhalte innerhalb der Zeitung, also Aspekte ihrer spezifischen Medialität“, die sie als „Simultaneität“ bezeichnet. (145) Die Berliner Dadaisten – ein besonderer Fokus liegt hier auf den Arbeiten von Hannah Höch – verfolgten eine „Überspitzung des Prinzips der Gleichzeitigkeit“ und versuchten mit ihren Collagen eine förmlich exzessive, „gesteigerte Simultaneität“ zu erreichen. (146) Damit rückt auch die Geschwindigkeit der Produktion – sowohl der journalistischen als auch der künstlerischen – in den Fokus: Die Brisanz der Zeitung erübrigt sich zumeist mit Tagesende; dies bedingt eine schnelle Produktion, die sich wiederum im Vergänglichkeitspotenzial des Mediums selbst niederschlägt. Zentral bleibt für Hoins auch in der Aktualitätsdebatte der mediale Konkurrenzkampf zwischen Zeitung, Rundfunk und Fernsehen.

Mit Vostells Zeitungsaktionen – ritueller Zeitungsverkleinerung, Veränderung des Aggregatzustands – und Beuys‘ Zeitungsverspeisung wird der Aspekt des Organischen und damit der Naturbezug thematisiert. Wenn Hoins ausführt, wie Vostell und Beuys durch die Zerhackung beziehungsweise das Verspeisen die Materialität der Zeitung gegen ihre Semantizität „ausspielen“, bleibt der Mehrwert ihrer Terminologie durchaus unklar. Eine andere Form der Zerstörung des kulturellen Produkts Zeitung im Kontext eines Kunstwerks findet sich bei den benagelten Zeitungen von Günther Uecker: Die Autorin zielt hier auf die thematische Durchlässigkeit zwischen der Semantizität und der Materialität der Zeitung ab. Gerade wenn sie die Körperlichkeit des Eingriffs betont und dafür sogar die „Metapher für den menschlichen Körper“ bemüht, stellt sich die Frage, warum Uecker nicht schon im zweiten Kapitel eingeführt wurde. Ein längerer Exkurs führt daraufhin zu Johannes Baaders Plasto-Dio-Dada-Drama (Abb. 3): Angesichts der ausführlichen Besprechung und der quantitativen Überlast des Dadaismus verstärkt sich der Eindruck, dass hier Hoins‘ tatsächliches Forschungsinteresse liegt.

Allan Kaprow, Apple Shrine, 1960, Installation mit Zeitungen, Maschendraht, Holzleisten, Äpfeln, Kunststoffäpfeln, Judson Gallery, New York, nicht erhalten.

Abb. 3: Allan Kaprow, Apple Shrine, 1960, Installation mit Zeitungen, Maschendraht, Holzleisten, Äpfeln, Kunststoffäpfeln, Judson Gallery, New York, nicht erhalten.

Das abschließende vierte Kapitel vereint unter den drei Verben „Montieren, Kommentieren, Einschreiben“ noch einmal verschiedenste Zugänge zur Zeitung: als – bearbeitbares, formbares und rekonfigurierbares – Material, als Gegenstand, der in einer zeithistorischen Wirklichkeit konsumiert und produziert wird, aber auch als Vermittlungsform des Geschriebenen.

Hoins leitet das Kapitel mit einem längeren Absatz zur Montage ein, deren Form schließlich auch zentral für die dringliche Diskussion um die Autorschaft ist. Den Modus der Collage reflektierend resümiert sie verschiedene Spielformen der Signatur, in der sich die Produktionsform und die Herstellungsmechanismen eben jener Kunstformen widerspiegeln. Anhand der Arbeiten von John Heartfield und George Grosz werden die gesellschaftshistorische Kontextualisierung und die sich verändernden Produktionsmechanismen erläutert: die sich durchsetzende „Taylorisierung“ (206), die Grosz auch in der Kunst ausmachte, und die zunehmend seriell-industrielle Produktion. In Anknüpfung an die bereits zuvor eingeführte Diskussion rund um das Produkt werden künstlerische Verfahren behandelt, die sich der Produziertheit des Menschen durch die Entwicklung der Presse annahmen. Davon ausgehend werden die Dimension der Autorschaft und damit die Frage nach der persönlichen Biographie in den Blick genommen: An eben jener Schnittstelle setzt Hoins die Arbeiten Jean Dubuffets an, der wiederum den persönlichen Schriftzug und damit die Handschrift prominent der gedruckten Zeitung entgegensetzt. Insbesondere in formaler Hinsicht erscheint die daran anschließende Thematisierung des Dresdner Künstlers Hermann Glöckner schlüssig; naheliegend ist auch der Vergleich der Dubuffet’schen Messages mit den zeitnah entstandenen Werken Glöckners, der im politischen Kontext der DDR ähnliche künstlerische Strategien der Übermalung und Einschreibung verfolgte. Mit Dieter Hacker und Gustav Metzger verfolgt Hoins schließlich künstlerische Strategien der „Funktionsstörung von Öffentlichkeit“ weiter. (233) Erstaunlich ist, dass – gerade im Zuge der Abhandlung der diskutierten Kategorien von Öffentlichkeit beziehungsweise Gegenöffentlichkeit – Rodney und nicht Dan Graham als abschließende Position des Kapitels gewählt wurde.

Im Resümee unterstreicht Hoins den Mehrwert ihrer Analysekategorien, die allerdings im Zuge der Lektüre zunehmend aus dem Fokus gerieten. Dass ihre Untersuchung zeigen konnte, dass die besprochenen Arbeiten jeweils im „Kontext historischer Mediendiskurse“ (239) stehen, überrascht dabei wenig. Zurecht wird die präzise Analyse dieser Kontextualisierung jedoch als zentrale Erkenntnis der Publikation betont.

Zusammenfassend lässt sich festhalten, dass Hoins‘ Band erstmals zentrale künstlerische Strategien im Umgang mit dem Material Zeitung in der amerikanischen und westeuropäischen Kunst des 20. Jahrhunderts versammelt. Die Publikation zeichnet sich durch einen ausnehmend breiten, facettenreichen Beispielkatalog aus, in dem der Berliner Dadaismus einen unerwartet großen Teil einnimmt. Trotz dieser großen Bandbreite ihres Forschungsmaterials gelingt es der Autorin, fundierte Analysen einzelner Positionen vorzunehmen. Hoins inkludiert in ihre Anthologie auch – und das muss in besonderem Maße positiv verzeichnet werden – künstlerische Positionen, die sich abseits des kunsthistorisch-institutionalisierten Kanons bewegen. Der überwiegende Teil der Untersuchung behandelt jedoch männliche Künstler: Inwiefern diese Auswahl tatsächlich der historischen Faktenlage – man denke etwa an Barbara Kruger, Linder Sterling oder Sanja Iveković[3] – geschuldet sein kann, muss fraglich bleiben, da die Autorin selbst darauf nicht eingeht.

Hoins‘ betont non-chronologische, systemische Vorgehensweise eröffnet Bezüge und Sichtweisen, die andernfalls nicht virulent geworden wären. Ihre Methode bedingt allerdings auch zahlreiche historische Sprünge, die sich mancherorts produktiv und spannend, andernorts jedoch verkürzend und verunklärend auswirken. Der zunehmend akuter werdende Wechsel zwischen den doch sehr verschiedenen historischen Settings, die das 20. Jahrhundert in Europa und Nordamerika durchläuft, erfolgt leider streckenweise auf Kosten der inhaltlich-thematischen Stringenz der Argumentation und resultiert in abrupten Übergängen. Eine durchgängig dezidiertere Strukturierung durch die anfänglich eingeführten Begrifflichkeiten Materialität, Medialität und Semantizität wäre daher – auch hinsichtlich der konkreten Einsetzbarkeit der Termini – wünschenswert. Für die Kunstgeschichte ist Hoins‘ Dissertation aber in jedem Fall als eine umfassende, facettenreiche und daher durchaus empfehlenswerte Publikation anzusehen, die insbesondere für den deutschsprachigen Raum eine präzise recherchierte Diskussion der Zeitung als künstlerisches Material im 20. Jahrhundert vorstellt.


[1] Hoins zitiert hier eine deutsche Übersetzung (Marshall McLuhan, Die mechanische Braut. Volkskultur des industriellen Menschen, Amsterdam 1996) von McLuhans Essay zur „Titelseite“ aus 1951: „Der industrielle Mensch ist der Schildkröte nicht unähnlich, die für die Schönheit des Panzers, der auf ihrem Rücken gewachsen ist, ganz blind ist. […] Diese im Inneren befangene Wahrnehmung stimmt mit der praktischen Anschauung des Menschen überein, […]. Derselbe Mensch würde lieber in die Zeitung eintauchen, als irgendein ästhetisches oder intellektuelles Verständnis ihrer Beschaffenheit und Bedeutung zu besitzen.“, Hoins 2015, S. 70.

[2] Hoins zitiert hier den originalsprachlich englischen Text von Jeff Kelley, Childsplay. The Art of Allan Kaprow, Berkeley, Los Angeles 2004.

[3] Ich danke Johanna Braun für zahlreiche weitere konkrete Hinweise.

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Art historians may make aesthetic appreciations, I want to make critical judgements

Time and temporalities permeate art historical writings on contemporary art as well as recent artistic practices. Katharina Brandl met Peter Osborne, one of the most renowned writers on contemporary art, on the occasion of the conference Aesthetics of Standstill (January 28 – 31, 2015) in Düsseldorf to talk about the academic interest in temporalities, the concept of contemporary art and the dethronement of the October group.

Katharina Brandl: For a few years now, there seems to be a strong interest in temporalities both practically and theoretically in the art world. Similarly, exhibitions, conferences and writings on the contemporary as a concept and our conception about the future seem to pop up everywhere. Why do you think that happens at this specific point in time?

Peter Osborne: I think it’s a variety of factors. There has been a more general, political interest in temporalities ever since 1989. I think the political interest derives from a certain crisis of the future, think of the writings of Franco “Bifo” Berardi, for example, which are very popular in the art world. There is a kind of leakage of these ideas into the art world. The art-immanent starting point was probably art activism, because there was so much activity and optimism – and then nothing. It led to a lot of reflection about time and process at the level of social practices rather than the artwork itself. In the art world itself the growing interest in time and temporality has been articulated by the recent interest in the concept of the contemporary and the questions whether it is a critical concept, whether it can be useful, and by various people declaring themselves as post-contemporary. Where it does not seem to come from at the moment is internally to artistic practices. It comes from discursive frames, not immanently from the materialities of people’s practices.

You said that the concept of the contemporary leaked into the art world, that it is not an art immanent category. The discussion in art history around the notion of contemporary art seems to stem from the idea that we have to break with modernity, especially with the concepts of modernism and avant-garde. The explanatory power of these concepts is not sufficient to understand contemporary art practices, mainly since the 1960s.

Firstly, the 1960s begun to be historicized ten to fifteen years ago – the discourse in art history about contemporary art is bound to the invention of the history of contemporary art as a field. To have the history of contemporary art taught in art history departments is quite a new phenomenon. 20 years ago a lot of art history departments in the UK, and I am sure in most other places, never got beyond 1945 in their teaching. So, history of contemporary art historicized the 1960s, but because the 1960s is such a foundational moment for practices that still continue, it placed that work into the present in a quite surprising way. You can’t write about the 1960s without also thinking about the present. So art historians got into an odd space, which often is not so much of an historical space as a critical space.
Secondly, the movement against modernism in the 1960s is really a movement against formalism. What’s interesting is that the category in the late 1960s that marked the break was post-formalism. It was only in the 1980s that post-formalism got recoded as post-modernism, but by then it means something completely different to what post-formalism meant. It is complicated. During that period, in the 1980s especially and the early 1990s, there was this really strong sense that categories of modernism and avant-garde were gone, that all their discourses were redundant. But I think that in the last ten years, there has been a reversal. The sense of the continuities between the practices of the 1960s and now is much stronger. I think that there is an emerging sense that this break did not really happen, this break was an imaginary break, it was more a desire for a break – a classically modernist desire, in fact.

Art historical writings on contemporary art and/or the contemporary are infused by a certain fear of periodization. This fear derives from the hazard of reintroducing historicist concepts by catering to an idea of linear, homogeneous time if contemporary art is framed as the sequel of modernism or avant-garde. Nevertheless, although hardly any authors want to be guilty of the sin of periodization, the contemporary is implicitly mainly identified with the caesura of 1989. On the contrary, your concept of the contemporary neither denounces the concept of periodization, nor subjects itself to the historicist accusation.

You can’t not periodize. Periodizations are constantly being revised and renewed – they are flexible categories. If all history is genealogical, it is a constant process of reinterpretation. If a periodization works and then ceases to work, that does not mean that the initial periodization was wrong. Historically, art history as a discipline has dealt with much larger and older periods than the one of contemporary art, with categories like Renaissance or Baroque et cetera, that have some distance from the present. There is a tendency to think that once these categories become culturally fixed, they are objectively correct and that the periodizations closer to the present should look like that. Philosophically speaking, art-historical periodizations like Renaissance or Baroque are no more stable than the ones closer to the present. They have just been subject to incredible institutional regimes of reproduction that have made them look natural.

So, what is your approach to the notion of the contemporary?

I am trying to construct the contemporary as a critical category, which means a selective and exclusive/excluding category. So it is not a category that is designed to embrace the greatest number of works that people call contemporary. It is meant to function as a critical category, to judge; it is a category of judgement regarding which works are contemporary in the sense of actively relating to the historical present and so it excludes huge amounts of works that fall under the descriptive label “contemporary art”. I think that has not been fully understood, the idea of critical categories is not very strongly received at the moment.

Although you clearly publish in the field of philosophy, your last book Anywhere or Not at All: Philosophy of Contemporary Art has been strongly received in art history. What difficulties arise from being received interdisciplinarily?

I didn’t think of my book as an intervention into art history as such, so I was slightly surprised by the antagonistic reception it appears to have received within art history. Although, of course, it has some presuppositions about what it would mean to write art history critically, the sort of categorical dismantling you would have to do. Academically, I was educated in a period where there were a lot of theoretical and political transformations of the discipline of art history. When I was doing my PhD work in the mid 1980s, it was the period when the “new” art histories in England – feminist art history, class-based art history, post-colonial art history, et cetera – emerged. There was a transformation of the field. It was politically based but it led to a much more theoretical relation to the concept of history. Institutionally, there has recently been a move back to traditional forms of the discipline, and I misjudged that. Art history has become very conservative again. I would have addressed that much more explicitly, had I been thinking about that. When I wrote the book I was more concerned to offer an alternative to the October approach. For thirty years, the October school was the one interesting critical programme, they were the ones who were occupying the critical space, the same kind of problem. So I was concerned to articulate a difference from them around the fact that however critical and theoretical they are, they remain within certain traditional forms of art history. In particular, their version of history of contemporary art is still effectively very historicist: it is still based on reconstructing the view of the people of the time, but then adding externally motivated theoretical material, which can be completely different for different artists, without any overarching theoretical standpoint. October as a journal never really managed to engage with contemporary art, apart from some of the writings of Hal Foster. He was, if you like, designated to look after the art of the 1980s by trying to create a category of critical post-modernism. The Pictures Generation were the last artists contemporaneous to them with whom the October group really engaged. The next generation that followed the founding October group, the first generation to become historians of contemporary art through the academy, made their careers by writing about the 1960s – Pamela Lee, and Alexander Alberro, for example. Their work has not been about the generation of artists contemporary to themselves, as it was for the first generation.

Compared to the work of art historians, what difference do you see in the way you approach actual art works, the material?

Part of the self-image of art history remains standing back from various forms of critical judgement. The critical judgements are all made in advance in relation to art history, because the canon has already been selected. If an artist makes it into your discursive space, they must have been important enough for the historian to write about them, so the judgement is already made. Art historians don’t want to make judgements about the works, they don’t think that’s their function. They might make aesthetic appreciations, but they don’t want to make critical judgements, whereas I do want to make critical judgements. I want to revive a much more critical climate of discourse – which of course artists don’t really want, because these days artists just want to be loved. Art schools in Germany are more receptive towards this approach than in the UK, by including chairs of philosophy or sociology (here at Düsseldorf), for example. There is a tradition going back to Romanticism. Think of Friedrich Schelling, for example, who worked at the Academy in Munich.

Art Schools may be more receptive towards including philosophy and sociology chairs, but they usually have their own struggles with the cleavage between art and research, for example around the umbrella term “artistic research”.

Artistic research began in the Anglo-American context in the form of “practice as research”. The institutionalization of the concept has been a nightmare, because it was never intellectually thought through. It was the transposition of an institutional funding model from the humanities into the art schools without any attempt to think about the specificity of artistic practices. But as soon as it gets going, everyone wants to get on the bandwagon. Art schools are indeed conflicted themselves: the space of art practice is still disputed between the heritage of practices and conceptions from the 1960s and the organization of study programs according to traditional media like painting or sculpture.

Peter Osborne (*1958) is Professor of Modern European Philosophy and Director of the Centre for Research in Modern European Philosophy at Kingston UniversityLondon and an editor of the British journal “Radical Philosophy”. He is the author of numerous articles and books, most recently of the monograph “Anywhere Or Not At All: Philosophy of Contemporary Art” (Verso Books, London).

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Anniversary Exhibition all-over #10

A project by Viktor Lundgaard.
With contributions by
Walter Derungs, Gregor Graf, Elisabeth Greinecker, Clare Kenny, Max Leiß, Ulrich Nausner, Matt Taber, Thomas Tudoux
April 28, 2016 – November 2016

For the tenth issue all-over invited Viktor Lundgaard to elaborate a concept he had developed in 2014: the exhibition space as virtual environment. A 3D-model of the main room of the Vienna Secession that had served as an experimental set-up before is now becoming the site of the all-over anniversary exhibition.
Known for its rectangular symmetry with the grid-like ceiling, the Secession building was established as one of the very first all-white exhibition spaces in 1898. The minimalist interior stands in stark contrast to the ornate exterior with the iconic golden sphere crowning the roof. For our anniversary exhibition the virtual exhibition space will be embedded into the all-over website, opening with the release of issue #10.

The participating artists have each developed one of the magazine’s “picture spreads” throughout the past 5 years in diverse forms: Walter Derungs, Gregor Graf, Elisabeth Greinecker, Clare Kenny, Max Leiß, Ulrich Nausner, Matt Taber, Thomas Tudoux. Lundgaard fitted 3D-models of their contributions into the exhibition and also included one of his own works.
For our second issue Gregor Graf had transformed photography – ranging from aerial shots to reproductions of prints – into an Atlas-like collection of forms. For our exhibition he submitted his work in a very different format: Mountain (2013) is a 4 m tall print that highlights its materiality by leaning, rather than hanging, on a wall. The piece of Walter Derungs may seem familiar: The photograph is part of a series titled Daluan (2010) published in issue #3 and chosen as cover image. Thomas Tudoux filled the inconspicuous white margins of the pdf-version of issue #4. His installation Speranza (2009), designed for the marginal spaces in galleries and museums that allow one to sit down and relax, now settles in a virtual corner of the Secession. Having contributed an extract from his personal publishing to issue #5, Max Leiß also passes over into three dimensions, showing his sculpture Waitress (2014). For issue #6 Elisabeth Greinecker had translated her sculptural practice into flat images. Her recent work Rohr (7) from 2016 transforms aluminum sheets and flat layers of colored epoxy resin up into a standing tube. Most of Clare Kenny’s sculptures derive from photographed surfaces – as did her picture spreads for our seventh issue, and her piece Swingers (2015). Ulrich Nausner conceptually altered the format of issue #8 for his contribution. In line with this approach he now intervenes in the virtual space of the Secession by coating the four rectangular columns of the main space with the four colors of the CMYK color model used in printing. The virtual installation Untitled (imprint) is specifically designed for our online exhibition. Matt Taber takes up the subject of the intervention he has done on our website for issue #9: Desire as a force that places objects and persons into peculiar constellations still preoccupies the 3D-modelled skunk Pepe Le Pew in I want you to want me (Pepe). Finally, Viktor Lundgaard’s work supreme mind (detail) (2016) takes up his ongoing engagement with fanboy-culture in reiterating the theme of race driving, fast cars and video games.

The arrangement of the show uses the advantages of virtual space. Objects can be easily placed and adjusted in size without having to conform to the laws of physics and statics. The viewer experiences the exhibition through first-person perspective.

Move: directional buttons or WASD
Camera: mouse
Cough: C
Map: M
Jump: Space
Exit: Cmd+Q (Mac), Alt+F4 (Windows)

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Editorial

Seit nunmehr fünf Jahren bieten wir mit all-over eine Plattform für die theoretische Auseinandersetzung mit dem Feld von Kunst und Ästhetik aus den verschiedensten Blickwinkeln an. Inzwischen sind wir mit Bildstrecken und Textbeiträgen, die sich auf künstlerische Weise mit unserem spezifischen Medium der Online-Publikation auseinandersetzen, mitunter aus dem theoretischen Feld ausgebrochen. Umso mehr sehen wir es auch in der zehnten Ausgabe von all-over immer noch als unsere Aufgabe, „ein weites Versuchsfeld kunstwissenschaftlicher Überlegungen” zu eröffnen, „in dem sich – ähnlich den Gemälden Jackson Pollocks – verschiedene Gedankenlinien berühren, kreuzen und auseinander laufen, um sich insgesamt zu einem breiten Gewebe zu verdichten.”[1] Die thematischen Fäden der einzelnen Artikel bündeln sich diesmal zu einer nuancierten Perspektive auf den politischen und theoretischen Unterbau der zeitgenössischen Kunst.

Ulrike Gerhardt befasst sich in ihrem Beitrag Localising socialist memory mit einem veränderten Konzept von Erinnerung in der Welt digital gespeicherter Vergangenheit. Anhand zweier Werke von Anri Sala und Hito Steyerl, die die Transformation sozialistischer Staaten von ihrem persönlichen Standpunkt her zu ergründen versuchen – ohne sie erster Hand erlebt zu haben –, zeigt sie Möglichkeiten einer aktiven, alternativen Aufarbeitung des Geschehenen auf.

Markus Stickler diskutiert in seinem Essay The Inflicted Voice einen Knotenpunkt politischer und künstlerischer Fragen im brisanten Feld der Asylpolitik. Ausgangslage dafür ist die Audiodokumentation The Freedom of Speech Itself von Lawrence Abu Hamdan, die die fragwürdige Praxis der Stimmanalyse zur Herkunftsbestimmung von AsylwerberInnen thematisiert.

Anlässlich der Tagung Aesthetics of Standstill in Düsseldorf führte Katharina Brandl für all-over ein Gespräch mit Peter Osborne, in dem der britische Philosoph die historiographischen Mechanismen der Kunstgeschichte, verschiedene Konzepte von Zeitlichkeit und die Virulenz des Begriffs „(the) contemporary“ umreißt.

David Misteli nimmt in seinem Beitrag den Besuch des von Pamela Rosenkranz bespielten Schweizer Pavillons auf der Venedig Biennale 2015 als Ausgangspunkt für eine kritische Auseinandersetzung mit aktuellen philosophischen und künstlerischen Bestrebungen um die Auflösung des Subjekts. An die Stelle der Verabschiedung von Subjektivität tritt eine Topologie des synthetischen Subjekts, die sich in Rosenkranz’ Arbeiten zeigt.

Hannah Bruckmüller hat Katharina Hoins’ präzise recherchierte Dissertation zur Zeitung als künstlerisches Material rezensiert, wobei der begrifflich-systematische Blick der Autorin die vielgestaltige Verwendungsgeschichte der Zeitung nicht immer passgenau erfasst.

Die Fragilität der Oberfläche, die unsere sinnorientierte, alltägliche Wahrnehmung bildet, fungiert als Folie, vor der Angelika Seppi die Ausstellung Secret Surface der KW Berlin liest. Nur selten werden hier Einblicke in den Konstitutionsprozess der fraglichen, vor allem digital angezeigten Phänomene eröffnet.

An Stelle einer Bildstrecke steht dieses Mal eine virtuelle Jubiläumsausstellung, realisiert von Viktor Lundgaard, der seit längerem mit 3D-Modellen arbeitet. Im Zuge dessen entstand auf Basis des Hauptraums der Wiener Secession ein virtueller Ausstellungsraum, der nun eine Gruppenausstellung beherbergt. Alle bisher mit einer Bildstrecke oder Intervention in all-over vertretenen KünstlerInnen haben einen Beitrag dazu geliefert: Walter Derungs, Gregor Graf, Elisabeth Greinecker, Clare Kenny, Max Leiß, Ulrich Nausner, Matt Taber und Thomas Tudoux. Am Präsentationsabend der zehnten Ausgabe von all-over in der Wiener Secession konnte die Ausstellung am Eingang zum realen Ausstellungsraum erstmals virtuell begangen werden. Sie ist bis zur Publikation der nächsten Ausgabe online auf unserer Website geöffnet.

Wir danken an dieser Stelle allen, die über zehn Ausgaben hinweg zum Zustandekommen und Bestehen von all-over beigetragen haben und uns in vielerlei Hinsicht – schreibend, beratend, lesend – unterstützt haben.
Wir freuen uns auch in Zukunft auf spannendes Zusammenarbeiten und wünschen viel Vergnügen bei der Lektüre.

Hannah Bruckmüller | Jürgen Buchinger | Barbara Reisinger | Stefanie Reisinger


[1] Hannah Bruckmüller/Jürgen Buchinger/Dominique Laleg, Editorial, in: all-over, Nr. 1, Juli, 2011. URL: http://allover-magazin.com/?page_id=210.

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Localising Socialist Memory: Cinematographical Spaces as Virtual Mnemonic Topographies

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War era, artistic works have reacted to the transformations, perceptions and effects on the fading memory of the socialist past. Curatorial projects like Interrupted Histories by Zdenka Badovinac in 2006[1], Progressive Nostalgia organised by Viktor Misiano in 2007[2], or more recently, Ostalgia by Massimiliano Gioni in 2011[3] and The Way of the Shovel: Art as Archaeology in 2013 by Dieter Roelstraete[4] in one way or the other dealt with the predetermined and transformative nature of memories. Localising and discussing the socialist experience became an important focus of many artists and curatorial projects, and only recently the web’s “ever-growing memory-banks (i.e. […] online encyclopedias, search engines, and the like […]”[5] have entered the realm of artists as historiographers, archaeologists or storytellers. In the last chapter of her book The Future of Nostalgia (2001), literature theorist Svetlana Boym makes a crucial remark on the status of memory in the digital age revealing her technological skepticism:

“Computer memory is independent of affect and the vicissitudes of time, politics and history; it has no patina of history, and everything has the same digital texture. On the blue screen two scenarios of memory are possible: a total recall of undigested information bytes or an equally total amnesia that could occur in a heartbeat with a sudden technical failure.”[6]

I would like to prove that the concept of memory has so tremendously changed that a strong differentiation between virtual memory and cultural memory[7] has lost its validity. When Boym talks about “computer memory” as if it is being hosted in a virtual non-place, this seems to be an assertion hard to maintain because we have learned that the digital and the ‘real’ merge into ever new forms and devices.[8] Within a condition in which the virtual is no longer considered as separate and ‘unreal’, this paper traces the transformation of cultural memory on socialism in times of digitisation and of “too many histories,” as cultural theorist Jan Verwoert describes the new situation after 1989.[9] Identifying artistic video installations as cinematographical spaces or “digital topographies,”[10] to use artist Hito Steyerl’s expression, which are dedicated to reactivate and choreograph past events, one can assume that the processes of cultural memory have changed simultaneously with the meanings of the word “virtual.”[11] Apparently, memory has undergone a process of transformation ranging from the documentary approach to practices of reenactment, to today’s prevalent performative, linguistic and narrative experiments in distinct audio-visual installations. Consequently many video works become increasingly disloyal to facts and gain independence from historical accuracy—first, because their conceptualisation is more and more informed by human and digital second-hand sources and furthermore because the experimental performing of the socialist memory within video works and their environments is transgressing the antagonism between the historical and the imaginary.[12]

We are indeed already in the midst of Boym’s memory scenario in which her “undigested information bytes” flood the popularised visual databases of socialist history, linked together into group memory systems like computers logged into networks.[13] New technological habits and the temporal distance to the past undoubtedly affect the way socialist experiences are approached. Therefore the questions in this respect must be: How is the experience of the socialist past reflected upon in contemporary video installations and is there something like a digitisation of memory happening within them?

By exemplarily focusing on two video installations which I understand as mnemonic topographies in the light of the socialist past, Anri Sala’s Intervista (Finding the Words) (1998) and Hito Steyerl’s Factory of the Sun (2015), this paper investigates how post-socialist memory has changed in contemporary video works since the late 1990s.

Mnemonic Topography I: Intervista (Finding the Words)

Anri Sala, Intervista (Finding the Words), 1998, video still, single-channel video, stereo sound, colour, 26:39 min.

Ill. 1: Anri Sala, Intervista (Finding the Words), 1998, video still, single-channel video, stereo sound, colour, 26:39 min.

The iconic 1998 video work Intervista (Finding the Words) by Albanian artist Anri Sala (* 1974 in Tirana) has become one of the best known and most circulated artworks reflecting the post-socialist transition in the 2000s[14] as it deals with the biography of the artist’s mother as a kind of “model biography.”[15] The story of the film—considered as typical for the post-socialist experience—is structured as follows: some years after the end of the communist regime in Tirana, Sala discovers an undeveloped 16 mm film in a box at his parents’ house. The artist takes the negative to Paris, develops and restores it. On the tape he recognises his mother at the age of thirty-two, giving an interview and posing with the state’s president and communist leader Enver Hoxha during an Albanian Youth Congress in the late 1970s. The key feature of this found-footage material is the missing sound, which was lost during its time in storage. Therefore Sala goes to a deaf-mute school in Tirana, where his mother’s spoken words are lip read to reconstruct her original speech. Sala adds the missing sound as a written text below the image and visits his mother to show her the restored tape (ill. 1). It turns out that in 1977 Valdet Sala was the former head of the communist “youth alliance,” firmly formulating propagandistic statements for the cameras of Albanian state television.

Like the complex, heterochronic “motion capture studio Gulag” in Steyerl’s Factory of the Sun (which is the spatial setting of the video game at the center of her work), Sala gives an example of “transactive memory,” a memory that is kept outside of our bodies[16]: the 16 mm film in his parents’ house, stored away and subsequently ‘forgotten’ by the mother. Within their respective works, Sala and Steyerl both reflect the contemporaries’ dealing with the transformation and the necessity of creating spaces of remembrance and retrospection. Art historian Mark Godfrey puts the historical relevance of Intervista (Finding the Words) in a nutshell:

„In this Communist era, historical representation itself had been banished: one of the crucial aspects of the work was that Sala not only looked back, but retrieved the very possibility of retrospection.”[17]

Refusing the dominant, psychologising reading of Intervista—particularly the widely established thesis that the mother is working through her traumatic past—here, the character of retrospection gains more importance.[18] To explore the work’s inherent conceptualisation of memory, it is important to take into account the two-fold nature of nostalgia as a motor of looking at the past: its retrospective and prospective orientation. In the introduction to her book, Svetlana Boym clarifies that the consideration of the future, and the connection between personal and collective memory, strongly characterise her vision of nostalgia. She particularly aims at “unrealised dreams of the past” and speculates about their “direct impact on realities of the future” which explains nostalgia’s being both retrospectively and prospectively structured.[19] But where is the prospective aspect in Sala’s individualised mnemonic topography exposing his mother’s private living room?

Sala’s work was produced in the 1990s, a time when, according to art historian Edit András, “the new democratic countries tried to clean up the ideologically polluted public sphere with its powerful images by demolishing statues, removing icons […] and renaming streets and squares […].”[20] This decade of clean-up and forgetting was also accompanied by an unwillingness to speak about the socialist past, and therefore András situates the emergence of Sala’s video work in an unpragmatic “phase of denial and rejection,”[21] at the core of this amnesic period in the 1990s. Hence, Sala produced a video work, which actually is highly prospective in that it is based on the idea that the process of speaking about the socialist experience and heritage has begun and will ensue in almost all Central and Eastern European living rooms. If one follows art historian Bojana Pejić, the creation of a “geographical map” with “newly shaped borders” can be seen as influential as the processes of “naming and renaming” and “finding the words” in the post-communist discourse.[22] While “intervista” is the Albanian word for interview, the title in parentheses, “finding the words,” leads to the impression that the lost words have to be retrieved in order to give a voice to the past. Excavating and reconstructing the 16 mm videotape and its audio track in the video work, Sala provides an example for a “reflective nostalgia”[23] which points towards the future and raises awareness for the collective framework of memory, because his mother’s life story is deeply interwoven with a societal system and a past community of political leaders. The experience of the “total break with an established social normality” after 1989 has not only affected Sala and his mother,[24] it also represents an impression of almost every citizen of Albania, of the people from the former “East” and also of many people from the former “West.” The artist understood that his mother’s life story as well as his curiosity and longing for truth are supra-individual phenomena; Intervista uses a personal perspective to raise an awareness for the “breakdown of language”[25] after the end of the Cold War and for the growing future responsibility to build new narratives from forgotten cultural artefacts like the film reel in Salas work. Thus, it is not without reason that since the 2000s art historians have been speaking about the ‘return of memory’ within visual art[26] because during these years one could have stumbled upon “a trace, a detail, a suggestive synecdoche”[27] leading to the socialist history in domestic and public places at any moment.

In Sala’s early video work of the late 1990s we discover an actually existing house, a building, still hosting archaeological remains of the socialist past. The system’s collapse is still present and a disturbing melancholia has impregnated the video’s imagery and its documentary aesthetics. Although this drama lies in the past and is therefore invisible, it has left rare material evidences like the discarded 16 mm film in the box. The filmic demonstration of the material and the interactions of mother and son mostly take place in a private middle-class apartment of the late 1990s. Several breakdowns of the mother’s speech, the grainy video quality and the close-ups of her face strengthen the effect of authenticity and of a realistic possibility of successfully digesting or processing the information—a promise that Hito Steyerl’s video work is at no point intending to give. Accordingly, Intervista (Finding the Words) is a video work which subtly conveys that the indices and sores can be traced back, narrativised and processed. On the contrary, what we will find in Factory of the Sun is a concept of memory that is committed to “unrealized possibilities, unpredictable turns and crossroads,”[28] but also to an “amalgamation of past and future.”[29] Although we also have a life story in the center, namely the one of the protagonist Yulia (and by implication that of her brother, aunt, parents, and grandparents), this video installation establishes a multi-temporal, fanned out topography, which is scattered into various imaginary, ‘real’ and virtual topoi.

 

Mnemonic Topography II: Factory of the Sun

Hito Steyerl, Factory of the Sun, 2015, video still, single-channel HD video, stereo sound, colour, 22:56 min.

Ill. 2: Hito Steyerl, Factory of the Sun, 2015, video still, single-channel HD video, stereo sound, colour, 22:56 min.

Hito Steyerl calls the informational and interrelated spaces in the World Wide Web “digital topographies,” that reflect the new geographies of globalisation and the structure of the web.[30] In Factory of the Sun (2015), Steyerl develops a topographical scenario on a “holodeck” that is related to the retelling of a personal story: the escape of the female protagonist’s Jewish-Russian family from Russia, and the story of her aunt growing up in the Soviet Gulag as an “orphan of the enemy.” After recounting her family’s emigration from Russia through Israel to Canada, the programmer and main character ‘outside’ the video game, Yulia, a white, androgynous woman in her mid twenties, introduces the claustrophobic “motion capture studio Gulag:” a precisely measured studio space for the recording of human motions, whose prisoners are surveilled, threatened and most presumably killed by laser drones of the Deutsche Bank. Yulia’s brother Michael and the other actors within the video game are condemned to absorb light and transform it into the physical energy of movements and dance. The energy is then being turned into light impulses within another digital space: the virtual reality of the computer game itself. Yulia describes the other human and digital actors’ mission as follows:

“At this point in the game, everything flips. It turns out, you are your own enemy, you have to make your way through a motion capture studio Gulag. Everyone is working happily, the sun is shining all the time, it’s totally awful.”

Step by step, the viewer gets familiar with the ideology and the down sides of this “motion capture studio Gulag,” that is characterised by the vital dependency from sunlight. He also meets Yulia’s brother, who in virtual ‘real life’ is a dancing star on Youtube. Throughout the video, he replicates himself into various Japanese anime characters with radical leftist political agendas. The movements of the video games’ main protagonist and forced labourer are thus tracked, recorded and synchronously reenacted by the animated characters that are dancing nonstop on the “holodeck.”

“Motion capture studio Gulag” is a hybrid conceptual term that connects two former, Cold War-inspired antipodes: the “Western,” futuristic motion capture technique, developed for video games, movies and TV series, and one of the darkest chapters of Soviet history, the Gulag forced labour camps which existed under Stalinism. In Factory of the Sun, there are several of Boym’s “undigested information bytes,”[31] temporal memory images that literally float through digital space in a disparate but nevertheless meaningful, transhistorical way: light bulbs, a silver laptop, golden Stalin busts, the heroically raised arms of a communist leader’s statue, a car, a drone, the NSA listening station Teufelsberg, the motion capture reflective markers, the anime characters and the Kremlin in Moscow. Thus, the “motion capture studio Gulag” suspends the concept of linear time, exemplifying a “world in turmoil”[32] in which historical events like the electrification, the digitisation, the Cold War’s East/West competition or the family’s migration story appear as mere movable global icons.

Hito Steyerl, Factory of the Sun, 2015, installation view at 56th Venice Biennale, German Pavilion.

Ill. 3: Hito Steyerl, Factory of the Sun, 2015, installation view at 56th Venice Biennale, German Pavilion.

The brother’s staged “death” is certainly one of the most remarkable themes of the video work: one can see it coming all the way through, but in the moment it occurs the image is blackened. Earlier in the video, the brother rehearses his death several times, pretending he has been hit by a drone and sinking down. This simulation happens for the camera; his sister praises his performance and he repeatedly slumps down for the video game’s motion capture program—as if it would be important to record many different, ‘natural’ dying scenes for the benefit of the game.[33] In her writings, Steyerl states that drones “survey, track and kill” in the service of “a new visual normalitya new subjectivity safely folded into surveillance technology […].”[34] In Factory of the Sun, the new vertical distribution of power or the growing importance of “aerial views, 3-D nose-drives, Google Maps, and surveillance panoramas”[35] seems to be strongly related to the nature of financialisation, the “post-medium condition of the capital” which organises and controls social relations, as described by philosopher Kerstin Stakemeier with reference to economist Giannis Milios.[36] The video work’s labour camp scenario seems to be inspired by The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins and the story’s tributes who are responsible for freeing the citizens from oppression and poverty—only that in Factory of the Sun the president and the Capitol are replaced by a global company: the Deutsche Bank which is able to supervise social performances. The brother’s subjectivity gets introduced as one of a protester, a dissident who has replicated himself into digital activists, the anime characters Naked Normal, Liquid Easy, High Voltage or Big Boss Hard Facts (ill. 2); however the brother turns out to be a prisoner who is forced to produce sunlight for an anonymous empire, constantly persecuted and threatened by laser drones. His subjectivity does not completely merge in surveillance technology because it cannot be fully annihilated; with his revenants and their dancing moves he first appears to follow a secret agenda using light for posthuman and counter-hegemonic conversions and reversals. But although he and his digital replicants possess utopian sci-fi abilities such as multiple lives, time travelling[37] and superpowers[38], the visitor soon starts to learn that the dancing young opponents on the platform of Teufelsberg are detainees of the Deutsche Bank who have faced disastrous economical and political situations on a global scale. In the follow-up breaking news segment, a Deutsche Bank spokesperson inconsistenly admits the brother’s killing, smugly speaking of a “terrorist defence measure,” denying a liquidation for political or financial reasons.

In the exhibition catalogue The Future of Memory (2015), art historian and curator Nicolaus Schafhausen explains that in contrast to the conception of ‘real’ memories by which he means “memories of events and spaces we experienced personally, now we are being confronted more and more with the recall of experiences we have gained from virtual sources.”[39] Hence, in the digital age, we are observing two crucial transformations that influence the face and nature of cultural memory related to socialist times: virtual memory competing with ‘real’ memory; and the fading—in fact by now almost non-existing—socialist experience of the younger generation. This explains the new entanglement of the documentary and the virtual and the subsequent diminishment of ‘real’ experiences. These aspects influence today’s ‘art of memory’ in a profound way, because it can no longer be understood merely as an “art of recollection.”[40] Rather, I assume that the selected video work and video installation configure mnemonic topographies subtly connecting the growing digitisation and new technological possibilities with the more and more distant memory of the socialist past.

 

Overcoming the ‘Real:’ Virtual Mnemonic Topographies

In our two examples, memory takes two different paths: one is characterised by the illusion of an adaption (Sala), the other is influenced by a virtual simulation of the imagined past, present and future (Steyerl). The historiographical operation in today’s video art can therefore be understood as a process of constructing virtual mnemonic spaces through an active creation of familiar and unfamiliar spaces of remembrance. In a particular way, these localisations of images within chosen architectures help to make visible the absent and past forms and bodies as well as things and words, because it is only due to the mneme, the memorial technique, that they at all occupy certain localities.[41] If we read video installations like Factory of the Sun as virtual mnemonic topographies, one can envision these territories as mnemic zones in which memorisable sentences, forms, bodies and things get performed.

The appearance of new media art, and especially the video installation, makes a significant impact on the relationship between the work of art and the spectator. As I have pointed out, I understand video installations such as Factory of the Sun as virtual mnemonic topographies: a constellation of the exhibition space, the digital video narrative and the viewing subject that is involved into a pre-constructed cinematographic theater setup. Whereas Anri Sala’s Intervista (Finding the Words) can get screened, virtual mnemonic topographies require a specific environment in order to be viewed and are therefore usually created for darkened rooms—the so-called black box—, in which the viewer’s attention gets monopolised.[42] Art historian Charlotte Klonk argues that these dark spaces would produce a “bodiless, lost-to-the-world cinema spectator”[43] which merges with the increasing heterochrony of the fundamental narratives in a growing number of historiographical video works. In Factory of the Sun, for example, this “holodeck dreamscape”[44] is not only virtual in terms of its material nature, but also: “the result of an interaction between subjects and objects, between actual landscapes and the landscapes of the mind. Both are forms of virtuality that only the human consciousness can recognize.”[45] Virtuality also helps to discover the prospective quality of memories and of processes of remembrance, editing the works’ implicit temporal horizons: it opens up for modalities of the present and the future,—made possible by the above-named fusion of “actual landscapes and the landscapes of the mind.” Especially with regard to today’s ‘art of memory’ practiced by contemporary video art, the learning, mediation and experimentation with memory techniques set the ground for a better understanding of the web’s earlier mentioned multi-temporal and disordered “memory banks.”

Virtual mnemonic topographies hence generate an isolated space of an intermediary experience of the socialist past and impose it upon the spectator not only in terms of the darkened interior, but as well in the sense of transforming the ways of visualising the past in synch with new technological possibilities and display strategies. In Factory of the Sun, this transformation has been performed by placing the spectators within the expanded space of the video: sun loungers and beach chairs for the public are installed in front of the monumental video screen, whereas the entire room of the installation simulates the “motion capture studio” and is illuminated by the blue grid in the space (ill. 3). If in our two examples one finds that the virtual reality “holodeck dreamscape”[46] has replaced the immediate first-hand encounter with the ‘real’ experience of the past—what has happened to memory then? It has been transformed towards a framework for performing digitally stored records and narrations. In a time when digital images increasingly lose their intrinsic memorability[47], the spectator of virtual mnemonic topographies gets invited to a simulation of the imagined past and present, involving the second generation as narrator, programmer and protester.


[1] Her concept of “interrupted histories” suggests fragmented, individual histories that develop as parallel, unofficial histories while reflecting on and disturbing the dominant narratives of the past. See Zdenka Badovinac, Tamara Soban (eds.), Interrupted histories, Ljubljana 2006.

[2] Viktor Misiano and Marco Bazzini (eds.), Progressive nostalgia: contemporary art from the former USSR, Prato 2007.

[3] Ostalgia, curated by Massimiliano Gioni at the New Museum in New York in 2011, aimed to showcase an overview of artistic practices dealing with the socialist experience. There, Boris Groys and Ekaterina Degot both recognised a generational shift in artists’ approaches to the socialist past. See Jarrett Gregory, Sarah Valdez and Massimiliano Gioni (eds.), Ostalgia, New York 2011.

[4] The curator and art historian Dieter Roelstraete considers 1989 as a key date for the historiographic impulse in art: “The fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the collapse of various communist regimes in Central and Eastern Europe, and the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991, mark the first clear milestones in this process […]. The post-Soviet condition is the primary subject of work by a sizeable number of artists who came of age in the late 1990s/early 2000s […].” Dieter Roelstraete, Field Notes, in: Sarah Kramer (ed.), The Way of the Shovel: On the Archaeological Imaginary in Art, Chicago 2013, pp. 14-47.

[5] Roelstraete 2013, p. 33.

[6] Boym 2001, p. 347.

[7] Cultural memory can be understood as a process which includes “an exchange between the first and second person that sets in motion the emergence of a narrative.” According to cultural theorist Mieke Bal these cultural recalls get performed with the help of cultural artifacts, visual arts, literature or film. See Mieke Bal, Introduction, in: Mieke Bal et al. (eds.), Acts of Memory. Cultural Recall in the Present, Hanover 1999, pp. vii-xvii, p. x.

[8] According to artist Boaz Levin and cultural theorist Vera Tollmann from the Research Center for Proxy Politics (RCPP), the internet definitely has a materiality—one of earth-girding data centers, undersea cables and routers—and they state that “the old demarcations between the human body in physical space and the so-called immateriality of the digital sphere are being superseded.” See Boaz Levin and Vera Tollmann, The Body of the Web, in: Out of Body. Skulptur Projekte Münster 2017, frieze d/e, No. 23, Spring 2016, n. p.

[9] Jan Verwoert, Living with Ghosts: From Appropriation to Invocation in Contemporary Art, in: Art & Research: A Journal of Ideas, Contexts and Methods, Vol. 1, No. 2, Summer 2007. URL: http://www.artandresearch.org.uk/v1n2/pdfs/verwoert.pdf [27.03.2016]

[10] See Hito Steyerl, Leben im Licht-GULAG, in: Kunstforum International, Vol. 233, June 2015, pp. 274-281, p. 279.

[11] For an insight into the genealogy of the word “virtual,” taking a distance from the simulacral or immaterial, see Homay King (ed.), Virtual Memory. Time-based Art and the Dream of Digitality, Durham, London 2015, pp. 11-12.

[12] Examples: Irina Botea It is now a matter of learning hope (2014), The Bureau of Melodramatic Research (Alina Popa, Irina Gheorghe) Above the Weather (2015), Mitya Churikov, Untitled (Kajima Corporation 1978) (2014), Phil Collins Marxism Today (Prologue) (2010), CORO Collective (Eglė Budvytytė, Goda Budvytytė, Ieva Misevičiūtė) Vocabulary Lesson (2009/2010), Xandra Popescu & Larisa Crunțeanu Guilty Yoga (2012), Aleksandra Domanović Turbo Sculpture (2010-2013), Lene Markusen Sankt. Female Identities in the Post-Utopian (2016), Almagul Menlibayeva, Transoxiana Dreams (2011), Henrike Naumann Triangular Stories (2012), Yves Netzhammer Das Kind der Säge ist das Brett (The Saw’s Child is the Board) (2015), Kristina Norman After War (2009), Sasha Pirogova House 20, Apartment 17 (2014), ŽemAt (Eglė Ambrasaitė, Agnė Bagdžiūnaitė, Noah Brehmer, Eglė Mikalajūnė, Domas Noreika, Aušra Vismantaitė) Imagining the Absence (2014), among others.

[13] According to sociologist Milla Mineva, there are many platforms specifically designed for remembering communism online. See Milla Mineva, Communism Reloaded, in: Maria Todorova et al. (eds.), Remembering Communism: Private and Public Recollections of Lived Experience in Southeast Europe, Budapest 2014, pp. 155-173.

[14] Intervista (Finding the Words) was shown in the group exhibition “After the Wall: Art and Culture in Post-Communist Europe” at the Moderna Museet in Stockholm and at the Ludwig Museum in Cologne (1999), in the “Privatisierungen. Zeitgenössische Kunst aus Osteuropa” exhibition at the Kunst-Werke in Berlin and at the ZKM in Karlsruhe (2004-2005), in the “Gender Check” exhibition at mumok Museum Moderner Kunst Stiftung Ludwig and at the Zachęta National Gallery of Art in Warsaw (2009-2010), in the “…on the eastern front. video art from central and eastern europe” (2010) exhibition at the Ludwig Museum-Museum of Contemporary Art Budapest, in the exhibition “His master’s voice” at La Panacée-Centre de culture contemporaine in Montpellier (2015) and screened at the New Museum in the context of the solo exhibition “Anri Sala: Answer Me” in 2016, among many others. For Intervista (Finding the Words), he won the “Best Documentary Film Award” at the Entrevues Festival in Belfort (1998), the “Best Short Film Award” at the Amascultura Film Festival in Lisbonne (1998), the “Best Film Award” at the Estavar Video Festival in Estavar (1999), “Best Documentary Film Award” at the International Documentary Film Festival in Santiago de Compostela (1999), the “North American Premiere” at the Vancouver Film Festival in Vancouver (1999), the “Best Documentary Film Award” at the Williamsburg Brooklyn Film Festival in New York (2000) and the Best Documentary Film Award at the Filmfest in Tirana (2000).

[15] Verwoert describes that Intervista constructs a “penetrating biographical narrative […] to describe the recent history and current situation of Albania.” Jan Verwoert, Double Viewing: The Significance of the ‘Pictorial Turn’ to the Critical Use of Visual Media in Media Art, in: Ursula Biemann (ed.), Stuff it. The video essay in the digital age, Zurich 2003, pp. 24-33, p. 27.

[16] For a deeper understanding of the term “transactive memory,” see Daniel M. Wegner, Transactive Memory: A Contemporary Analysis of the Group Mind, in: Brian Mullen et al. (eds.), Theories of Group Behaviour, ed. , New York 1986, pp. 185-205.

[17] Mark Godfrey, The Artist as Historian, in: October, Vol. 120, Spring 2007, pp. 140-172, p. 144.

[18] Looking at the work’s history of reception, I consider this psychologisation of the mother’s character’s actions, the strong rejection of her speech, as indicative of one of the fundamental problems of the discoursification of post-socialist art. The art historian Edit András, for instance, understands the function of this video work as a “cry for help” of a “lost generation” and relates to the mothers’ description that her generation seemed to be “trapped in a dreaming machine.” See Edit András, The Future is behind us. Flashbacks to the Socialist Past, in: Edit András (ed.), Transitland: Video art from Central and Eastern Europe 1989 – 2009, Budapest 2009, pp. 209-221, p. 216.

[19] Boym 2001, p. XVI.

[20] Edit András, An Agent that is still at Work. The trauma of collective memory of the socialist past, in: Writing Central European Art History, Vienna 2008. URL: http://www.erstestiftung.org/patterns-travelling/content/imgs_h/Reader.pdf [27.03.2016]

[21] András 2008, p. 12.

[22] Bojana Pejić, The Dialectics of Normality, in:  ed. Maria Hlavajova/Jill Winder (eds.), Who if not we should at least try to imagine the future of all this, Amsterdam 2004, pp. 247-270, p. 248.

[23] “Reflective nostalgia has elements of both mourning and melancholia. While its loss is never completely recalled, it has some connection to the loss of the collective frameworks of memory.” Boym 2001, p. 55.

[24] Søren Grammel, Finding the Words, in Afterall: A Journal of Art, Context and Enquiry, Vol. 5, Spring/ Summer 2002, pp. 64-77, p. 69.

[25] Grammel 2002, p. 69.

[26] Viktor Misiano, in: Massimiliano Gioni et al. (eds.), Ostalgia, New York 2011, p. 74. Ekaterina Degot, in: ibid., p. 52.; Godfrey 2007, pp. 140-172.; Naomi Hennig et al. (eds.), Spaceship Yugoslavia. The Suspension of Time, Berlin 2011.; Ana Bogdanović, Generation as a framework for historicizing the socialist experience in contemporary art, in: Ulrike Gerhardt et al. (eds.), The Forgotten Pioneer Movement—Guidebook, Hamburg 2014, pp. 24-35.; Ieva Astahovska and Inga Lāce (eds.), Revisiting Footnotes. Footprints of the Recent Past in the Post-Socialist Region, Riga 2015.; Dieter Roelstraete, Field Notes, in: Dieter Roelstraete (ed.), The Way of the Shovel. On the Archaeological Imaginary in Art, Chicago 2013, pp. 14-47.; Maria Hlavajova and Jill Winder (eds.), Who if not we should at least try to imagine the future of all of this?, Amsterdam 2004.; Edit András, The Future is Behind Us: Flashbacks to the Socialist Past, in: Edit András (ed.), Transitland. Video Art from Central and Eastern Europe. 1989-2009, Budapest 2009, pp. 209-221.; Svetlana Boym, Modernities Out of Synch: On the Tactful Art of Anri Sala, in: ibid., pp. 79-91.; Boris Groys, Haunted by Communism, in: Nikos Kotsopoulos (ed.), Contemporary Art in Eastern Europe, London 2010, pp. 18-25.; Zdenka Badovinac, Tamara Soban, Prekinjene zgodovine/Interrupted Histories, Ljubljana 2006.; Svetla Kazalarska, Contemporary Art as Ars Memoriae: Curatorial Strategies for Challenging the Post-Communist Condition, in: Time, Memory, and Cultural Change, Vol. 25, 2009. URL: http://www.iwm.at/publications/5-junior-visiting-fellows-conferences/vol-xxv/contemporary-art-as-ars-memoriae/ [27.03.2016].

[27] Boym 2001, p. 54.

[28] Ibid., p. XVI.

[29] This multi-temporal amalgamation also characterises the futurist opera Victory over the Sun premiered in the Saint Petersburg Lunapark in 1913, one of Steyerl’s possible reference points. Christiane Ketteler, The Futurist Strongman Wants to Become the King of Time in Space, in: Eva Birkenstock et al. (eds.), Anfang Gut. Alles Gut. Actualizations of the Futurist Opera Victory Over the Sun (1913), Bregenz 2012, pp. 278-283, p. 278.

[30] See Steyerl 2015, p. 279.

[31] Boym 2001, p. 347.

[32] The commissar and curator of the German Pavilion at the 56th Venice Biennale Florian Ebner writes: “Hito Steyerl’s video installation ‘Factory of the Sun’ shows a world in turmoil and a world of images on the move. It involves the translation of real political figures into virtual figures and an innovative experience of making and engaging with images, somewhere between a documentary approach and a full-on virtuality. The new ‘digital light’ is the main medium used to transfer what is left of reality into a circulating digital visual culture.” Florian Ebner, Concept. URL: http://www.deutscher-pavillon.org/2015/en/ [27.03.2016]

[33] Yulia says: “That was a very, very good dying scene. Very nice.” Shortly before the ‘actual’ killing, there are breaking news spreading: “Tests fail—one dead. Protestor is fatally hit—Deutsche denies responsibility./ Speed of light accelerated? Deutsche tests laser drones at Teufelsberg.”

[34] Hito Steyerl (ed.), The Wretched of the Screen, Berlin 2012, pp. 22-24.

[35] Hito Steyerl, In Free Fall: A Thought Experiment on Vertical Perspective, in: eflux, No. 24, April 2011. URL: http://www.e-flux.com/journal/in-free-fall-a-thought-experiment-on-vertical-perspective/ [27.03.2016]

[36] Kerstin Stakemeier, Exchangeables. Aesthetics against Art, in: Texte zur Kunst, No. 98, June 2015, pp. 124-143, p. 134.

[37] One example for the time travel into the future: “My name is Big Boss Hard Facts. I was crushed in the 2018 Singapore uprisings. We occupied the free port art storage and turned it into a render farm cooperative.”

[38] Another example for a superhuman ability: “My name is Naked Normal. I got killed in a protest in London against student fees. When I was born, I could bend light in a Lobachevsky hyberbolic. I can invert light into itself, slow it down until it becomes music.”

[39] Nicolaus Schafhausen, The Future of Memory—Some Thoughts Developed in Advance of the Exhibition, in: Kunsthalle Wien (ed.), The Future of Memory. An Exhibition on the Infinity of the Present,  Vienna 2015, pp. 7-11, p. 7.

[40] Mary J. Carruthers (ed.), The Book of Memory. A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture, Cambridge 1990, pp. 20-21.

[41] Cicero, On the Orator: Books 1-2, translated by E. W. Sutton, H. Rackham, Loeb Classical Library 348, Cambridge 1942, p. 469.; Carruthers 1990, p. 87.

[42] The change of the exhibition display introduced by the new media art is elaborated in detail in Charlotte Klonk (ed.), Spaces of Experience. Art Gallery Interiors from 1800 to 2000, New Haven & London 2009, pp. 213-223.

[43] Klonk 2009, p. 223.

[44] David Riff, ‘This is Not a Game.’ A Walk through Hito Steyerl’s Factory of the Sun, in: Florian Ebner (ed.), FABRIK, Cologne 2015, pp. 167-193, p. 175.

[45] Boym 2001, p. 354.

[46] Riff 2015, p. 175.

[47] Tom Holert, Spaces of Light. Contemporary Arts, Rooftop Movements, and the Politics of Digital Images, in: Florian Ebner (ed.), FABRIK, Cologne 2015, pp. 23-40, p. 35.

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