The (new) Authentic Work of Art:
Form, Context and the Authentic in the Digital Age
by Andrew Nealon
In light of our post-industrial, decidedly “too-big-to-fail” capitalistic system it has come time to revisit the position put forth by Walter Benjamin in his monumental “The Work of Art in the Age of its Technological Reproducibility,”1 specifically concerning the authentic ideal. Benjamin demands technological reproducibility lays the authentic work in its grave, stripping the reproduction of the contextual originality that endows the original with the aura of the authentic. However, in the age of digital reproducibility — the age of MP3, AVI and JPG — can the mass-produced physical media artifact achieve something resembling original authenticity? I put forth a new authentic ideal is a distinct possibility, as the rituals of subcultures surrounding media artifacts such as the LP and comic book have instilled in the reproduced work of art a new fetishistic aura that is not in complete disagreement with Benjamin’s understanding of the authentic aura of originality.
For Benjamin, the here and now of the original work of art is the main qualifier to determine authenticity. Reproducibility is a nullification of context that brings the work of art to the consumer, rather than demanding the consumer immerse themselves in the space, if not the time, of the original artwork. For the gramophone, which Benjamin cites in his argument, removing the auditory event from its original performance strips the event of its historical testimony — a necessary element for the authority of an original that can not be captured or transmitted to a reproduction.
However, Benjamin was limited in his scope by his place and time, as we all are. Imagine the German critic, holed up in his Paris flat in 1936, breaking up the monotony of cultural criticism by spinning a gramophone copy of the latest flute concerto. Of course he could only see the hissy, fuddled reproduction of a favorite “open air” event as an inauthentic mess of consumer fetishism. For Benjamin, the historical testimony of the gramophone was a mere stuttering whisper. But for the contemporary musicphile and LP fetishist, the same French gramophone recording of an open air flute concerto sings with comparably undeniable authenticity, as its jagged notes call out a historical testimony that cuts through the fog of tinny MP3 pop-nausea pushed by the likes of iTunes.
By reflecting on the advent of digital reproducibility, technological reproductions are given new historical testimony in their materiality. This is, of course, not a universal phenomena shared by all physical media forms. But after a century of technological reproduction, the fetishistic cults that make up subcultures surrounding media forms like the LP, the comic book, the zine and projected 8/16/32mm film install into the collective consciousness an aura of material authenticity that propels these forms, regardless of content, above all other physical media forms, allowing commercial viability (albeit niche commercial viability in some cases) and respect despite the mainstream movement of content translation to new digital forms.
Benjamin asserts “the unique value of the ‘authentic’ work of art always has its basis in ritual.”2 In the context of Benjamin’s argument, this assertion leads him to conclude that the technologically reproduced work is indeed inauthentic for the simple fact that there is no authentic original to posses or witness in presence, as reproduced things are designed not for ritual, but for consumption. Benjamin calls this production of art solely for purpose of reproduction a politicization of art that forever changes the structure of art as we know it.
There is no arguing with the fact that the technological reproduction of art changes the framework of art itself, or that capitalist fetishism leads to consumption over contemplation and appreciation. However, the digital translation of the work of art brings forth another such polarizing and paradigm shifting event for the work of art. Once again, the rules have changed. Over the last century, art has sunk in the shallow depths of mainstream kitsch, which is now being translated into digital nonexistence. By digitizing media, the physical forms held in reverence by a handful of fetishistic cults — the comic book nerds, LP audiophiles, found footage cinematographers — undergo a legitimization process that installs these forms with a new authenticity that can only be seen in the light of the testimony of the digital translation. In some sense then, the qualifier for the authentic work of art in the age of its digital reproducibility is materiality. Not only does materiality enliven the the work in real space, it also ties it to time. Each time the material is engaged, a specific event occurs in real space. Put simply, the materiality of the reproduced work of art now provides the context Benjamin demanded for the original authentic. Digital reproducibility seals physical media’s context to its form, and authenticates the forms elevated by the rituals — listening parties, comic book Wednesdays3, merch booths, Found Footage Festivals — of fetishistic subcultures. Each new issue or 7″ then becomes a fragment from which subcultures draw collective power, uniting over a common understanding of a form. The reproduced work of art meets legitimization, through ritual.
1. Throughout, referring to the second version found in: Benjamin, Walter. (2008). The
Work of art in the age of its technological reproducibility, and other writings on media.
(M. W. Jennings, B. Doherty and T. Y. Levin, Eds.) Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard
University.
2. WoA II, p.24
3. New issues and trade collections of comic books are released each Wednesday.
Millions of comics fans make their way to a local store and participate in a very specific
ritual.
The following soundwalk occurred on the dreary, rain-soaked afternoon of September 12, 2009 in East Williamsbrug, Brooklyn.
Exiting my house and heading toward a busy street, the hum of traffic instantly set the mood for my walk. Because of heavy rain earlier in the afternoon, a wet splosh would accompany the echo of each passing car. This sound would appear intermittently for the remainder of the walk. This mechanical backdrop, so standard, is not easily ignored.
Turning down a sidestreet, I pointed the microphone toward the ground and was startled by the depth of experience listening to my own footsteps provided. Each step was so distinct, underpinned by the soft rubber sole of my shoes. Birds also chip overhead.
As I round the corner back onto a busy street, the sound of passing traffic resumes, but is less heavy, more sporadic, than before. A group of women stand on the corner. They seem to be in the midst of an intense gossip, yet they speak Italian, so I can’t be sure. Continuing down the street, a passing car, with windows rolled up, thumps a rap beat. Bass. Then, an ambulance sitting idle consumes the headphones. Rumble. As I continue past quiet shops, a couple passes deep in discussion, walking hurriedly. As I approach a busy intersection, cars idle at a red light, one blasts Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” from its stereo. The light turns green, and heavy feet lead to screeching tires as the cars accelerate away. Splashing.
I turn the corner and a man recycles a huge plastic bag of empty glass beer bottles. It’s musical.
Four young women chat, sneeze!, as they wait for a friend.
I turn the corner and encounter two Asian car mechanics, talking about the bumper of a taxi. They speak what might be Korean.
I turn again, down another quiet side street. This time, I focus on the chirping birds overhead. Isolated in my headphones as they are, it sounds as if there is a party in the trees. Then, a motorcycle ignites and speeds away.
Turning back onto the busy street, I oppose two women, whose boots distinctly smack on the sidewalk. Then, a dog barks, again, again, once more. He’s inside. Listening, I startle a man on the corner, who pushes a laundry cart. Then, a man yells loudly as he laments climbing stairs, while a second man directs him to his destination.
I turn the corner onto my street. The hipsters in the corner apartment are holding band practice. They are slow, plodding along as they learn their parts.
I’m working on a sound project for my first project in a documentary production course, and I went for a little sound walk around my neighborhood this afternoon. Unfortunately, it’s not super exciting, due to some pretty damp weather.
But, the whole process was interesting, as it forces you to really listen to what’s around. Below, you can hear what it sounds like to walk into my building, check the mail and go upstairs. Pretty exciting, eh?
Scratching the Surface:
The LP & the Age of Digital Reproduction
“When you put on a record,” he added, “it’s an event.”
—Williams, 2008
“Hey mister DJ, put a record on, I want to dance with my baby”
— Madonna, 2000
Introduction
Vinyl records aren’t convenient. LPs don’t sparkle with a futuristic sheen quite like the digital file — the MP3, AAC or WAV. Nor is vinyl easily reproducible, sharable or piratable like the binary, which due to its intangibility can be deconstructed and reassembled as an exact copy, undisturbed by time, wear or maturing physical technology. However, in the shadow of technological renaissance, when a pocket-sized device can house an entire music collection, the LP survives — resurging in the market, providing a material form for the soundtrack of a host of sub-cultural socio-musical movements. In 2008, 1.7 million new LPs sold in America, an 89 percent increase from the previous year. (Not to mention vintage and used record sales, which aren’t included in market statistics.) The growth of local record shows and shops — all while music industry megaliths like Virgin, Tower and Circuit City are boarding up the windows — only proves vinyl’s recent reanimation and reintroduction to the market is viable. (As of April 2009, 670,000 new records had been sold in the U.S. for the year. ) All this growth for a dated, once dead, media at a time when CD sales are plummeting — they fell 19.7 percent during 2008 — and digital distributors such as iTunes struggle against a virtual media-pirate scourge. So why, even after the music industry tossed away their LPs over two decades ago, are consumers, who’ve also fully embraced the technological, forcing record companies to crawl back to a medium that pre-dates the industrial revolution? The answer, I insist, is a complex matter of material authenticity.
Vinyl’s recent success is connected to its inherent negativity, that which it isn’t; becoming legitimate, being made authentic, through its embrace of the dialectic tension that embodies its aura. That tension, born from the LP existing as a physical medium and being tied to the event it represents by a plastic groove, is the undeniable source of vinyl’s mythos — a story crafted by an audiophilicly obsessive cult, which in turn, feeds the form’s acceptance as authentic. Despite the fact vinyl can only strive for the authentic qualities of the actual event it represents, the framework of the digital age provides a new men’s. Due to the hollowness of the MP3, vinyl has been granted a new authenticity, which could only be realized after the act of digital reproduction instilled new authority to the mechanically reproduced. It might be impossible to fully unearth the authentic aura of the LP here, as the issue is a tangled web of ideas drawing from a number of divisions within the study of media, culture and society. However, I believe these pages might provide a foundational understanding, which might be then applied to further suss out the core of vinyl’s authentic aura. First, we must examine the cult.
Cult
The material object — especially the mechanical reproduction of an authentic object or event — defines modern, post-industrial human existence. It seems we are driven by the need for the material, and in the realm of art and music nothing differs. Benjamin understood this drive, claiming forever “the urge grows stronger to get hold of an object at very close range by way of its likeness.” From this urge, we obsess over form, drawing identity from its aesthetic. Despite being material representations of events — the live performance, the studio session, the impromptu jam — LPs have grown to become a consumer art form, through which the collector, audiophile or scene-driven hipster can display their identity one plastic disc, one gatefold album cover, one 7” at a time. And in the vinyl underground, where subculture hip-hoppers, indie rockers, electro-punks, and music elitists are all vinyl-obsessive, LP’s have come to represent something deeper. The LP has become a ceremonial object.
Even Benjamin himself understood how material objects could amass such cultural and personal importance so to develop cults. In his essay Unpacking my Library, Benjamin “describes a complex relationship between the collector and his books that is not simply about the practice of reading but about the physicality, aesthetics, experiences, and tactility of collecting,” so that the collector, when speaking of his collection, “proves to be speaking only about himself.” That is, we so draw our identity from our material collections that the development of cult to celebrate our related obsessions is inevitable. Through the discourse of its proponents, all supporting a very specialized way of experiencing music, the cult of vinyl becomes solidified.
Gramsci provides support for this sort of material cult with his concept of ideology, which is concerned with the importance of sensationism, a connection to the physical that spawns spirituality. As the record died and a handful of sub-cultural groups continued to cling to the LP, members became more connected to what was sensational about vinyl — the pop-hiss, the crackle, the feeling of warmth, the act of moving the needle, being forced to experience an entire album, flipping the disc half-way through. And from this sensationalism, which could be shared between vinyl-loving subgroups regardless of what genre of music they supported, an ideology was formed. Over time, this shared ideology, one that preaches vinyl’s material superiority, becomes a manifestation of cult.
How then, did the cult of LP become powerful enough to successfully proselytize, launching vinyl’s recent resurgence? Hebdige might argue the cult of vinyl existed for decades as noise beneath the surface of the music industry, until the form interfered enough “in the orderly sequence which leads from real events and phenomena to their representation in the media.” Once successfully authenticated as counter-culture by the media, the power shifted from the industry standard, to the sub-cultural preference. That is, the cult of vinyl was able to broadcast its beliefs in the authority of vinyl so that the media had no other choice to accept it as an authentic movement. In a thorough review of media reports surrounding the history of vinyl, Yochim and Biddinger found the propaganda of vinyl littered in the pages of Rolling Stone from as early as 1979. In their introduction to the resulting study, ‘It Kind of Gives You that Vintage Feel’, the authors conclude, “vinyl records have been articulated with human characteristics, such as fallibility, warmth and mortality, which, for record enthusiasts, imbue vinyl with authenticity.” Through powerful declaration in the media, the cult was able to exert its mythos on the industry.
While there might not have been any authenticity to vinyl during the medium’s nearly century-long market reign, there now exists such a system of subculture so that vinyl is stamped out as “ceremonial objects destined to serve in a cult.” While Benjamin argues mechanical reproduction forever separated art from its basis in cult, DJs who’ve spent years digging through musty stacks of records, and collectors, their thumbs rubbed raw from sorting and resorting their shelves of plastic, have reestablished a connection between vinyl and cult, thereby granting it great power in the marketplace and culture in general. Vinyl then defies the standards that judge other mechanical reproductions for the simple fact that its cult reclaimed the physical form, instilling in it an aura, and granting it God-like status in the ceremony of listening.
This then is one step toward understanding vinyl’s material authenticity. However, the cult is powerless without its gospel. The cult needs a story to tell.
Mythos
What then was this cult so enamored with that it was driven to establish a new ideology surrounding vinyl? Like any religion, it is myth that provides a foundation for support, and there is no format quite as storied as vinyl.
Even a brief rummage through the news headlines concerning vinyl provides proof that there’s little complexity to the mythos of the LP. Barthes was right to claim any object, once provided with an appropriate discourse, is replete with myth. Articles in Rolling Stone, The New York Times, and a host of other publications supply an exhaustive history of the LP’s mythical story. As “any material can be endowed with meaning,” vinyl is replete with myth instilled deep within its grooves by over 100 years of discourse — a dialectic primarily concerned with the physical qualities of vinyl so that the myth flows from the pops and hisses, transcending from the artwork on its sleeve. The physicality of vinyl is inescapably tied to its myth. And because of this specific link to its form, vinyl’s system of myth becomes “more amenable… to historical criticism,” thus cyclically burrowing itself further into the cultural consciousness. Like Barthe’s “passionified roses,” the emptiness of an arcane plastic disc becomes full as the signifier of authentic recording by never stepping too far from the myth of a superior aesthetic. “It just sounds better,” is the simple argument so often argued by the cult.
To the cult of vinyl, the LP represents that which the MP3, nor any other digital medium, ever can. As New York Times reporter Alex Williams put it, “[i]n an era when ‘everybody’s music collection is the same’ thanks to file swapping, collecting expensive, unwieldy LPs is a conspicuous way for the superfans to advertise their cognoscenti status.” This line of thought could go far in an argument relating to vinyl’s role in identity creation. However for this argument, vinyl’s authenticity is further tethered to form. It’s not only the sound of vinyl, which is derived form its mechanics, but also its total physical aesthetic — an aesthetic of the material itself, as well as the environment it creates — that defies appropriation by any digital form. A digital recording of vinyl might represent the hiss-pop, but the total effect is lost due to the absence of the physical. Barthes would agree, as “the myth is always there to present the form; the form is there to outdistance the meaning.” Regardless of content, vinyl carries it’s meaning in its form. Here vinyl’s authenticity can be unearthed a bit more, as Benjamin asserts, “[t]he authenticity of a thing is the quintessence of all that is transmissible from its origin on, ranging from its physical duration to the historical testimony relating to it.” The cult of vinyl, concerned mainly with the aesthetic of vinyl, has provided a complex mythos dating to the birth of the gramophone in the late 1800s. All that has been transmitted about vinyl in its long history had stacked up, collected and, until recently, was waiting for the right moment to support a new authenticity for the form. And as we will now see, the birth of the CD provided the blow vinyl needed to assert a new authenticity.
What It Is Not
Andreas Huyssen, writing on Adorno’s reconsidered culture industry, explains the “crisis of the beautiful,” through which Adorno found for the possibility of legitimate, and one might also add authentic, art if the result maintains an “awareness of the crisis.” Such an art, Huyssen explains, preserves the traditional aura in negativity. Put another way, a form’s embrace of what it is not, that which it cannot represent, is, in fact, a reasonable reason to grant a measure of authenticity, as it is now innate with a certain self-awareness.
Extrapolating this idea for the purpose of vinyl’s authenticity can help explain the medium’s survival in the time spanning the “death of vinyl” in the late 1980s to the current resurgence in popular culture. As CDs became the primary mode of musical distribution around 1988, the culture industry seized them, thrusting the new plastic discs into Adorno’s foggy mist. Here the CD, already born into the world with an aura of decay due to it’s digitalization of the event (the ultimate step in the process of mechanical reproduction), acted as martyr, pushing vinyl out of the culture industry’s grasp, and into a more authentic space beneath the surface. Once free from the restriction of the market, free from the mainstream culture industry, the record could breed subculture into an army simply be acting as the alternative to popular culture. It was no longer the industry standard, an in that anti-authoritarian fact, the cult found pride and grew.
In the transition from LP to CD, vinyl was instilled with the aura of negativity — vinyl was not digital, not new, not the future. Vinyl was messy and full of noise; it was warpable and bulky. It was nothing like the unbreakable, digital, hi-definition savior, the CD. Almost overnight, vinyl also represented the past, standing alone as a musty testament of the past.
The cult accepted these truths, embracing the sound of vinyl despite its supposed lower quality and obsolescence. The cult was aware of the crisis, and by default, vinyl became the beneficiary of new societal tension. By acknowledging all that vinyl wasn’t, and formulating a response championing the form’s negativity, the cult created a cultural self-awareness for vinyl even Heidegger would admit allows for some authenticity. Because vinyl thrives as a result of what it is not, it must be granted some authenticity. And if all this can be concluded from the introduction of the CD, what then happens to vinyl in the context of the MP3?
Record(ings) of the Authentic
Even in its name, the vinyl record presents an authenticity, another example of self-awareness. “Record” acknowledges the form’s mere representation of an event. Opposed to a copy, rather a recording. Vinyl is honest with its fallible; it has no false confidence concerning its existence. Simply by pressing the record to vinyl, the event is forever altered, contained in the physicality of the disc. And, as seen above, in the addition of noise installed in the process of manufacturing, the cult finds reason to celebrate. This must be considered when uncovering the new authenticity of vinyl in the digital age.
The MP3 is absolutely a product of the age of digital reproduction, where the form is intangible yet offers itself as an exact copy of a physical event. The MP3 represents the original event sure enough, yet it is totally unaware of any specific individuality, all copies are exact. In this way, the MP3 lies to itself. Where each record represents a new take on a specific event, all MP3’s represent the same inferior representation. The MP3 is tirelessly reproduced until all meaning is shaken from the binary coding that renders them so inauthentic.
The tension between the honesty of vinyl and the dishonesty of the MP3 paves a road for authenticity. Benjamin asserts a necessity for the contextual existence of a work of art, claiming reproductions lack a “unique existence in a particular place,” and therefore the aura of the original is inevitably lost. However, stepping forward in light of the digital age, the LP is endowed with new meaning. In a reality where music is virtually transferred and duplicated without degradation, the LP is afforded an opportunity to embody Benjamin’s standards for authentic art despite being mechanical reproductions themselves.
As Benjamin continues, “It is this unique existence — and nothing else — that bears the history to which the work has been subject. This history includes changes to the physical structure of the work over time, together with any changes in ownership.” The lack of a contextualized existence is a major factor when Benjamin then considers authenticity, saying, “The whole sphere of authenticity eludes technological — and of course not only technical — reproduction.” However, within the context of the modern day, when consumers “use a click wheel to sample songs from Miley Cyrus, Nas, Black Sabbath, John Coltrane and the Scissor Sisters within minutes,” the record itself must come to represent a unique event, an original reproduction. Seeing the LP in this light allows it to meet Benjamin’s specific criteria. All of a sudden, each mechanically reproduced LP contains a unique physical history — its own scratches and pops — as well as its own unique existence and interaction with its owner. Each play is, in fact, an event, each spin representing an original occurrence, thus becoming original in a way totally unavailable to the MP3. In that way, the MP3 does much to degrade the experience of music, hiding the auratic experience in a fog of easy accessibility and everyday normalcy. Vinyl still demands work, and for that, it generates awareness in the listener.
For reasons of space and temporality, no two performances are ever alike. Just as no two records, even if they contain congruent content, will ever offer the same listening experience. Certainly, even a single record spun twice would differ more in performance than the same song played back to back on an MP3 player. There is simply a better chance for the record to exist in a unique manor, even if they were pressed hundreds at a time. So, it’s through the lens of digital reproduction that the record is granted a second chance at life, as well as an opportunity for authenticity — secondary authenticity, perhaps.
Conclusions & Predictions
Hopefully then, we can arrive at my original thesis and conclude that through the tension developed by the invention of the CD, and then furthered by the MP3, a sufficient negativity was created to instill authenticity in the record. This negativity was enough to captivate the cult of vinyl, pushing members to establish power for the form through the successful spread of its mythos. Of course, this is an incomplete and jumpy case for the secondary and material authenticity of vinyl. However, I believe the pathway paved provides a sufficient case for the existence of this authenticity. While no plastic pressing will ever capture the full beauty of a truly authentic experience, vinyl does, in fact, create some sort of authenticity for itself in the light of digital reproduction.
Of course, this case must be accompanied by a somewhat ironic prediction. As the music industry rediscovers the monetary power of vinyl, one is forced to ask if the mythos of the LP faces the possibility of becoming vapor once again in Adorno’s foggy mist. Will what little authenticity gained from the tension of digital reproduction be totally stripped from vinyl as it is stocked on big box store shelves? Moreover, as major labels release new “popular” albums, as well as reissues, on vinyl, does a cult that thrives on exotic treasure hunting and an underground mentality become diffused? Unfortunately, I believe it is only too possible for the culture industry’s cold embrace to make all of the above a reality for the LP.
However, perhaps vinyl’s time really has past, and even if the market continues to grow, it will never reach a breaking point. For the digital revolution, with its grassroots promotion and distribution methods, might kill the music industry before it has the chance to squeeze every last penny out of the plastic. Maybe then, the record will remain as a testament to the authentic days of mere mechanical reproduction. Either way, vinyl will always have three authentic decades to be proud of.
Well, it’s not much, and there are some pretty serious technical hang-ups, but here’s my first film project for school. It’s a little documentary about my parent’s recent visit to NYC.
I got an A-, y’all.
(Sorry, there’s a little lag in the movement due to the file being a little large for Youtube.)
Not a man to answer a question directly, here’s Derrida on ghosts from the 1983 film Ghost Dance.
Not sure that I’m 100 percent tracking with him on this one. Derrida’s answering a fundamentally spiritual question with a literal, yet metaphoric, theory of human memory. And then somehow, he ties that to the physical world, not to mention the American on the phone. I understand when he ties an evoked memory — or even the girl’s sexuality — to phantasmal auras. But, that’s metaphor. Sorry JD, not there yet. Maybe I need to watch some more of the movie.
Twitter seems to be a particularly interesting theme for media theory. In a context of ever increasing complexity, Twitter represents an artificial constraint (an imposed length of one’s message). The short length of one’s message requires a peculiar mode of expression–a tweet–which forces one to formulate one’s thought concisely.
It is clear that there is a certain level of stupidity to Twitter, and yet it is nonetheless intriguing — it is attracting new users and much media attention. Make a case in support of Twitter, by focusing on the relation between form and content (for instance, the way in which this new format transforms the content of thought.
I don’t know that I agree with the basis of the prompt — that the artificial constraints of Twitter force a more concise message. Have you followed The Real Shaq?
However, Twitter is fascinating for many reasons. Beyond it being a media darling, Twitter gets at something deeper in human communication: the utterance. Specifically, Bakhtin’s view of the utterance, which would place Twitter in its own speech genre, where the sentence (much to Bakhtin’s delight) is tossed out the window. Twitter is, in fact, Bakhtin’s chain of utterances made tangible, scrollable on a computer screen or iPohone — a chain of utterances, drafted in response to others, calling for the response of yet more utterances, all developing a web of interpersonal connections.
That concludes with a realization that Twitter holds a great deal of weight in reality. There is an ethics of Twitter, which is now developing. And as this conflict of ethical development has begun, Twitter has become intriguing to its users and mythical to those uninitiated. The result is a vast social experiment in communication, in languaging. And I think we’re all interested because we realize that.
So, my argument in favor of Twitter goes like this: Twitter’s interesting. And, it might be important, linguistically, in the long run.
Other reasons we should let it have our attention:
The economic gamble — figuring out how to monetize twitter will save the e-conomy.
It’s Fun. Period.
Did I mention the Real Shaq? It’s really Shaq.
P.S.
You can follow me @insertmedia. I’ll follow you back.
Bonus Video!
This video was part of the lecture that prompted this prompt. Is it too nerdy to admit that it gives me goosebumps to think about some of the ideas presented in this silly thing? Booya:
On Monolingualism and the Decolonizing of Power Or, Almost as Many Commas as Derrida
Humanity wasn’t born into language. That is, language is a tool learned — it’s nothing innate.
Derrida would argue, and Kenneth Burke would agree, language establishes hierarchy — humanity operating under the umbrella of a lingualism not owned, nor created, by any one user, but one cultivated to serve the interests of a powerful minority. Further, no human is raised to be truly multilingual, forever operating in a “mother tongue” (though, even mother tongues are vapor, an illusion of social interaction). These conclusions represent an oversimplified, reduced core of Derrida’s Monolingualism of the Other, an obscure take on human languaging and our inability to grasp the true nature, or rather, daunting meaninglessness of spoken word and languaged thought.
Derrida exerts we dwell within our own monolingualism, drawing from it self, identity, culture, and powerful metaphors and idioms, with which we structure our understanding of reality. (But, in genuine, contradictory Derrida fashion, we also do none of the above.) In many ways, language is a trap. For, as Derrida explains, we cannot accurately speak of language but in that language itself, rendering cross-cultural communication and translation ineffectual at their core. Also trapping us inside our own minds, language is no less created by the individual than reality. The language by which we define ourselves is simply, from the beginning, a language of the other — created through history, by millions, owned by none.
Of course, Derrida has more to say (and much more to self-contradict), but this core idea of the trappings of language can be wonderfully extrapolated through Ngugi’s Decolonising the Mind. Colonized Africa has been systematically forced into the language of Western Imperialism, striped of a mother tongue (a first-level language of the other), crammed into the language of another, drawing Derrida’s theory into a second-level perspective.
Derrida states a foreign language, while possible to translate, is never inhabitable in the way a mother tongue is. In Africa, this resulted, as Ngugi explains, in the complete loss of power, and culture, of native Africans, as well as the creation of a corrupt, second-tier power in post-colonial African politics. Ngugi’s accounts support Derrida’s idea of power-creation by naming. Ngugi ancestors and contemporaries were forced to discard their native language, and as a result, discard their identities, in exchange for the language of the power holders. This rendered the liberal arts and creative class, the religious and the petty bourgeois even weaker due to the fact African culture was completely lost in translation or discarded for the cause of Western power.
Ngugi, working with concrete examples, is slightly more cheery than Derrida, speaking of a harmony of the mother tongue. And even though Derrida would argue Nguigi’s mother tongue also deceives him, Ngugi’s experience puts Derrida’s theory in perspective, allowing a sense of the real to rise out. For all who control language, control power — a lesson easily learned, but hardly applied.
Calling back to my reaction to escaping Adorno’s Culture Industry, it appears the solution lies in the individual. As Derrida puts it, and clearly Ngugi agrees, invention is the holy answer — individual invention of language, invention of form, invention of medium (as in Ngugi’s case of the African novel). Using this path, one can make some wonderful leaps, advancing the argument supporting art as a medium for social reform: from individuals (such as Ngugi), to collectives, to movements, to true progress.
But to return to the point, a more grounded argument could be made (and is by Derrida) for the importance of language in the creation of identity, and thus a stressed importance of the individual in the creation and cultivation of language. As Ngugi found, through creating a medium, by inventing, and owning, a new language of the other, one for the descendants of the mother tongue, he was rewarded with considerable power in the development of the resulting cultural movement. Knowing creation is power, then, is the first step toward securing freedom, the all-important universal ideal.
On Monolingualism and the Decolonizing of Power
Or, Almost as Many Commas as Derrida
Humanity wasn’t born into language. That is, language is a tool learned — it’s nothing innate. Kenneth Burke, and Derrida, for that matter, would argue language establishes hierarchy — humanity operating under the umbrella of a lingualism not owned, nor created, by any one user, but one cultivated to serve the interests of a powerful minority. Further, no human is raised to be truly multilingual, forever operating in a “mother tongue” (though, even mother tongues are vapor, an illusion of social interaction). These conclusions represent an oversimplified, reduced core of Derrida’s Monolingualism of the Other, an obscure take on human languaging and our inability to grasp the true nature, or rather, daunting meaninglessness of spoken word and languaged thought.
Derrida exerts we dwell within our own monolingualism, drawing from it self, identity, culture, and powerful metaphors and idioms, with which we structure our understanding of reality. (But, in genuine, contradictory Derrida fashion, we also do none of the above.) In many ways, language is a trap. For, as Derrida explains, we cannot accurately speak of language but in that language itself, rendering cross-cultural communication and translation ineffectual at their core. Also trapping us inside our own minds, language is no less created by the individual than reality. The language by which we define ourselves is simply, from the beginning, a language of the other — created through history, by millions, owned by none.
Of course, Derrida has more to say (and much more to self-contradict), but this core idea of the trappings of language can be wonderfully extrapolated through Ngugi’s Decolonising the Mind. Colonized Africa has been systematically forced into the language of Western Imperialism, striped of a mother tongue (a first-level language of the other), crammed into the language of another, drawing Derrida’s theory into a second-level perspective.
Derrida states a foreign language, while possible to translate, is never inhabitable in the way a mother tongue is. In Africa, this resulted, as Ngugi explains, in the complete loss of power, and culture, of native Africans, as well as the creation of a corrupt, second-tier power in post-colonial African politics. Ngugi’s accounts support Derrida’s idea of power-creation by naming. Ngugi ancestors and contemporaries were forced to discard their native language, and as a result, discard their identities, in exchange for the language of the power holders. This rendered the liberal arts and creative class, the religious and the petty bourgeois even weaker due to the fact African culture was completely lost in translation or discarded for the cause of Western power.
Ngugi, working with concrete examples, is slightly more cheery than Derrida, speaking of a harmony of the mother tongue. And even though Derrida would argue Nguigi’s mother tongue also deceives him, Ngugi’s experience puts Derrida’s theory in perspective, allowing a sense of the real to rise out. For all who control language, control power — a lesson easily learned, but hardly applied.
Calling back to my reaction to escaping Adorno’s Culture Industry, it appears the solution lies in the individual. As Derrida puts it, and clearly Ngugi agrees, invention is the holy answer — individual invention of language, invention of form, invention of medium (as in Ngugi’s case of the African novel). Using this path, one can make some wonderful leaps, advancing the argument supporting art as a medium for social reform: from individuals (such as Ngugi), to collectives, to movements, to true progress.
But to return to the point, a more grounded argument could be made (and is by Derrida) for the importance of language in the creation of identity, and thus a stressed importance of the individual in the creation and cultivation of language. As Ngugi found, through creating a medium, by inventing, and owning, a new language of the other, one for the descendants of the mother tongue, he was rewarded with considerable power in the development of the resulting cultural movement. Knowing creation is power, then, is the first step toward securing freedom, the all-important universal ideal.
On Escaping the Culture Industry
Adorno and Horkheimer’s Dialectic of Enlightenment
Any reader stepping away from Adorno and Horkheimer’s The Culture Industry must be instantly affected by the crushing cynicism in the author’s revelation that human acts of perception and creativity are merely the result of thousands of years of progressive, self-inflicted captivity. As a direct result of the industrialization of the creative process, culture — that is art, music, film, and all shared creative endeavors humans use to attach meaning to existence — has been boiled down into a finite number of socially acceptable art forms. This process of cultural industrialization is inescapable, as each new generation is born into the confines of the existing and preformed media paradigm. The true cynic reads into this, coming to the realization that no matter how ground-breaking, indispensable or avant-garde a work of art is, it is little more than the practice of collecting false notions of a false reality and attempting to pass them off as truth. (Good thing I’m not a complete cynic, as that framework is crushing on the soul.)
One is left wondering how we can escape this bleak condemnation of creativity. Adorno and Horkheimer offer little comfort, explaining that our only victory is our ability to operate with a working understanding of our own false reality. And this, honestly, is hardly triumph.
If this victory is so singular and limited to understanding, then our pitfalls are numerous and forever growing. Every act of creation becomes the culmination of our false reality. Adorno and Horkheimer were lucky, for as crushing and artistically destructive as the early film, radio and television industries were; in terms of cultural degradation, modern media trumps anything that came before.
Adorno and Horkheimer explain the world, in entirety, passes through the filter of the culture industry, creating a downward spiral that limits how we perceive to those options offered to us by the industry. This has become exponentially more disruptive and destructive in the last two decades, as reality TV has taken hold of television markets and the spread of the Internet has allowed for the simultaneous, instantaneous, amateur creation of reality by the masses.
This movement could not have been foreseen, as the authors argue the true power holders are those fluent in the jargon of the industry. However the industry has been spread so thin, its methods so universally adopted, that the power to create reality, to change our total perception of the universe and existence, is available to anyone and everyone. It would be hard to fathom in 1947 that only 50 years later, a vast information network would connect the entire world, allowing for a near-socialist ideal of shared power. Moreover, one wonders if this utopia of dispersed power could have been predicted, would they have also foreseen the popularization and acceptance of gutter media (unsourced, purely capitol-driven spam crafted as dressing for Google ads and product placements)?
It becomes clearer with each new television season, as reality TV contestants assume roles without direction and expect fabricated storylines, as viewers continue to believe, against their better judgment, that this programming says something deeper about human existence; that we are only continuing down the spiral of false reality. But now, instead of jogging, we are sprinting. Somewhere, the culture industry went meta — it was decided it was more cost-effective to directly warp reality than try to focus it through a creative lens. Clearly, this moves us further and further away from reality, further from truth.
I’m unsure whether or not Adorno believes there is any escape. And I’m unsure myself if there is either. Because we are born into captivity, we are forever shackled by our own culture. We are never given the chance to search for Truth, because we are already drowning in a sea of false truth, which too many accept as reality. So what can be done?
Try and try again, I assume. For the natural flaw of the culture industry is that all its strength is based on the same creations that can ultimately destroy it. And while humanity will never tire of the lowest common denominator entertainment, we will also forever crave progression. So there is hope in progression. Because not everything falls into the traps of the culture industry, we can slowly escape — or at least continue to stay informed and attempt to dig out. This ultimately comes down to individual progression away form the industry of culture. It demands artists take steps to free themselves, and hope others choose to do the same. There is no collective salvation, only individual salvation. So, as Adorno and Horkheimer point out, the first step is knowing. The second step, then, must be to choose creative isolation. But even then, there are no guarantees.