Monday, 9 March 2015

The present / History / the past

Ran across a good quotation, posting here in a kind of prosthetic memorizing.

History is a kind of translation of the present, performed by looking at “the past,” which is itself a constructed fabric including some fibres and excluding others. It is rewritten constantly as the present tense moves and changes.

Saturday, 7 March 2015

Brian Massumi, The Autonomy of Affect



Brian Massumi, “The Autonomy of Affect,” Cultural Critique, no. 31, part II (Autumn 1995): 83–109.

Brian Massumi’s article in the Cultural Critique represents an attempt to conceptualize the affect as a category of research in social sciences and humanities. This agenda leads Massumi to work on a very high level of abstraction. This philosophical take on the affect resulted in a framework which became quite popular in scholarly research: Google Scholar counted 467 citations for Massumi’s “The Autonomy of Affect,” and 2693 citations for his 2002 book Parables for the Virtual, in which this article became the first chapter,[1] an indication of its notable effect on academia. To a certain extent, the popularity of Massumi’s ideas can be explained by the timely appearance of his article at the very beginning of the affective turn, when it became a flagship text for scholars in various disciplines to use in order to find new perspectives on their disciplines and material. At the same time, Massumi actively contributed to the conceptualization of the affect in Anglophone scholarship by his translation of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s works. At the same time, the high level of abstraction in Massumi’s work on the affect leads to a somewhat speculative nature of his argument: in certain cases, the absence or arbitrariness of his evidentiary basis left me sceptical to his overall conclusions.
The understanding of the affect in Massumi is linked to another key term in his research: the virtual. Massumi understands affect as

the simultaneous participation of the virtual in the actual and the actual in the virtual, as one arises from and returns to the other. Affect is this two-sideness as seen from the side of the actual thing, as couched in its perceptions and cognitions (p. 96).

The virtual, in turn, is linked to the human perception of external stimuli. To introduce the concept of the virtual, Massum addresses a research which examined children’s reception of and reactions to three versions of one film. Following the authors of the original research who tried to understand and interpret the difference between the reception of three versions of the film, Massumi argues that the human reception of images (that is, external stimuli) occurs on at least two levels: that of form/content, and that of intensity/effect. The form/content level is linked with the signifying order; consequently, people are capable of making sense of their perceptions on this level by narrativizing their experience. In contrast, a perception on the level of intensity/effect is, according to Massumi, “a nonconscious, never-to-conscious autonomic remainder” of bodily reactions to external stimuli (p. 85). It is disconnected from any possibility to being translated into a narrative: in Massumi’s gloss it is “narratively de-localized” (ibid.). The relationship between the form/content and intensity/effect level is that of the modified and modifier, in which the latter remains invisible; it is only through traces that intensity/effect leaves on the form/content level that we can feel its presence. Intensity does not produce meanings, but is capable of changing them: “[i]t is a state of suspense, potentially of disruption” (p. 86), which disappears at the very moment we attempt to locate and describe it, but modifies the narratives we produce.
Massumi equates intensity with affect, which allows for a radical differentiation between it and emotion. While for him emotions are personal and belong to the domain of the self, the affect is an extra- or intersubjective phenomenon. In lay terms, a person can be emotional, but a thing cannot; at the same time a thing can be affective (a rocket, an iPad, or a Chinese silk scarf), but a person cannot unless she/he is objectified (the most extreme form being – visually – an image or – materially – remains, such as Yorick’s skull). The affect lures in the intersubjective space created by encounters between people and things; it is hardly surprising then that Massumi finds the affect’s place of residence in things:

Affects are virtual synaesthetic perspectives anchored in (functionally limited by) the actually existing, particular things that embody them… Actually existing, structured things live in and through that which escapes them. Their autonomy is the autonomy of affect (p. 96–97).

In contrast, an emotion is the result of a conscious attempt at appropriating affect, a “consensual point of insertion of intensity into semantically and semiotically formed progressions, into narrativizable action-reaction circuits, into function and meaning” (p. 88). Here, Massumi confronts Fredric Jameson’s definition of postmodernism as “the waning of affect”: for Massumi, this definition is a category mistake, a futile attempt to qualify the unqualifiable. Moreover, it is politically dangerous, since the affect “is not ownable or recognizable, and is thus resistant to critique” (Ibid.), a theme he more thoroughly addresses in the second part of his article.
This understanding of the affect – coupled with a visible influence of Deleuze in Massumi – makes him occupy quite a radical anti-humanist stance in his writing. Massumi suggests that, in order to produce accurate descriptions and interpretations of social processes which would account for the structural and structuring roles of the affect, scholars should radically abandon their anthropocentric understanding of social reality:

Theoretical moves aimed at ending the Human end up making human culture the measure and meaning of all things, in a kind of unfettered anthropomorphism precluding to take one example-articulations of cultural theory and ecology (p. 100).

The agenda of Massumi thus resonates with “New Materialisms” of such scholars as Diana Coole, Samantha Frost or Jane Bennett – the latter, like Massumi, also deeply influenced by Deleuze’s understanding of social reality as a complex assemblage which includes human and non-human agencies. For Massumi, the very possibility of things to generate the affect, to overwhelm the rationality of human consciousness, to shape human bodies and minds is the key to conceptualizing the complexity of social process which various logocentric theories of subjectivity and ideology – e.g., Jacques Lacan, Mikhail Bakhtin or Michel Foucault – cannot account for (on p. 100 Massumi directly engages Lacan).
While Massumi’s argument that the affect has an intersubjective nature is rhetorically convincing, we have to take many of his claims for granted, as he often neglects to provide an evidentiary basis for his argument. The claim that the affect resides in objects is particularly fragile if we examine the difference in reactions to the same object among different cultures (the scale model of Yuri Gagarin’s Vostok spacecraft during the class). The same object caused a different affective response in the classroom – a phenomenon which is much better explained by Sara Ahmed’s notion of affective economies. Ahmed argues that “feelings do not reside in subjects or objects, but are produced as effects of circulation” (Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (Edinburgh University Press, 2004), 8). From this perspective, affective objects are the ones which were interpellated into the social being by emotions (Ahmed’s vocabulary is apparently different from Massumi’s), rather than immanently hosting affects as Massumi has it. The principle difference is in the cultural relativism: Ahmed’s conceptual framework accounts for it, while Massumi’s does not. The explanation lies, probably, in the fact that Massumi is more interested in an individual’s encounter with the affect, which leads him to prioritize psychological (that is, universal) aspects of this encounter over cultural (that is, relativist). This is particularly evident in his discussion of “the missing half-second.”
In his discussion of the missing half-second, Massumi examines a psychological research which established that there is a time delay between the perception of an external stimulus and a conscious response. His interpretation of this delay is that during this half-second, an individual is overcome with the affect:

The half-second is missed not because it is empty, but because it is overfull, in excess of the actually performed action and of its ascribed meaning. Will and consciousness are subtractive. They are limitative, derived functions which reduce a complexity too rich to be functionally expressed (p. 90).

The consciousness, according to Massumi, is incapable of making sense of the body’s affective response to external stimuli. This incapability to rationally deal with the affect becomes a political resource in the post-modern era. In Massumi’s own words, “Affect holds a key to rethinking postmodern power after ideology” (p. 104). Massumi is, in particular, interested in the phenomenon of Ronald Reagan who, in his opinion, exemplified the post-modern use of affect in the production of power relations:

Reagan operationalized the virtual in postmodern politics. Alone, he was nothing approaching an ideologue. He was nothing, an idiocy musically coupled with an incoherence (p. 102).

For Massumi, Reagan’s performance in the political arena was post-ideological (or non-ideological) – a claim that few historians would agree on. While Massumi records the linkage between the affect and power, his interpretation of this linkage is the least convincing part of the article. His claim that “[i]t was on the receiving end that the Reagan incipience was qualified, given content” is hardly something new after Roman Jacobson’s theory of communication[2] and Roland Barthes’s argument about the death of the author.[3] In addition, from a historical perspective, Reagan was neither unique, nor inherently conservative (as Massumi frames it) phenomenon: Lenin, Trotsky or Hitler, to mention just a few, used a presumably similar affective model of communication with their audiences.
Massumi’s article is an extremely interesting take on the affect theory. It does give me new ways of thinking about the affect. His insistence that the affect can be studied only symptomatically, by examining the traces it leaves in narratives and meanings is particularly appealing. At the same time, from my (biased) disciplinary perspective the universal and speculative character of his approach is a major obstacle in using it for a history research. Unlike the theories of affect which treat it as a social phenomenon, examine social dimensions of the affect and differentiate between different affects, Massumi’s approach to the affect does not give me methodological or conceptual tools to deal with the affect as a historical phenomenon.


[1] For comparison, Sara Ahmed’s The Cultural Politics of Emotion that I personally find more convincing from the analytical, logical and empirical perspective, has 2197 citations according to the Google Scholar.
[2] Roman Jakobson, “Closing statement: Linguistics and poetics,” Style in language, no. 350 (1960): 350–377.
[3] Roland Barthes, “The death of the author,” in Image, Music, Text (London: Fontana, 1977), 142–148.

The Cherry Orchard, a Russian Encyclopedia of Alienation


 
The Cherry Orchard, a Russian Encyclopedia of Alienation

Writing at the turn of the twentieth century, when the Russian cultural milieu was replete with Marxist ideas, Anton Chekhov stayed surprisingly aside from any visible influence of Marxism. The only Marx he dealt with in life was his publisher Adolf Marx, and his own circle included mainly liberal (Alexander Kuprin), liberal-conservative (Ivan Bunin, the future 1933 Nobel Prize laureate in literature) and ultra-conservative (Leo Tolstoy) intellectuals, but strikingly few Marxists (one of them was Maxim Gorky, the future “father” of socialist realism). Yet after the Bolshevik Revolution, Chekhov’s works – unlike, for example, those of Bunin or Dostoyevsky – were immediately incorporated into the canon of Soviet literature. Lenin, in particular, admired Chekhov’s works and often quoted him, as also did Anatoly Lunacharsky, the Soviet Commissar of Enlightenment from October 1917 to 1929. What made Chekhov’s ouvre so appealing to the Bolsheviks? One of Lunacharsky’s articles on Chekhov can provide an answer:

Chekhov… was perfectly aware that he expresses a certain public opinion, felt himself – through his eyes, through his pen – tightly connected with his times, and in this sense was a social man… He takes social ulcers from his own soul and amazingly beautifully and truthfully depicts them, and he is harmonious and marvellous in his truthfulness.[1]

What Lunacharsky, a Marxist, appreciates in Chekhov is the latter’s ability to express social conflict stemming from the fact that one’s selfhood is an expression of particular material and social relations. In other words, Bolshevik ideologists recognized Chekhov’s method as innately Marxist, while his mastery of style made his social criticism more subtle and persuasive than most works of openly Marxist writers. In this response, I argue that alienation – one of the key concepts of Marxism – occupies a prominent place in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, to the degree that it can be dubbed an encyclopedia of alienation in late imperial Russia.
Alienation is, in fact, a major force driving plotlines of many of Anton Chekhov’s works.  One of his most famous short stories entitled “Man in a Shell” is a narrative of a Belikov who spent his whole life trying “to withdraw into a shell like a hermit crab;” a whole life’s effort of misrecognition of one’s self as derivative of social relations he is trying to escape. Of course, the moment he achieves this ideal is the moment of death; and, in a gesture of authorial irony, it is the only time Chekhov shows Belikov as feeling positive emotions:

Now when he was lying in his coffin his expression was mild, pleasant, even cheerful, as though he were glad that he had at last been put into a case that he would never leave again. Yes he had attained his ideal!

The Cherry Orchard deals with more diverse, subtle and scary aspects of alienation. Its characters perform a whole range of forms of misrecognition, disrespect, and humiliation of others and, more importantly, of themselves. Ranevskaya and her family, Gaev, Varya and Anya, are confronted with the highest stakes: the loss of their high social positions which they take for granted by the right of inheritance. This loss is symbolized and materialized in the looming and, in Act 3, finally occuring sale of their estate with its cherry orchard. For Ranevskaya, the separation from the cherry orchard is a separation from her past: “My dead, my gentle, beautiful orchard! My life, my youth, my happiness, good-bye!” (Act 4) In fact, as a long-term resident of France, who had fled there to forget about the loss of her husband and son, Ranevskaya is already alienated from her past and from the social relations that created her as a noble woman of late imperial Russia. Yet the very materiality of the orchard, its ability to produce “material limits, presuppositions and conditions independent of [people’s] will”[2] recreates these social relations of her past once she is back to her estate. Her past is not gone as long as this material artefact exists, which is emphasized in the character of her old servant Fiers. Fiers, who epitomizes the past social relations between “the peasants” and “the masters” of the pre-Emancipation era, is derivative of the estate, orchard and social relations provoked by them to such a degree that at the very end of the play he is physically unable to separate himself from the orchard. In the last flash of consciousness he recognizes this inseparability of his life from the life of the (now doomed) orchard: “Life's gone on as if I'd never lived” (Act 4).
Alienation, a loss of a part of oneself, invites empathy on behalf of the audience, but Chekhov manipulates the play’s dialogue in such a way that Ranevskaya and her family never obtain the monopoly on the audience’s attention. In the course of the play we learn – in a language which at times is surprisingly close to Marxist – that the cherry orchard is more than simply an object of natural landscape. It is a social phenomenon, and as such is itself the product of alienated labor of serfs belonging to Ranevskaya’s family. The key episode is Trofimov’s monologue beginning with “All Russia is our orchard” (Act 2), in which he brings anthropomorphic metaphors to convince Anya that the orchard is anything but an aesthetic object:

Think, Anya, your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and all your ancestors were serf-owners, they owned living souls; and now, doesn't something human look at you from every cherry in the orchard, every leaf and every stalk? Don't you hear voices . . . ? Oh, it's awful, your orchard is terrible; and when in the evening or at night you walk through the orchard, then the old bark on the trees sheds a dim light and the old cherry-trees seem to be dreaming of all that was a hundred, two hundred years ago, and are oppressed by their heavy visions.

Trofimov experiences (or at least claims to experience) a reaction of disgust to the understanding of the social complexity of the cherry orchard (“it’s awful, your orchard is terrible”).[3] Silvan Tomkins’s affect theory suggests why it might happen: disgust, if not felt orally, can be a reaction to an object perceived, in fact, as attractive: “disgust may be aroused by a very attractive sex object, if there is both a strong wish for and fear of sexual contact” (“Contempt–Disgust for Objects Which Are Not Taken into the Mouth,” Vol. 2, p. 357). Trofimov feels disgust because the orchard is so appealing, and its appeal stands on the way to what he claims is a better future: “For it's so clear that in order to begin to live in the present we must first redeem the past.”
As with Ranevskaya, Chekhov manipulates the dialogue in such a way that the audience would not feel empathy for Trofimov (his dialogue with Ranevskaya in Act 3). Yet the complex social nature of the cherry orchard is revealed through another principle character, the merchant Lopakhin. In the very beginning of the play we learn of his complex relationship with the Ranevsky [sic] family:

My father was the serf of your grandfather and your own father, but you--you more than anybody else--did so much for me once upon a time that I've forgotten everything and love you as if you belonged to my family . . . and even more.

The cherry orchard is, in other words, actually the creation of the Lopakhins; its current ownership by Ranevskaya is made possible only by the specific social relationship between the masters and the serfs in the pre-Emancipation Russia in which the former had a full possession of the latters’ products of labor. These relations of exploitation were culturally disguised in the language of parents’ (masters’) care about children (serfs), not unlike that of the American slavery.[4] When Lopakhin addresses Ranevskaya as part of his family, “or even more,” he reproduces this dominant language. When he persistently tries to convince her to keep her estate by leasing off land for villas, and even promises to “raise a loan of 50,000 roubles at once,” so that “your cherry orchard will be happy, rich, splendid,” Lopakhin works against his commercial interests, but also against his social interests by maintaining the old, rooted in the pre-Emancipation era system of socio-economic relations of inequality. In the language of Marx and Engels’s Theses on Feuerbach, the cherry orchard prevents him from discovering that “the secret of the holy family” (his current relationship with Ranevskaya) lies in structures of exploitation of “the earthly family” (the inequality of power which they both inherited from their parents); the orchard thus is an obstacle to “criticize in theory and revolutionize in practice” this relationship.[5] Lopakhin misrecognizes these structures of inequality as obligation, and Varya exploits this misrecognition by trying – quite openly – to marry herself off to Lopakhin. Lopakhin’s open expression of triumph in Act 3 might seem like a drastic contrast with his gentle and caring behaviour in Acts 1 and 2, but his purchase of Ranevskaya’s estate opens the road to the elimination of the orchard, this reified inequality. Until the orchard is cut down, its magic is still around: in Act 4, Lopakhin temporarily cedes to Ranevskaya’s suggestion that he propose to Varya. His comment “I don't feel as if I could ever propose to her without you” suggests that his affection for Varya stems from the same power relationship that is the source of his feeling of obligation to Ranevskaya. Yet “[a]xes cutting the trees are heard in the distance,” and the proposal never takes place.[6]
The feeling of alienation in The Cherry Orchard is additionally reinforced on the level of its composition: everybody is talking, but nobody is listening:

LUBOV. And Varya is just as she used to be, just like a nun. And I knew Dunyasha. [Kisses her.]
GAEV. The train was two hours late. There now; how's that for punctuality?
CHARLOTTA. My dog eats nuts too.

In the absence of human contact, things come to replace people as objects of affection. In the episode in which Lopakhin offers a realistic and pragmatic way out of the bankruptcy, Ranevskaya instead kisses cupboard and speaks to her table, and Gaev, having replied in two phrases, addresses a 100-year old cupboard with a lengthier and kinder speech than anything he ever tells to Lopakhin or anybody else in the house (“My dear and honoured case!..”). The Cherry Orchard might be interpreted as a melancholic play in the sense that the dominant feeling of its protagonists is the feeling of loss, which they – successfully or not – are trying to conceal or cope with. Yet their kaleidoscope on the scene represents too fast a change of faces and voices and does not give us, their audience, enough time to develop empathy with any of them. We just have no time to develop melancholy. Raymond Williams suggested, as an interpretation of this method, that Chekhov wrote “about a generation whose whole energy is consumed in the very process of becoming conscious of their own inadequacy and impotence… Virtually everyone wants change; virtually no-one believes it is possible.”[7] In so saying, Williams loses the perspective of the social conflict that was ripping late imperial Russian society apart – something that the Bolsheviks, who appreciated Chekhov’s works for his skill to reveal this conflict, knew too well. More importantly, Williams also seems too preoccupied with the analysis of the textual aspect of Chekhov’s plays. Yet the very end of The Cherry Orchard suggests something very different than social “inadequacy and impotence.” As spectators of The Cherry Orchard, in its final scene we are literally left without characters. Everybody is gone with the exception of Fiers who has become an unalienable part of the estate; and Fiers is dying or already dead. The main character of the play – the cherry orchard, which like Edgar Poe’s purloined letter, has animated the entire sequence of events, conflicts and interactions in The Cherry Orchard, is gone, too. With it (and with Fiers) are gone social structures and relations of pre-Emancipation Russia. A more radical change is hard to imagine.


[1] A. V. Lunacharsky, “What can A. P. Chekhov be for us?” originally published in: Pechat’ i revolutsiia, 4 (1924): 19–34, quoted from http://lunacharsky.newgod.su/lib/ss-tom-1/cem-mozet-byt-a-p-cehov-dla-nas.
[2] Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, A Critique of the German Ideology, Part I, http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1845/german-ideology/.
[3] This particular phrase is a result of censorship: the original one read as an open political statement, and Chekhov had to remove it (in the Russian editions it was restored after 1917): "To own human beings has affected every one of you--those who lived before and those who live now. Your mother, your uncle, and you don't notice that you are living off the labours of others--in fact, the very people you won't even let in the front door."
[4] “The essence of slave-owner paternalism was to treat slaves as children who needed constant guidance because they could not manage on their own. Pomeshchiki [Russian nobles], too, often spoke of their serfs as children..” Peter Kolchin, Unfree Labor: American Slavery and Russian Serfdom (Harvard University Press, 2009), 156. Fiers has a lot of parallels with similar characters of loyal slaves who stayed with their parents after the Emancipation, such as Mammy from Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind.
[6] Historically, Russian merchants typically sought marriages within their own rank to consolidate capitals.
[7] Raymond Williams, Drama From Ibsen To Brecht (The Hogarth Press, 1993), 106–107.