Guest post by Mark Sheerin
It is more than 1,000 miles from Luton, England, to Reykjavik, Iceland. But Dominic from the UK town appears to love a good caper. Why else would he put together a group show on very little money in one of the most far flung and expensive cities in Europe?
â€œIt was done on a wing and a prayer,â€ he tells me on the phone from his Luton studio. â€œThe art was just really, really ambitious considering we didnâ€™t have much money to play with. Itâ€™s amazing what you can do with a cardboard tube and a delivery van.â€
Five artists took part. And the show has just run for a month at gallery Kling & Bang. Along with Dominic, the full bill included Gavin Turk, Mark Titchner, Laura White and Peter Lamb. The show went by the name London Utd. â€œIt’s kind of doing what it says on the tin,â€ says Dominic, whose eponymous town is just a twenty minute train ride from the UK capital.
Not that he is the first to cross the Atlantic to the artist led space. He tells me that Paul McCarthy and Jason Rhoades have also shown at the dynamic and co-operative venue. And Dominic takes the opportunity to recount the tale of Kling & Bangâ€™s legendary appearance at Frieze Art Fair.
â€œThey did a Frieze Project in London in 2008 called Sirkus. Itâ€™s an incredible story,â€ says the artist, telling me that Sirkus was the name of a Reykyavik bar: â€œThis place was the hub, the heartbeat of the arts communityâ€. But after nine years of business, Sirkus closed down, leaving Kling & Bang free to turn the faÃ§ade and fixtures into a temporary installation for the art fair.
Dominic warms to his tale: â€œThey arrived at Heathrow in October 2008 and basically all their credit cards had been stopped because the [Icelandic] crash had suddenly happened overnight and so this bar, which was a mirror of good times and place to meet, became that again in London.â€ Word soon went round about the penniless Icelanders with the reconstructed bar.
Things are a bit better in Reykjavik now and in its way London Utd has become another bridge between the art scenes in both cities. Mark Titchnerâ€™s piece was a piece of text in Icelandic, which read The World Isnâ€™t Working. (Perhaps the UK crash is yet to come.)
Gavin Turk meanwhile offered a twelve and a half metre diptych inspired by Andy Warholâ€™s Death and Disaster series and featuring the four wheeled emblem of working class Britain the Ford Transit. Laura White produced no less than 54 drawings of photos of sculptures which she herself had made. And Peter Lamb translated the shifting detritus on his studio floor into two large abstract canvases.
Asked about one of his own works in the show, Dominic is ready with another yarn. â€œThat photo was done as a tribute to Paul Young,â€ he tells me. Like the artist, the singer came from Luton. â€œHe used to work at Vauxhall [car plant] in the early 80s and he told someone I know in the canteen once that he was going to be a global pop star and then literally 18 months later he was, with Everytime You Go Away.â€
The track resonates with many a Lutonian and inspired a Dominic from Luton performance at an event called CafÃ© Almanac organised by Bedford Creative Arts. This involved sourcing an 80s wig from Luton Indoor Market, posing for a portrait artist in the shopping centre and getting 5,000 badges made to cover a cheap suit. â€œI just stood up in front of about 50 people in this Working Menâ€™s Club on a Saturday afternoon and sung my heart out,â€ recalls the artist.
This took place under a net filled with 200 balloons in the colours of the local soccer team, intended for release in the final verse. However â€œThe net got caught in all of my badges so I had 200 balloons attached to me and I panicked and – it wasn’t scripted at all – I basically ended up having a fight with these balloons and stamping on them and stuff and it brought the house down actually.â€
But despite the hazardous stagecraft, Dominicâ€™s â€œbiggest challengeâ€ is a self-proclaimed inability to sing. So it comes as no surprise that the artist thinks most performance art is too earnest. â€œPeople would argue with this, but I think there’s a duty to entertain,â€ he says, â€œThat’s just my take on it. That’s my little mantra.â€ Even the anecdotes which relate to each of his gigs are compelling experiences.
As a final aside, itâ€™s worth pointing out that the artist formerly known as Dominic Allan comes from one of the most derided towns in the UK. His â€œfrom Lutonâ€ tag is a sticky piece of cultural baggage. Dominic tells me that the name just came about through being easy to remember when he ordered materials.
Now, he claims, â€œItâ€™s just a very glorious vehicle for the idea of the underdog and also to shove it back in peopleâ€™s faces now because Lutonâ€™s one of those towns which people laugh about . . . The more I go on, the more I realise that it is serious, and it is seriousâ€.
So thatâ€™s Dominic, from Luton, easy to laugh with, hard to laugh at. Prepare to be entertained if he ever comes to your town.
Mark Sheerin is an art writer from Brighton, UK. He can also be found on Culture24, Hyperallergic, Frame & Reference and his own blog criticismism.com
“A question of repetition: a spectre is always a revenant. One cannot control its comings and goings because it beginsÂ by coming back” (Derrida, Spectres of Marx).
What follows is a longer correspondence that began as a casual conversation at the Hyde Park Art Center. After talking for a bit, I emailed Anthony Elms, “Can I interview you about ghosts?” That was several months ago and ever since, we’ve been emailing back and forth at various interim. Why might I want to ask about ghosts? How does that pertain to a website about contemporary art? Partly, my interest stems from a Q&A I witnessed not too long ago. The conversation centered on the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Consensus assumed the ghost a literary device on Shakespeare’s part. “What if the ghost is real?” someone asked. Blank stares darted around the room. There was an almost impalpable twinge of embarrassment mixed with misunderstanding, “Of course the ghost is only a metaphor,” silence seemed to imply, “ghosts aren’t real.” And the conversation went on to other things.
I got stuck on this notion; what did it mean to say the ghost isn’t real? There is no reason to think the ghost any less real than Hamlet; both characters share the same frame of reference for the audience. And then I began to wonder what it might mean for any ghost to be real. I started reading Derrida’s Spectres of Marx,Â which is when I encountered Anthony Elms. “I love that book,” he said. “I’ve only just started it,” I said. “Do you think ghosts are real?”
Anthony Elms is an artist, a curator, a writer and an editor of the wondrous press, White Walls, where he has curated a number of projects.Â His writings have appeared in Afterall, Art Asia Pacific, Art Papers, Artforum, Artforum.com, Cakewalk, May Revue, Modern Painters, New Art Examiner, and Time Out Chicago, but his accomplishments resist a concise sentence.Â For this and so many reasons, he seemed an especially good person to talk to. I have included the extent of our virtual conversation below. We talk about ghosts for their own sake, try to devise their locations and energetic habits while linking them (perhaps to Elms’ chagrin) to artistic experience.
Caroline Picard:Â When did your awareness of ghosts begin?
Anthony Elms:Â I cannot actually remember a time when I was not aware of ghosts. Some of the earliest encounters I can think of are in Looney Tunes and Scooby-Doo, Where Are You!, not surprisingly, and elaborate costumes my mother would make for Halloween.
CP:Â How did that process take place?
AE:Â I really don’t know. I did not grow up in a superstitious family. So it isn’t that there was an environment of believers. That said, when I was growing up we lived in a series of large houses that were empty a lot of the time, and I would often be left to myself, and I never felt alone. A friend in high school really believed in ghosts, and he lived in a house said to be haunted by many. I never saw anything there. Others did. In undergraduate I lived in a place where I was always seeing things. I was never sure. I have had moments over the years where I feel watched by the dead.
CP:Â How would you describe them?
AE:Â How would I describe ghosts, you mean?
As a presence that troubles, follows, affects, desires, drives and disturbs.
CP:Â Do you feel like particular cities have more ghosts than others?
AE:Â Without doubt. Some cities belong to ghosts more than to the people who live there.
AE:Â As you know Caroline, it has taken me almost a month to respond to youÂ questions. Most unhelpful to getting this conversation on track for aÂ proper back-and-forth. You were calling out to no response. No punÂ intended. In part because the questions and thoughts are difficultÂ ones. And, I’ll be honest, in part because of the turn of the
conversation, of trying to think about ghosts in the context of art. IÂ wasn’t particularly excited about trying to frame my thoughts relativeÂ to art–for me ghosts are so much larger and more interesting thanÂ their relation to aesthetics–but in time I found my way and madeÂ peace. It happened rereading filmmaker Raul Ruiz’s Poetics of Cinema.Â In the chapter “Mystery and Ministry” Ruiz sums up WesternÂ Civilization as basically a war between the two. He writes:
“Ministry’s police repression favors (if not actually creates) theÂ subversive function of Mystery; and in the very heat of battle, itsÂ hierarchical orders command the publication of Mystery’s secrets, andÂ therefore its conversion to Ministry. All this has happened manyÂ times. Ministry gains in secrets–which, for it, is a way of losing;Â while Mystery, whose substance consists only of shadows, cannot helpÂ but vanish as it comes forth into the light–therefore it loses asÂ well. These circles could have gone on spinning indefinitely, if inÂ this century the very nature of Mystery had not begun to change.Â Instead of discretion it now prefers public exhibition, and indeed itÂ never risks even that without clarifying everything beforehand; thereÂ is no longer a shadow zone where the mysterious players can marshallÂ their forces and practice their moves. We call this phenomenon aÂ ministerialization of Mystery: its immediate consequence is to affectÂ the nature of Ministers, who themselves become increasinglyÂ mysterious.” (p.102)
So first, I will get ahead of myself and answer that, yes, a seanceÂ can and should be art. Now, I did not see the piece you mention andÂ neither want to give it validation or critique. We are stuck with theÂ good, the bad and the ugly. However, it is important to always standÂ in potential, and with respect. One of my favorite moments everÂ witnessed was a lecture by artist/composer Carl Michael vonÂ Hausswolff. He talked about a work made in collaboration with AndrewÂ McKenzie of The Hafler Trio, Dale Travous and Annie Sprinkle. TheyÂ combined, in different locations but synchronized in time, attemptingÂ to marshall technological, magical and sexual energies to rid IcelandÂ of NATO. At the end of the gathering of forces the airbase was stillÂ there. However, during the time of their exorcism, a volcano eruptedÂ in the Philippines, smothering a U.S. airbase with ash, closing theÂ base. Hausswolff explained that their focus was right, but obviouslyÂ their aim imprecise. Â A student incredulously challenged, “Are youÂ serious?” Hausswolff responded: â€œSure. What is to be gained if Iâ€™m notÂ serious?â€ Case closed.
Back to the Ruiz. His assessment is correct: “there is no longer aÂ shadow zone where the mysterious players can marshall their forces andÂ practice their moves.” And still mystery does exist. Lurking in theÂ daylight. Art is one such realm. The space of art, much like theÂ screen of a moving image or the stage of a musical performance is aÂ zone where we don’t just allow ourselves to encounter the unknown, weÂ ready ourselves for a connection with the unknown. And this sometimesÂ happens in the classroom too. You can sit there with all yourÂ administrative powers: attendance requirements, assigned readings,schedule, lecture notes, project assignments, and still you can neverÂ predict what will be summoned when all the individuals come to theÂ table. And in fact it is those very structures and borders that set
the place for the unknown–good and bad–that does happen. It is theÂ platform from which risk jumps. And to follow Ruiz’s playfulÂ implication, anyone who has tried to get anything done that involved aÂ large bureaucracy (the post office, a university administration, aÂ city government all come to immediate mind) has witnessed underÂ fluorescent light just how mysterious things can seem when everythingÂ is presented before you in plain 12 point type.
By the way: I love to swim, run. I enjoy yoga and have an unhealthyÂ attachment to a rowing machine. What all these share in common is roteÂ activity: repetition and pattern. The actions don’t surprise me, IÂ know what I am doing, for how long and where my actions are leadingÂ me. But in these moments I usually find my mind explodes, struck by
something I had either overlooked, or had not even recognized as aÂ possibility. Or the unpredictable flow/feel of a limb, it has movedÂ that way a thousand times and yet now it has discovered something inÂ that movement it was never attentive to before. Or this does notÂ happen. And of course this doesn’t happen when I watch someone elseÂ swim, run, yoga, row. But maybe if someone shared with me theÂ unknowing experience of their swim, run, yoga, row I could get there.Â Let me witness for a moment the behaviors by which matter changes forÂ this other person. It is too easy to confuse facts for spaces ofÂ engagement in art: large amplifiers = heavy metal, or in your example,Â building an alter and lighting candles = spiritual evocation. Still,Â be generous. We would never say of a book that the cover ruins ourÂ surprise of the contents because it’s sturdiness is a parody of aÂ story’s beginning and end, we are likely to talk about bad cover
design and poorly told stories. A crucial element of your listedÂ troubles, and where the art seance chooses a path: unpredictable orÂ parody, is related by art critic Jan Verwoert in “Under the Sign andÂ In the Spirit of a Stoa: On the Work of Cerith Wyn Evans,” republishedÂ in his collection Tell Me What You Want, What You Really Really Want.
A passage, funny enough, that segues quite nicely from Ruiz’sÂ administered mysteries.
“Besides, you never know with spirits. There is no guarantee thatÂ they’ll come when called. They appear when they want to. So seancesÂ are a tricky technique for dealing with creatures from the past.Â Citations, conversely, are more controlling; the one who cites takesÂ possession of what is cited. Things work differently in a seance. WithÂ spirits you must negotiate. And if you lose the upper hand in thisÂ process you might end up being the one possessed. Power relations areÂ not predetermined; they are subject to negotiation. In contrast to theÂ act of citation, the ceremony of convocation remains perilouslyÂ performative and open ended. It cannot coerce a community (among andÂ with spirits) to come into being.” (p.213)
Perhaps the student lost sight of convocation and ended up inÂ citation. Ghost hunter Michael Esposito once remarked, “we likeÂ recordings more than we like to listen.” Or maybe the spirits wereÂ having a laugh at the student’s expense that day. For spirits toÂ survive, it is imperative to support Hausswolff and his request, “WhatÂ is to be gained if I’m not serious.” Which does not promise success atÂ every attempt. If Hausswolff didn’t help the wrong volcano to erupt,
what kind of a world do we live in? No world I’ll come home to.
AE:Â I referenced a chapter from Ghostly Matters: Haunting and theÂ Sociological Imagination, by Avery F. Gordon about the disappeared inÂ Argentina. Thousands were imprisoned, tortured and killed by theÂ dictatorship. Obviously people are dead. The government for a majorityÂ of cases never admitted to imprisoning the individuals, and never
issued death certificates. So yes, people basically vanished,Â preserved in an unresolved gap. A question with no sounded answer. TheÂ absence is palpable because a clean label cannot be applied: living,Â dead, employed, institutionalized, etc., and the desire we feel for aÂ name, a descriptive, is left wanting. French philosopher Jean-Luc
Nancy, in Â Being Singular Plural, shares â€œwilling (or desire) is not aÂ thinking; it is a disturbance, an echo, a reverberating shock.â€ It isÂ not trivializing the disappeared to say they were incompatible to theÂ existing dominant structures. That is why they were disappeared. AndÂ now the reverberating shock has no perimeters to catch and stop theÂ waves.”
I should resist, but I will now risk gross trivialization to somehowÂ thread the loose threads of our exchange together by drawing anÂ artistic analogy to the felt missing out there. Again, Verwoert, butÂ this time from his essay “You Make Me Feel Mighty Real: On the Risk ofÂ Bearing Witness and the Art of Affective Labour” from the sameÂ collection mentioned above.
“Except perhaps whistle a tune, like people do when they walk alone atÂ night. It’s a strange habit. You whistle to chase away the thoughtÂ that someone or something else might be out there with you. But forÂ whom would you be intoning the tune if not for them, whoever orÂ whatever they may be? Whistling in the dark is a way of relating toÂ something out there like it was both there and not there. It isÂ therefore a most suitable way of relating to ghosts; as the embodimentÂ of the unavowed, ghosts are what they are because they are there andÂ not there. Good art and thinking is always a bit like a tune whistledÂ in a manner that echoes the possible presence of something or someoneÂ out there.” (p.292)
This, ultimately, I am not sure why, reminds me: I think timing Â and aÂ tune is the key to ghosts.
AE:Â Underneath the plaster and lathe of the walls were denim jeans.Â Obviously used as a cheap readily available insulation. So many jeans.Â My friend Matt and I jumped when the jeans came for us, clinging toÂ our crowbars. Please do not feel embarrassed by my calling you out forÂ wrong details, we need to keep this goingâ€¦ misremembering is key to
the sense of missed time that unleashes ghosts.
Anyway, to answer if it is empathic imagination or something intrinsicÂ to the objects, the answer is both and neither, pending. Let’s beÂ distinct. Some objects hold my empathetic imagination: a somewhatÂ useless antique chair that pressed uncomfortably into my stomach inÂ the back seat of an economy car on a ride back from Washington D.C. in
the 70s, Â a vase I bought my mother for a Christmas gift once and nowÂ sadly own, a painted portrait my father made of me when I was aboutÂ four. These objects contain my attention, my care, my devotion and myÂ love. They do not hold any ghosts. There are objects that seemÂ haunted, my CD player that randomly turns off on its own accord, theÂ VCR player that at times has a display light and at times does not.Â These objects raise my ire. They do not hold ghosts. And the others: aÂ photograph I cannot imagine discarding, because I know some bad willÂ befall me if so, the novel that for some reason radiates love from theÂ shelf whenever my eye catches the spine, that album that exorcises theÂ bad demons from any untoward moment, the Christmas ornament–ownedÂ less than 24 hours–that fell and broke and elicited instant tears,Â the ottoman I never wanted to see again. These objects hold ghosts.
Can I prove any of the above? Absolutely not. This does not make theÂ above nonsense. This is precisely why we need to give these types ofÂ objects and responses more attention. And resist received wisdom. AndÂ I also wonder why we should require that our empathic imaginationÂ cannot be something intrinsic to the object? Verwoert appears here
again, and once again from his text on Cerith Wyn Evans, an artist whoÂ often references past texts and histories in his art, or arrangesÂ situations that call back to and bring forth pastÂ histories–Lettrists, Georges Bataille, W. S. Burroughs, BrionÂ Gysin–often without a clear reason for the recall. But they are notÂ puzzles for decoding.
“The mode in which Wyn Evans relates to Lettrist principle is thus notÂ so much a form of reference but of reverence. Instead of displayingÂ knowledge, he invests passion in the invocation of a spirit. HeÂ communicates the fascination inherent to a certain manner of freelyÂ engaging with cinema and literatureâ€¦. What counts is spiritualÂ affinity. It is through a gesture of reverence, therefore, that WynÂ Evans creates proximity between characters and evokes the spirit ofÂ their collective subjectivity.” (p.208)
Perhaps, when our empathic imagination rests on an object with whichÂ it shares a spiritual affinity, we see the ghosts?
AE:Â An artistic experience that does not bristle your arms, or at leastÂ shut off your self-assured all-knowing voice is not worth having.Â Simply put. In fact, maybe an artistic experience that does not putÂ you in touch with some form of spirit is not an artistic experience.Â And all this is possible in a photocopied booklet, paint and canvas, aÂ snapshot, 16 mm film, tape and cardboard, store-bought product,Â graphite, a rock. You name it. I must appeal for the eternal return of
Verwoert, to quote him again from his essay “You Make Me Feel MightyÂ Real: On the Risk of Bearing Witness and the Art of Affective Labour”:
“Spiritual as they are, if all spirits were exorcised, then art,Â writing, love and friendship would equally cease to exist. As artists,Â writers, lovers and friends, we are therefore not afraid of ghosts. OnÂ the contrary. Our biggest fear may be no ghosts. Without ghosts toÂ converse with, we would have nothing to do and no right to be. ButÂ since we cannot scientifically prove their existence, our vocation toÂ write, make art or love and be loyal friends will always remain questionable. â€¦
Still, there is evidence that sometimes magic tricks work, spells areÂ broken, curses lifted, and the load of unresolved emotions preventedÂ from being passed on, when the load is cast out from the body, notÂ onto another person, but openly transferred onto objects, pictures,Â gestures or words, to be arrested by and in them, not so that the loadÂ can be cast away and forgotten, no, on the contrary, so that the painÂ and joy it contains can be avowed and owned, together, by artist andÂ viewer, writer and reader, temporarily sharing an experience, andÂ freely avowing it, like lovers might.” (p.270)
AE:Â Impregnated does indeed seem a very funny choice. Imbued? Go back toÂ that comment “We like recordings more than we like to listen.” I thinkÂ we are–most of us–pretty bad at paying attention to the notions thatÂ we feel but don’t know why. Rarely do we stop to think and interrogateÂ these moments. Not interrogate to kill them, or rationalize them intoÂ an easy understanding, but to try to sharpen our ability to recognizeÂ things like love, avoidance, unease, or even that we are not byÂ ourselves in the room. Perhaps having many objects around a room isÂ kind of like billboards on the highway for our lazy intuition to catchÂ wind of the changes in the breeze.
AE:Â I don’t think it possible to prescribe a process for theÂ interrogation, because obviously there will be any number of methodsÂ for any number of types of moments. Being active and being attentiveÂ are both crucial to the process. Obviously a level of rationalizingÂ and discernment is crucial to taking an experience apart inÂ reflection. Or in being critical in the moment.
As far as the rationalâ€¦ I think it is important to look closely at theÂ cracks in any structure. To also look at the sweeping large-scaleÂ shapes and drives and to be prepared to be surprised, to not know, toÂ have an experience and be accepting of something that exceeds yourÂ current understanding. So in looking to learn from an experience,Â particularly of ghosts or haunting, do not work to explain away theÂ unjustified remainders, the parts that do not quite add up, theÂ details that seem unreal. Possibly treat these details as suspect, notÂ as meaningless or impossible or silly. Use attentiveness to acceptÂ something beyond what you expect can or should happen and that may beÂ even absurd. Nod. “Yes, this is a place I haven’t been before and I doÂ not know how I got here.” Accept that your own limits are far belowÂ those the world routinely offers. Be open. The desire to understandÂ can be a disturbance that creates the experience that is needed,Â particularly if the desire goes unfulfilled completely.
AE:Â Oof, I need to say I am always suspicious when objects are describedÂ as having “democratic disposition”, particularly when being held inÂ opposition to items that somehow lack “democratic disposition.” TheÂ frames need to be drawn very tight for that distinction to matter in aÂ meaningful manner that is not glib or carefree. To the topic at hand:
Yes, I too had interactions with Ouija boards…I suppose manyÂ American kids did, particularly when they became mass produced by aÂ gaming company and available at almost any toy store. To this day I’mÂ not sure what happened in those times spent with the Ouija board: didÂ one of the people at the table manipulate the direction? Did weÂ conveniently together somehow agree what answers should come our way?Â Or did the spirits appear. I don’t really care what caused theÂ experience, I’m more interested in the fact that an experienceÂ happened. And I think it important to recognize something happened inÂ a place with the intention to contact something beyond the assembled
group, even if some hood-winkery enters the frame. I do not doubt thatÂ some objects do indeed carry curious energy. But I think theÂ importance of thinking with ghosts or spirits is not just to treatÂ them as real, but to treat the spaces where the unexpected happensÂ seriously and to not try and explain away the particular, beyond cleanÂ explanation experience.
In this light, I myself am not interested in seeking an answering, orÂ even asking questions such as, “Do you think that common or sharedÂ mythologies create these instances?” I’d rather ask, “What commonÂ space did you share at that moment?” “What conflicting desires were inÂ the people around that table, and how did these mix?” “What did you
reach for–mentally, emotionally, physically–to help ground you whenÂ the experience moved beyond expectations?” “How does the preparationÂ for an experience focus the senses?” “What cannot be focused in such aÂ situation?” Any question that looks at the space created in theÂ action, rather than asking a sort of causal sociology.
AE:Â Of course, but we need not be able to recognize that history. Or evenÂ recognize it as a history.
AE:Â There could be an absence or there could also be too much presence.Â Something extra. Either way, there are many writers who would answerÂ this question much better, Maurice Blanchot, Jacques Derrida andÂ Jean-Luc Nancy all come to mind, and all at times attended themselvesÂ to notions of otherness and how to be with another and the other.
Let’s somewhat glibly gloss thoughts from these three, it is importantÂ to let the other be other, to not try to append our definitions andÂ rules to the other. To recognize the sovereignty of the other’sÂ position and begin to negotiate rather than to assimilate or absorb.Â This doesn’t mean to give up the ability to react, respond, disagree,Â judge or confront that other, but to recognize it as a distinctÂ presence (or absence) that may not play to our ways of being.
The importance of the issue of ghosts, haunting, and many of theÂ points touched on is also that there is no way out of a subjectiveÂ experience of activity. I cannot prove feeling of love or sadness orÂ fear or boredom in any way that would make the histories for thoseÂ feelings concrete or embedded in objects in a way that you wouldÂ necessarily have to experience the feelings in the same manner. StillÂ you might be able to sense, in a moment, that my relationship to an
object is based in some relationship that you do not share orÂ understand. You might even sense that an object sits in a way thatÂ doesn’t quite seem in line with the way the other objects around areÂ sitting. There’s just something offâ€¦
To wildly misuse a quote, British artist Victor Burgin in his essayÂ “Perverse Space” writes, “There is no objectification withoutÂ identification.” Closeness and detachment require each other. And whenÂ feeling one we should not pretend the other is not lurking. To notÂ recognize is to identify a difference and understand something is notÂ of your kind. And this lack of recognition does not prevent, to useÂ Verwoert’s wonderful phrase again, “temporarily sharing an experience,Â and freely avowing it, like lovers might.”
CP:Â Does anything else come to mind for you? Something we haven’t covered? In much of this I have been steering (a little wildly) towards answers, but I also can’t help feeling like I might not be asking the right questions. Not that I’m dissatisfied with your answers (on the contrary) but I still feel like I’m grasping at sand, something elusive and vanishing. Is there something I am missing in all this? Have you ever tried to hunt a ghost?
AE:Â Oh come now… I don’t think you’ve asked the wrong questions.Â I think we have covered a lot it seems, and without reading backÂ through anything I can’t think off the top of my head.
I have tried to hunt a ghost. 3 or so times. Never success. I findÂ them best when I’m not looking.