In Bad Shape (text)

5 February 2016


A performative reading accompanying Disinformations Rorschach Audio with Makiko Nagaya performing at Rushgrove House London, Summer 2014

Notes on Post-traumatic subjects

The case of Valerie Solanas: The acting out of contemporary violence
Performing outcast imaginations of deviance. I consider it immoral that I missed. I should have done target practice. Valerie Solanas. Reality is the best appearance of itselfSome bullets are more important than other bullets. The wound is brought out into the open like an object. To say it like Gilles Deleuze: not a body without organs, rather an organ without a body. Reality is like an organ without a body. In praise of the surrealist heroine Violette Nozieres, who killed her fatherIn praise of Pierre Riviere, who killed his family... And Liz Taylors wardrobeThe key to a liminal event, something left over or remembered, opens a wound between past and future never to be healed, never completed, never read in the death of the author and always at the beginning. The experience perfectly sealed in the virtual image of some fantasy of catastrophe, salutes an ever-receding present tense. Where indistinction rules, between traumatic occurrence, the double signifier, between natural, and man-made sickness, experience per se, depriving the Same, exchanges symbol for reality at the limit before the abyss of the Other. Solanas made these fantasies come true for Warhol haunting the American psyche in the imagination of the commonplace when, without warning, the symptom announces itself at point blank, as the shooting range of the symbolic / toward potential, real death. In recollection there was nothing but warnings9/11the day after tomorrow, the day before tomorrow et cetera et cetera...the remains of the day, the day of remainders. The remainder itself. The Thing. Art looks back blankly with its thousand blinking eyes. But even now it is manifest and clear that there are neither times future nor times past. Nor present times other than the mirror, the memory of the present as it recedes behind glass. And exceeds itself as anticipation, or hope. What if no hope? What if hope is a negative aggregate of time? Get rid of it. The past of the past as it will have been affirmed in the future as remaining in potential or better not potential but anticipating both the past of the present and of the future will have been or not having happened, i.e. no potential because no past just future in the guise of its past. As the negative form of an oath, a bullet forces the truth of its form to collapse resistance, in the sublime trajectory. It - a radical gesture without meaning, until meaning is ascribed to it, after it, is always a pre-destination. The obstacle that seeks to control the thing it creates destroys its very purpose [having a meaning]in hitting the target, the obstacle is spiritualised. The spirit is an object in a flight from its being. Designed to incur damage to meaning, the bullet fired honours the meaningless oath taken to power and will. Less and less the experience is presented as a benign concordance, between art and the experiencing masses, something less than shocking, but unexpected, excepting the bullet moving from absolute purpose to the perfectly meaningful hit. The target, Everyone gets it. Everyone gets hit. The shot fired, uncontainable as a specific experiencechanges everythingthe projectile dispenses with resistant passivity. Its inert, latent power is activated in the machinery of violence, in the ethics of violence against ethics itself, against respect and toleration for the other, the bullet sings a beautiful song of love.
From this anamorphic viewpoint, the Hollywood slow-mo bullet fired, the event of a shot, mid-flight, is frozen in the image of anticipation - subjective destitution of another, yet another without person. Without the [personal] necessity to be there, that is, just be there, not to what is said, that since not there, I am the one saying, as far as possible from complicity, in being there, as a coward, not in my name. What I say from caution and doubt in the distortion of memory of a subjective happening is unsaid, being subjective about these subjects to be shot. A shot fired cannot be subjectivised. Its nothing to me. Es ist mir Egal. I dont care, I am nothing, unsympathetic to both agent and patient. It is the converse to remembered experience, one having long since gone underground, and not memorable, the event no longer has taken place, never took place, there was no place. The event is paralysed in negation, and like aborted trash, it never will have happened. I.e. traumatises, the grave is the space- to experience being without substance, to be reduced to obsolescence, but in remainder of an existence, such an event no longer has real presence, or any presence at all. A being no longer has symbolic presence either if it fades, or lies ruined, rotting in the grave [of my memory]. He - she maintains the proper ethical distance by making a fetish from sickness. The weak can be returned to myth and the gods to Hollywood, where they belong, to some distortion through the dreamers lens of abjected features in recurring nightmares but not to the Real of the event, that cannot be shared. The bride is not stripped bare, even, even. She is already so garbed in nothingness. As a direct or useful experience it is nevertheless a tragic one, belonging of the fading image of man and womanto be glimpsed from an oblique angle no longer here or there, male or female, as intermediary, as icon, Adam and Eve, nailed to a bedroom wall, somewhere in Pittsburgh, USA. What happened before in the memory, conjures religion. Its glamour resides in a desecrated form, the sacral ruin. An icon without status or place, wherever it is laid to rest, it is already ruined. This is Warhols legacy, shred like newspaper and binned by Solanas in the inevitable [s]place of modernity. There is no time yet all time, just trash...Given a choice of brands, to live without the will to live, the ruined choose Ruin, the totem of today. The symbols of ruin exceed the real violence performed on the body, the cause, to perpetrate and sublate violence without cause, without bodies, without limit. Solanas hands herself in to the police for no reason, no moral purpose. She murders the father, perhaps, symbolically. He had too much control over me she reasons. Warhol dies and is brought back from the dead. What represents the violence? What is it she elects to fantasy? What crime does Solanas admit to the police, to us? If not precisely the radical sovereignty of the negative image of an uncanny anticipation, the sense of dread of the deviant becoming Real. Our proximity to the mirror, the reflected image of someone else in it, affirms deviance and subservience to the Law. The event never happened, not in an immediate form, but in the passage of the act. Now - not now! Now, and so forth...becoming clearer, Now!! In the recording of its premeditation as someone elses belief. In the Now. The passage from the event is in itself silent, beyond pleasure, the more it corrodes the truth of an occasion, the more the truth it severs from itself. The more violence in the passage itself as silenced, or hidden in the light, the more the more, the greater the belief in the bluff, ones own bluff is the belief. I believe, thats why theres nothing. I reason for no reason. And the experience can never again be ascribed to memory, since memory is already destroyed, being only the transparency of the bluff. Total amnesia has - it would appear - its good side. The indetermination of an object, the object cause, here is Solanas herself reflected in Warhols negative image of her as someone else someone to dread, his own transparency, the surface of the mirror...appearance. The occasion of a singular experience, where something touches something else, is forever junked in the shot. The camera is a throwaway, serving a singular purpose. The shot fired was not shot on film. There is no record. It never happened. There is, by flawed logic no purpose unless there is a camera. This is Warhols circularity of thought. If its not in frame, it dont exist. To transfer experience directly without an intermediary, the absent camera as [absent] witness of an unrepeatable event, places accent, on the act, the shutter pressed down, onto a shock. The bullet fired releases an effect from a cause, but the cause is transparent, maintaining justice between the two unrelated objects - mind and body, pure transparence, Solanas mind - Warhol - body. Plato and Aristotle. The Shiny Ideal, the body, and its Dirty Incarnation, the soul. [Or unspeakable substance] transparent dirt. Viral consciousness, made unconscious. God is there.or that Thing which is brought to light, from darkness and back again. A to Zee. As sudden realisation - the Thing numbs the initial shock. The shock of the fall, whose fall is the shock, to the enigma! Which came first, asks the thinking Thing? It speaks. Thinking in retrospect, has been, or is to be from now on relayed only by measure in the actual material loss of the pure relation between cause and effect. Relational identical, functional identical. Multiple causation, splitting effect without cause into hyper-chaos, eventually it all makes sense again, but so what? There is no functional relation, no transference, no window to look out on the beyond or back or forward in time. There is the enigmatic and impenetrable Thing, the cogito that thinks a kind of god. I think where I am not [god] I am where I do not think, but still breathing down the back of my neck is god with his throat cut. This is the mild shiver of recognition, the unpleasant sensation of any realisation, the act proper. Like snow melting, or a wound bleeding A wound whose unspecified discomfort opening as a slowly emerging reminiscence, does not heal. The universe feels too close, and sticky. Its like a spawn, once glue, having dried out, is brittle. To oscillate between trauma and blessed ignorance, cut from the negative form, inside the positive form is a pleasure taken back, a gift returned, a bone snapped off. A blasphemy, an insult. Hate seeded inside love. Love planted inside hate, and back again, from A to Zee. There are some bullets that are fired from love. The donation is to return the gift. I would prefer not to accept it. This is a love action, the virtue in the rebel songs of terror, now no more than a soft pink distraction, sacrificed like god and the universe, pregnant with the logic of the sacred, yet deeply rational in the rejected gift. The self-transcendent moment is in the loss of belief of the other. Pop art is depersonalisedno longer pop, just art, no longer art, just stuff. Pop ate itself long ago, like resurrection, as the song went, its passion was sublimated, cannibalised by the aether, everywhere but not in-itself. There are no rose coloured sunglasses to look back to the pure past, no gold Rolex to measure time, no oil spills to clean up, no scent to extract from the psyche, no ecology of the spirit, no deconsecrated or consecrated ground, no earth to cleanse, no grave to dig, no stitch to sew, no unfamiliarity, no world to woo, no fantasy, no paradox, no desire for desire, no quest volunteered on behalf of the desired for an other one, whose desire dies for the sake of it. Solanas equals Warhol full stop. Radical equates with radical sameness, the Same is the Other of the Same. There is no knight in shining armour. No battlefield, no glory, no other out there. No black box, no Duchampian stoppages made from chance falling on chance. No idea of material in material.

No holy grail.

The past is to have been destroyed in the primacy of an act, to radically erase any second possibility, simply without reason. This is the shock of the Real, the shot suspended indefinitely. This stain is just red, not blood. There is no dialectic, no metamorphosis, no symbol. There is only the open wound, the first destroyed in the cut and the second constituted upon the irreparable destruction. Victory without guilt or shame. Free at last, free at last, cries the wound. To not leave the factory. Free to choose...delirium. Free to Cut up Men in the society of One. Insofar as the newly wounded are radically cut from their past, i.e. insofar as their wound suspends all thought upon it, insofar as there is ultimately nothing to interpret, such as psycho-babble, deserted, emotionally disaffected, indifferent to all therapy a psyche that can neither love nor hate but exist in bare life, is naked, ripped from the maternal belly like McDuff. To think at zero point at the same time sensing absence, from a grain of dust, if you run toward or away from it, to cling to this grain of dust. Its out of reach, the x factorthe dust is finally not even there on arrival, the beach is not under the paving, the paving is under the beach. The citizen, Solanas, is traumatised, she kills the poet Warhol. The poet Solanas also tries to kill the citizen Warhol. This delusion, a reversal of an unspoken suicidal pact between the antagonists, announces the success of its failure, in mutual self- contempt, both double up, running toward and away from the receding cause, themselves. Both victims have good reason, tainted by a mothers compensatory, withdrawn love, to be contemptuous of everything but art. God is the Mother constructed by Man. Mother god rejected in atheistic and wretched sublimity freed from love.

Her Art, Her Desire, not for Man.

Mayakovski, the Russian poet, kills the good citizenHimself; Themselves; Ourselves. The good citizen has attempted to assassinate the true poet. Suicide here splits the subject, falling outside the symbolic order, and the blood of the real poet spills out in the blood of the fictional citizen. Real blood and poetic metaphor miscegenate in the story of terror and poetry- with the most banal proseof what is to have been, and will become in the traces, what the story narrates, is to spill over the edges of the blank pages. The double exists in the terms of multiplied readings, first as spectacle, the assassination being merely incidental to an affect, and secondly in the pleasure taken in the mirrored repetitions of the fantasised image, who is shooting whom? A child is being beatena child is being beaten to death. The assassination is therefore a certain success, disguised as failure; it is deep in the recognition of a traumatic tearing up of the truth - a hole in the imagination. The death of the imagination is guaranteed, if not immediately, by repeating the scene to a point of exhaustion. Do it until you cant do it anymore. Kill your desirelove your symptom. Theres nobody else in here in your mirror but you. Both your selves share a fantasy relation. Lacans non-relation is the fantasy. The imagination of death might, or might not survive the death of the imagination if absent witness to the indifferent couple: Solanas/Warhol. The death of imagination enables the apparatus to record the event of an endlessly staged deferral without witness, replacing the imaginary in the apparatus, with the apparatus itself. After the initial trauma another subject emerges. The post-traumatic subject. Its irrational number, the square root of the self infinitely protracted, approaches but only anticipates reason. It has no reasonable existence nor wills it as an absence. We are talking to a stranger, a stranger talking to another stranger in an estranged land about another strange land. There is no Valerie Solanas, no Andy Warhol in the double bizarre world here and elsewhere. The object is haunted by an absent double. The reader of the book reads about the reader reading the book about his double. There are no landmarks, no recognisable pasts between the two; the subject is already a second subject, surviving, without substance, the I, It, he/she or thing that thinks the wound itself. The wounded modifies the story of the wound, the holy spirit, is the wound by that which is gushing bleeding seeping stories, just as it is - returning to the scene of the wounding, in a circle of compulsion of discovery, not the resurrected ideal. The mind / body is always already traumatised, already wounded - out damned spot! What is anticipated by Warhol and Solanas is presented in new clothes, but they are blood stained. Memory is after all detachable, wounded flesh cut up in close-up, the screen tests and manifestos, the skins strewn on the path to mindful insincerity. The anticipation of its future boredom is enough, more than enough material for a movie. Ideas for cutting up and overlapping for stitching up truth with illusions, thats what one is to do best. Hope and fear preached by the best of us for our sake, keeping safe the spirit of community, protecting the nation from boredom with boredom [virtual and real, cause and effect, boredom]- virtual cause real effect, boredom. Real cause virtual effect. Boredom. Absolute value equals real poverty, dissociation equals transfiguration equals absolution. I forgive you forgive we forgive this is forgiveness. This is boredom.



In repeating the violence [of repetition] of boredom, what happens does not exist as such as an eventbut as the loss of itself, as the luxury of boredomas the loss of the eventless event. Bliss. As repetition itself is for-itself. Production produces uncanny production ad infinitum. It isn't a question of producing; it's all in the part playing a part, of disappearing from a disappearance of played out parts, leaving only the empty whole, apart. Only what comes into being in the mode of disappearance is truly an-other. And yet that disappearance has to leave traces, has to be the place where the other, the world, or the solidity of the object appears as immaterial as the other. This is indeed the only way for the other to exist: on the basis of its own disappearance before it standing solidly on shaky ground. Maybe. We are not subjectivist, we are other but not in knowing the ground is collapsing. The remainder, whose fidelity to a future situation is best stated in a disconnected exclusion, a disappearance (in the case of the effect of meaningless violence], of a disappearance, of the symbolic function or fantasy that supports the reality, the body as mortal i.e. being finally of worthless existence, being sublime other, death), where the artists both act out of an immediacy to a non-relation, neither to life or death. They [Warhol/Solanas] believe. The pact of alienation they form is from themselves. Truth lies in their mirroring the suicidal, sublimated surface effects of each. The production of the violence is a standing reserve to be constituted, art as politics, or politics as art, at the opportune moment of re-emergence, as the Same. Identification with these heroic, suicidal and epic narratives at the surface is an effect of distortions reflected on the surface -reproduces the fetish disavowal of a mass participation in the game of image culture. Images of images of images. Gee, says Andy. Anyone can replicate this, or that, what difference, anyone who is a machine, can. I want to be a machine, think machine, be at home with self- alienation, with my prosthetic, machinic sinews. The machinery is there for both politics and art as a social / anti-social practice incurring violence to network bundles, objects - for cause of no cause. Who cares? All effect no cause - returns cause, to hyper-cause, to delete everything. This is the amputation of being from its other, life. Nothing is of value, except the paradox, nothing has value. The drive exists without the self or other, without cause, yet returns as cause, full circle, multiplied as great damnable value. The self, whose seismic underground, urgrund, lies dormant until activated by the unforeseen event- as if out of the blue - Solanas appears only from here, to be tearing up her own contracts and settlements in betrayal of her existence, in the murk of a real-isation, time slipping like a bullet shot, from the future, changing everything, makes things valuable, in misfortune. God appears in the flash of the gunshot. But nothing has been settled, nothing is equated, the will is unread, ill-equipped to make a decision other than in violent contradictions of the Unconscious where the scum of the Manifesto is the Divines word the far away past, where no value exists, or doesnt exist, but never the less, a contract, allowing good to do bad, and bad to do good. This is the Law. God is scum, organ of an indifferent mathematical truth ancestral belly of all universes, paradox and inversion, great negation and so forth, the origin of totality of fragments. There is no lawful law just the scum on the bath water, god in the details, the grey murk, and the gurgling of an evacuation. This is the territory of impossible injunctions and shallow economies of filth and slavery. Gods pain, is anaesthetic. Radical Feminism, as Hannah Wilke warned, is, as Fascism, and religious zeal, the evidence of the return of the Real, in the surge of iconoclasm, in the passion for a return to the real of Real, the adjusting to the true of Truth, which has none of the None, other than passion for Passion, for Nihil, Oblivion, Ruin. Murder is always good copy. Nothing will happen. We might expose a resistant property in nothing, or remainders to posit an excluded or unthought, rabid, terrorist part, in a unity of thinking the future, in Valerie Solanas resolve to target the quasi-truth, its uncertain guess, its poor aim, or vague lack, its careless, gushing passivity, useless self-love, pity, by deformation, violence to equate and silence anothers unity within the uniformity of a driven, unruly obsession, that actively, cuts it up, makes the truth appear [again, a brief sudden flash] by accident, in spectral unassimilated form, its fragment, the uncontainable part, spilling out, excited, like lightning, exceeding the whole, without limit, appearing in the here and now, not in the future. Desire without object. Murder. It takes a great faith to do horrible things for the cause. You are responsible for the cause itself, not sacrificing yourself for the cause, which is redeemed in your act. Solanas attempted to draw the attention to the death of symbolic Law, or to her excess, by real violence in performing as the theatre of injustices, to defend injustice, inside unlawful symbolic attempts to draw the outside inside, disembowel unity, pencil in, shade, merge, smudge the words of a settlement or agreed legality, as fundamentally unlawful, like Berthold Brecht acting out his own aufhebung as terminal theatre, for her own sake [arguably isolated from others desire, but co-inciding in the interpretation of the act as a performance]. She skews logic, obeying orders from militants like Yvonne Rainer, Hannah Wilke and other dissident skewed logicians of male culture, producers [artists who hate Art as a male construct, but love production of [the generation of] her generation. This is both the beginning of a counter-culture fundamentalism, to mirror state terror, over-identify with it, i.e., to hold up the mirror to terror that is sanctioned as culture-philia by de-legalising it in acts proper, and tipping unjust service, to governance and economy, by distinguishing cultural activism from the moral imperative of war mongers, and subsequently, logically, from the so-called injunction to support any coined war on terror, as also coalescing the war on men. Solanas cut up the unity of mans collapsed thought without irony as war on them whoever they are, not for us, not the for-us and the inexpressible in-itself, as Warhol did, conjoining with ambivalence art to men or women [which could be or not be determined as an ironic gesture since already always insincere], as the pre-condition of any action of Shakespearean irony/violence, so as to mark and stigmatise its official or systemic forms, through collapsing the conventions of morality as merely theatre. Both successfully failed in the under estimation of an overdrive of capital [Warhol intentionally failing, Solanas succeeding, [by the accident of the event] as structurally homological, in their mutual asymmetry, one successful the other failed, yet co-inciding, swapping their bodily fluids, blood and thunder, in the act of love. Irony is at the very core of capitals expenditure, as enjoyment is an injunction, which absolutely destroys its possibility of pleasure other than within a circuitry of repetition. Solanas wanted to stop imagining.

Gilles Deleuze writes, It seems to us that the history of philosophy should play a role roughly analogous to that of collage in painting. The history of philosophy is the reproduction of philosophy itself. In the history of philosophy, a commentary should act as a veritable double and bear the maximal modification appropriate to a double. (One imagines a philosophically bearded Hegel, a philosophically clean-shaven Marx, in the same way as a moustached Mona Lisa.) It should be possible to recount a real book of past philosophy as if it were an imaginary and feigned book. Gilles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition, New York: Columbia University Press, 1994, pgs. xxi-xxii.

Cutting up

Can we redress the balance in recomposing an avant-garde practice, using Deleuzes technical advice of cut-ups, to oppose Valerie Solanas failed assassination attempt against Warhols religious war on humanism, back onto men, his propaganda of the self-interest, [art equals capital, aka good business] for a critical over identification with how art is to be permanently situated in acts of violence against the symbolic order of capital, put to the amusement of a general intelligence of vengeance? The infamous shooting of the Pope of Pop Art had been diagnosed as the outburst of a paranoid schizophrenic and, medically explained, if not not inaccurate, de-eventalised. It is Foucaults idea of eventalisation, making evident a singularity at places where there is temptation to evoke a historical constant, which breaches the self-evidences of history, that an historical account might fall outside the performance of knowledge, if the interpretation of hysteria is itself the hysterical production of knowledge -knowing only as negation, or in reaction to an immediate precedence. This is this because it is not that, or is the result of this negative affirmation, not not that, this, as a reflexive knowledge of limits. [The interdependence theory of this isnot that, therefore this goes round]. Interpretation and knowledge no longer holding the space of negotiation. None, zero, zilch, less than nothingwhere religions once demanded the sacrifice of bodies and minds, knowledge now calls for experimentation upon bodies and minds. Think Ray Milland or Rock Hudson, changing skin colour, and thinking the same old same oldSolanas herself calls us to the sacrifice of the male subjectivists of knowledge, via real bodies no longer distinguished from imaginary ones. I am medical, you are medical, this is medicine. Cut out your depression by removing part of your mind/brain. Cured. Knowledge gets confused with real objects here in the manifesto for a mutually desired extinction, via extreme surgery rather than psychoanalysis, another male preserve. The genealogy (eventalisation) seeks multiple causations and judgemental castration. Solanas is not anyhow outside the narrative of psychiatric authorial interpretation, itself a court of terror, but provides a type, an example for any future use of anti-psychiatry, holding hands with R.D. Laing and Felix Guattari. She herself is the target she claims to have missed, the tabula rasa, herself is a blank page to unsettle the categorical imposition of essentialist male female gendering - of interpreting the not-knowing as the unknown known of a situation. As the event and purpose of art is inarguably to transverse and transgress ideology, its own, if an interruption in the flow or change to the flows of what will and should have been constitutive, is not finally disabled, then decapitate, castrate, hang, burn, incarcerate, make public the executions; the act is to be dis-engendered, we will learn a lesson. The acting out of violence transverses gender, at the moment of withdrawal of its symptom, gender like the withdrawn alcoholics bottleall hells lets loose, there is no woman, there is no man, no shining icon, no Warhol. So interpretation stumbles in the dark and falls upon its own corpse, if we credit Solanas with the exception, as stumbling on politics, again a miserable failure, of standing outside art like Warhol stood outside only to knock and enter, who succeeded to, momentarily, stand outside of himself, outside thinking, and then destroyed art with business by entering it as another hopeless ready-made for more business: awkward, in bad shape, failed, hysterical, dead but alive, yet providing the primary model for todays aspirant for a softer humanist politico-radical avant-garde by which the status quo might be always deferred from being put to shame by trial. The anger exposed in the withdrawal of the symptom, (narcissistic supply in the case of both antagonists, Warhol and Solanas) is to disturb the interior of art as the modernist reflection of life-as-art equals art-as-life - as if returning us to the symbolic relations before the violence shattered the vitrine glass, yet arriving too late, reality will coalesce inside an acceptable account of arts chronology. The mythology - what happened? what happened before what happened? - when all the evidence disappears in the destruction of unstructured and unsettled events, implants the narratives of a dismal memory of a false happening a pseudo-event of libidinal, infinite violence, the event of an excess in false memory [Benjamin accords to the remembered the infinite] upon which all practice must pretend to cure symptoms, with methods and tools, tooth and nail, fragment upon dialectical fragment. The truth of the system (or structure) is to be found at the same formal level as its symptoms. Art and its regulations, its intervals, values, are the determining agents acting on behalf of patients, then, as now, art can both contain and exhibit surface symptoms of [t]error, by disavowal of its politics within the image field and complete the circle, to become art. I exist, you dont, and vice versa, or in absolute denial of what you see or what I see, divided is arts break with the genus species. But the direction of this tabula rasa, the blank slate, the Rorschach test, as revealing the truth as infinite, since finite, in meaningless interpretations, is a power that cannot be reversed, the lie of truth, at precisely the surface of any point since always operating at zero degree. The target comes into view only at the sharp edge of its disappearance. There was no target, precisely.
I should have done target practicesays Solanas. The target, the object of the others desire, is the self in reflection. Solanas becomes the target of her cause without an effect, or equally her effect without a cause. Solanas really had no cause and no effect, other than in the sense that all value can be affirmed or denied there. She represents pure radical negativity. No reason, no transference, precisely mirrored between madness and freedom. Her action opened the floodgates, to losing everything, for nothing, the pure subject of the death drive.

Everything will be alright, as Martin Creed pronounces, brightly affirming the disavowal in the neon sign, affixed outside the real Tate Britain. The same disavowal operates in Mark Wallingers rescue of a protest site on the edge of disappearance, situating it at the last second, inside the Tate, the museum, repurposed as a political statement of resistance, but sadly, purely as past simulacra, echoing the aesthetic of protest against simulacra [the protest being a declared contradiction without knowledge of its declaration, naive, commendable if standing against sophistry]. The disappearance [the sites destruction by removing its banners and encampment, by the police] would perhaps have been more effective politically as naively assuming that it will change anything, than its pseudo-evental-virtual presence, resurrected as a form of ideological critique, disguising its moral principles, almost with a whiff of a Victorian charity ennobling such for the under-privileged the victim, that permits and ensures a safe distance, precisely by such a stand of sympathy, which allows concrete participation in the capital/ neo-liberal ideology] and its easy transit to the officially transgressive aesthetic of a re-enactment within Tate Gallery, the concept itself a dubious one of therapeutic re-purposing to maintain hierarchical immobility, in the name of radicality. The worst case scenario being perhaps the ontological gap in burning a work of art as a provocation to adjust thought to the failings of a community to present an image, on behalf of that passive and ignorant community, in for example Alfredo Jarrs commissioned paper museum, set alight, to the dismay of that community a work that it was proud to commission, turned shrine to its own sudden violence [its disappearance in flames], legitimated in the terms of Alain Badious affirmative art as a recommendation for an affirmative art practice. Affirmation here is also damning and prescriptive to say the least, based as it is still on a cure for art and for ignorant communities that need guidance by and for artists.

Solanas iconoclastic action (the failure of her iconoclasm, or its more polite form, in the criticism of Warhol as a libidinal bank roller, and of cutting up men as a generic term for oppression, assume a role in progressing modernism and industrial genocide at the same time insuring the sovereignty of capitalism at the heart of radical political purges) anticipates an exemplary figure of aesthetic and political failure [intentionally and psychopathically] confusing human bodies [the reality of the body, as excremental matter[to be used as a kind of manure] with bodies of knowledge, ideas as useful/useless things to exterminate, the life blood of disembodied spectatorship, the vision of capitals viral dark matter, the material or matter of representation, of the end of transference, reduced to the sublime cruelty of the image. The virtual /real body is a collection of non-relations. It is schizoid, autistic, and narcissist. The phallus is not a penis, Therefore capital in its mathematical form equals radical negativity.

In a community what takes place in a relation between men occurs in capitalism as a relation between things. In Marxs introduction of the symptom commodity fetishism and its reproduction is performed through a programme of labour alienation. What as yet has not been anticipated after Warhol is a new autistic thing as commodification of the narcissistic body as transgressed aesthetic material, a mirrored thing, disembodied, and characterised by reflection upon itself.

.... In how performance art pathologises the act, within the dynamics of surplus and lack of capital, Andrea Fraser stresses the import in the communication of the failure of Institutional Critique. What, after Warhol of the imaginaries for global struggles and resistances against the virulent activity of global capital? What then? When the iconophiliac is subtracted from the negation of a situation and iconoclast rage is left impotent?

Transgressive strategies and tactics of avant-gardes have the homological structure as their objectified partners, joined at the hip in obscene malevolent neutrality. Antagonism is transformed into mutual attraction [re; Kathrin Bigelows cinematic aesthetic neutrality in depicting and hence condoning (by inference), passing over the use of torture, anoints American imperialism as if by sacred injunction, redeemed). [The Hurt Locker] The Hurt Locker is a 2008 American war film about a three-man Explosive Ordinance Disposal (bomb disposal) team during the Iraq War. The film was produced and directed by Kathryn Bigelow and the screenplay was written by Mark Boal, a freelance writer who was embedded as a journalist in 2004 with a U.S. Army EOD team in Iraq.] By heroising the work [ethic] of soldiers going about their tasks and sidestepping criticism of Americas intentions, the films unreserved applause speaks miles on ideological manipulation. Ive got a job to do, its a [mans] job, and Im a-goin to do itkind of ethics acting out a psychopathic obscenity.

Triggering an imagined what if, into the as if we can again utilise Benjamin Buchlochs pronouncement, that Warhol trivialised (ruined) the utopian possibility in art precisely in the desire for narcissist supply as fundamental to the attention (span) of the never to be satiated mass audience vis-à-vis its co-opted utopian drives, into an ideology of capital precisely in enabling the ironic, self-conscious kernel to exceed itself as surplus enjoyment. I.e. more desire equals more lack, yet without the desire for desire itself, there is psychosis, melancholy, and anger, pure lack. Solanas negates the negation of the sovereignty of Warhols malevolent neutrality in his elevation of an endless chain of consumption, of trivia (being the exterior appearance of the systemic violence of capital) as wish-fulfilment, yet unfulfilled, in the post-traumatic ruins of narcissism. She simultaneously affirms the malignancy of the utopian project in the acted out pretence of virtue, performed as an outburst of violence, when withdrawing from the narcissist supply- as symptom, that interpretation stumbles over- in the ideological mirroring of terrorism/art. 'Its all getting clear to me Travis Bickle, writing his diary, his own version of scum manifestoListen you fuckers filthetc. [quote] Solanas believes in the fantasy of revolution to monumentalise the void.

NoteIn voiding, the catastrophic of the Real appears as monster in the passage a lacte. Can we suspend disbelief in Solanas act as anything other than aggressive narcissism, by advancing an intentional misreading here, to donate ontological weight to the symptom? By so doing we provoke an antagonism at surface with tolerance of the Other, in the terms of postmodern pluralism. The symptom, if separated from its supply, creates pandemic.when an affirmation of the appearing symptom is called to duty, tactically with the conditions, rather than in opposition, irredeemably, to act out the causea sinthomeopathic practice, a critical identification with prevailing conditions of production that avoids the surplus enjoyment of the ideology of postmodern pluralism. Solanas acts out in brackets, to avoid this surplus enjoyment, becoming the cause which so far had been submerged.

Slavoj Žižek writes from Kants observations on the aftermath of the failures of the French Revolution, that its success was more accurately to be broached in resituating the borders between a projected and immediate affect in negotiating terms of how constitution might again be proposed on a world stage despite, and even precisely because of failure. Immediacy fails per se as an objective, but generates collapse, in its inertia provokes movement, in latency encourages the relation of future disorder.

Note: Alfredo Jarr commissioned to make a museum which he burned down as a signifier of his authorising / agency on behalf of patients [communities] ambivalence of destruction/ loss by inducing trauma, so as to open an original traumatic fault line, to transverse itconfuses the represented with real material, situated at the same level of an event de-eventalised. What had been de-eventalised, i.e the community is made conscious of an event.

The relationship of contemporary politics [read as state terrorism] in the movie Max written and directed by Menno Meyjes [2002] marks the death and resurrection of the avant-garde impulse, translated into a virulent Fascism. The deadlock between liberalism and fundamentalism concretely fills the void opened by the avant-gardes discursive field.

PL Decomposed in an assemblage of collective pathologies that stigmatise the cogito in psycho-social variances: malignant narcissism, post traumatic, fantasied or fake persona, subjectless subject; and so forth, reveals the hidden part the master signifier, alerting to its future anterior a contingency becoming its own destructive necessity [opposing the affirmative idea of love, if first encountered as contingency, second as necessity in the task of maintaining a relationship]. [Solanas was recently cast by a Hollywood actor as the apotheosis of any name so ever, failed artists career, recasting the name, in the mould of Kenneth Angers transgressive anthropological perspective on Evil, transgression is seeded everywhere in the named particular, as the truth of an evil core instituting the subject trajectory [Hegel], Solanas is supported in her own literature by an attitude of resistance, as delineating antagonism inside difference, as central to the scum manifesto, unpublished at that time but privileging a punk aesthetic sensibility to come, against the transgressive as such by invoking its full implementation. There is no symbolic meaning.

The affirmation of scum is not transgression as such, but beats in the heart of all cognition and contemplation as signifying dirt, underground, evil, the fall from Eden, and so on, the female and in so doing releases the subjective deadlock from its self identity without voiding the void, of difference that being underground, or in accommodating the negative, first as corruption, then truth to subject, permits murder of the symbolic.

Solanas and Warhol appear the subject of Hollywood historiography at the point of liminality, as extimate (extimité) -both falling inside (the market) as types of outsiders, show-trail victims, an one ironist or joker, the other a militant subversive / feminist / eugenicist, both minority ethnic/sexual identities. Taking a critical distance from this point, they represent for official culture the malignant part inside the outside appearance of a-temporal capital, fuelling deviance In order to thrive upon it, converting its energy into consumable matter. As individuals, ill-equipped to traverse the fictions [fantasies] of real life melodramas, the acting out that chronic immersion in capital time demands a certain abhorrence to community and mainstream values. Family is over-determined, but sold back as freak show, whilst also promoting the sentimentality of the victims pathetic melodrama. The fictioning of a fiction mirrors Warhols own iconic use of signifiers referring back as a surplus enjoyment of commodities of identity and scandal- in the reflection of low-life versions of family, celebrity, perverse doubles, banal objects, animisms, all iconsfar from the heroic sincerity of the acts of anarchist activists like Victor Serge appear to drain malignancy and glamour, as alike, to provide within healthy social relations, the drainage, the gutters, the scum, of socially regulated participation. The perverse fascination provides the obscene the glue that keeps the surface illusion of health and right intact.

Since liminal, as inassimilable foreign body, the part-with no part might, as precipitate traumatic undirected violence, announce [betray] an un-doing of the (Warholian) sublime empty signifier, that deconstitute social beliefs. The collapsed border, assimilated / excluded, democratises the culture itself, uncannily, as one sided, [overwhelming the pre-ideological enjoyment with a prescribed fantasy of the universalist dimension of truth attained [again] in the goals of a consumer we are [will be] all famous for 15 minutes et cetera] - in its immediacy alone, reflecting the false self back upon itself, Warhol dispensed with cogito as thought of any kind of deferral from the immediate or deep. Evil was to effortlessly transverse the fantasy, of the good and the bad, and the beautiful of the gutter.

In other words there is an unassimilated part, a cut or non-relation, the inside part inside, that might force a remainder, had not been visible, or had been unthought. An affirmation of the loss in destruction, only to be enacted in the destructive act of a loss. This destructibility sustains the ideology of the excluded. Alain Badiou writes on the artist Alfredo Jarr, who made, with public money, a paper museum the Skodhall Kusthall - which he burned down, without the permission of the public who were horrified at an honorary inception and ceremonial opening] suggesting the public sphere is already dissolute, as part of the ideology we assume as normative about a public ethics of spacethrough which we can relate our sense of an exclusion to the extent the exclusion defines the universal delineation, in our oppositions and antagonisms, and anger. We are no longer angry. In comedy is a liminal space that in burning down, we refuse to concede a tragic sense and respect for the victim. In returning to bad health, disrespect, anger is suspended in comedic hysteria. Bad health is the non normative value upon which dreams are made, and reality is at least temporarily suspended [i.e. society] by an imaginary world, which simulates freedom. Then what might happen? We may speculate in shock.

As a kind of troubling, excessive pleasure that includes elements of transgression, sexuality and sufferingposits that, if liminality is regarded as a time and place of withdrawal from normal modes of social action, it potentially can be seen as a period of scrutiny for central values and axioms of the culture where it occurs. - One where normal limits to thought, self-understanding, and behaviour are undone. In such situations, the very structure of society [is] temporarily suspended.

In Mary Harrons I Shot Andy Warhol (1996) the dark precursor appears in terms of a split narrative, to predestine more contemporary anti-practice of self-destructions. Solanas de-professionalises the tendency to incorporation of an excluded, or decomposable part, strictly by interrupting fluent transit to the instituting process of the avant-garde as resistance to its corporeal death in the museum [celebrated in the absent aura of Warhol as a weak precursor of institutional or cultural critique, and as a result achieves closure guaranteeing the success by its sell-by date]. Terror resulting from necessity, in Solanas directly from precarity and injustice, breaks down in hate, diverted toward an affirmation, albeit via violence upon the affiliated body of a co-worker, artist as retributive revolutionary, or radical solipsist, yet cuts off the head from the Warholian body, his displaced aura in a factory signature [and hence stigmatising the fantasy of its labour and destroying it]. The symbolic order is disorganised around an act that cannot be distinguished easily from other equivocal nominations of outbursts of terrorism, in for example the anti-aesthetic style of video recordings of executions, reality TV, itself narrated as a fiction more convincingly without special affects, both generate an act with real repercussions, via the iconic representation, as pure transmission of an active form of nihilism. The bodys flesh is actively interchangeable with its passive avatar-image. Other than conforming to Lacans extimate, what designates the moment of this run-in, the hazardous cut, the violent encounter of the impossible return of the pre-establishing gap, the Real, is made obscene, excremental, in both cases. Destruction is the appearance of the lack in the sign of eruption, terrorism, in the encounter with an obstacle. I read somewhere, the basic paradox of jouissance is that it is both impossible and unavoidable: it is never fully achieved, always missed, but, simultaneously, we can never get rid of it- every renunciation of enjoyment generates an enjoyment in renunciation, every obstacle to desire generates a desire for an obstacle and so forth. Every obstacle creates that which it seeks to control. Terrorism, projected from and back against its obstacle, the guilt-ridden [the West inciting, in its passive aggressivity towards its Other, the militants hatred of us as Other], an aesthetisation of politics [the image is naturalised, an unacceptable ideology is dutifully regulated, by a process of rigorous cleansing of guilt, by the virtue of assassinations. The more the sensed guilt, the more the meted punishment.
On the other side, once it is reduced to regulation, to managerialism, punishing cuts, or austere measures, border controls, surveillance, etc., are supplements to the ethical communitarian logic of post-politics, to protect human rights, cloaked by the war against terror, to maintain the individualists freedom of life-choice, so rights are the cloaking, under which atrocity is spending itself. Freedoms ambivalent voicing: [I know very well, but its my duty to human right, were all in the same boat, et cetera]. The hatred for the Other. Solanas, arguably personified herself as self-loathing Other: female, immigrant, prostitute, schizophrenic, terrorist, bitch, hysteric, charlatan] mirrored in the gaze of its Same, Men, from what excludes in itself, as structurally evil. Solanas mistook her destructive passion of the Real [to return to a pure female origin through the extermination of Men] as a fantasy of revolution, akin to Heidegger mistaking Nazism for a truth event. The exchange of fantasy for reality here elevates the symptom to the level of pandemic: terrorism-for-all, art-for-all, all-for-nothing, fantasy as real, real as catastrophe, death for all, ruin exceeds us by pure excess.

Scum Manifesto, for all its vitriol, is impossible to dismiss as just the rantings of a lesbian lunatic, traumatised individual. In fact, the work has indisputable prescience, not only as a radical feminist analysis light-years ahead of its time e.g. In predicting artificial insemination, ATMs, a feminist uprising against under-representation in the arts, but also as a stunning testament to the rage of an abused and destitute woman.

The malevolent subject, is projected from the tolerant, innocent witness of liberal democracy, is contained, embraced as Other under certain regime rules, of toleration, and ambiguously, through the lens of its darker, malevolent gaze, to advance the contemporary cogito, to announce the ethical obscenity of its structural logic, for all struggles irrespectively under a single sign. In this way Radical Feminists can freely, as individuals identifying with anger, the passion for the Real, endorse Solanas call for eugenics, genocide and gender holocaust without serving up any guilt. Purification, as Nietzsche might define through two kinds of antagonisms within power, one critical the other supremacist. We are not to succumb to meaning. Warhol/Solanas presents modernist failure /success of the thought of destruction at zero point, collapsing all difference, having no specific the post-traumatic condition, brutalities are to be perpetrated as essential to keeping ones desire. External shocks destroy the inessential psyche or better wound so as to never heal. Only a form of nothing might remain. The idea of the cogito at its purest, a leap into the ontological void.

Catherine Malabou's Les nouveaux blessés, 2007 (The New Wounded). Malabou proposed a critical reformulation of psychoanalysis, her starting point being external shocks, brutal unexpected encounters or intrusions, due their properly traumatic impact on the way they touch a pre-existing traumatic psychic reality. Malabou's basic reproach to Freud is that, when confronted with such cases, he succumbs to the temptation of meaning: he is not ready to accept the direct destructive efficiency of external shocks they destroy the psyche of the victim (or, at least, wound it in an unredeemable way) without resonating in any inner traumatic truth. These cases of post-traumatic subjects show that if we take the "stories they are telling itself about itself," the narrative symbolic texture, away, something (or, rather nothing, a form of nothing) remains, which is nothing but the pure subject of the death drive. This is an idea of cogito at its purest, its degree zero, and this is also the reason why today we so adamantly resist the spectre of cogito.
Filozofskivestnikvolume/letnikXXiX• number/Številka 2 • 2008 • 929 Descartes and the Post-Traumatic Subject, Slavoj Zizek


Collapsed, the genres, art, film, literature, music are to have been cut, dumped as the Asian category or politically corrected community or non-art, reproducing violence from Nothing, to nothing special, all whose assemblage parts can be torn out from the a priori body of reasoned knowns, are lumpen here [as precursor, Warhols indifference to all things, can be equally read as equally indifferently reasoned to supply a desultory criticism of ideology as a malevolent, dangerous symptom, in its passive aggression] either way, this category might be discarded as outright artistic failure and political inactivity, in its disavowal of politics, yet is precisely, unavoidably politicalbut absolved for its absolute capability to ascend to value in the stock market as marker of the lumpenproletariat: punk scum mob or thug rule of transgression. A breeding ground in dissent-as-fashion. New values, new forms of brutality, new obsolescence, new media, new factors, personalised to fit personal fantasy of the new dispossessed, as fashion. New life, new flesh, new death. New everything. There is nothing uplifting about our awareness of this factor: this awareness can never be subjectivised, it is uncanny, horrifying even, since it somehow dispossesses the subject, reduced to a puppet-like level. At this point of a zero-tolerance what can be done? Pessimism at its purest. No point in fighting it but intolerance is a better take than toleration.


PL As unknowns, [not knowing what you know] or if merely accorded an interruption in the symbolic order of creative industry, the heterogeneity/autonomy dynamic of artist practice to reliance on the market, what if these unknowns of unknowns that we simply dont know [that we dont know we know [Slavoj Žižek on Donald Rumsfelds speech to justify a unjust war on terror] are left to rotwhat then? But more precisely, what is being decomposed if not existence itself, if left out of history? Antigones courage still assumes that meaning is redeemed in an appearance, fleetingly, as Žižek writes, of a fragile absoluteTransference, and the subject, no longer able to discern fragility in the fidelity to a symbolic death, to the sacrifice in death, is useless in the autistic subject. What is the more radical and horrifying still is the submission to nothing, for no reason whatsoever, for no cause...nothing. [] the third figure, which fits the enclosure of our inner nature, is the post-traumatic subject a living proof that subject cannot be identified (does not fully overlap) with stories it is telling itself about itself, with the narrative symbolic texture of its life: when we take all this away, something (or, rather, nothing, but a form of nothing) remains, and this some- thing is the pure subject of death-drive. If one wants to get an idea of cogito at its purest, its degree zero, one has to take a look at autistic monsters a regard which is very painful and disturbing. this is why we resist so adamantly to the spectre of cogito. Is its inverse, registering the real problematic, failing as something still written in terms of empirical evidence, despite concocting transcendent value, being-without-being in the virtual space may better fail to generate [i.e. fully negate] the new forms of individuation, upon exhaustion, or inertia, that precisely through their particular exhaustions and inertias, in the calculated absence of their former personalities, Solanas and Warhol compete. On the level of abstraction, the marketability and the lead is taken by Solanas, as the Warhol monument is disengaged from the public memory, in the wake of the loss of the loss of ironic strategies that constituted his brand. The new term is under the category of obsolescence, is the call for re-emergence, when a virulent radical negativity are witnessed in acts without a cause, and terror in itself is an aesthetic, mirroring the superegos impossible demands and cruelties.

The totemic function of the art market; the labour market, of precarity itself, appear a-temporally in the ghost figures of Solanas/Warhol, the trope of mediation/mediatisation, thereby insuring consecutive reversals of the aesthetic and political, as unintentional objects, eternally colliding. This is not politics or art, but something else an ontological mistake, and a misreading of an event, the approach of a greater catastrophe, in the libidinal ecology. Solanas expressed a literal [and unarguably psychopathic] lack in any Machiavellian or realist composition of Realpolitik, awarding the dulled eye of the human incapable of empathy with bargaining of the ethical demand, in pragmatism. The emergent post-traumatic subject [existing only through the destructive part of negation] whether as homer sacer or in the sovereign uncompromising psychopath, becomes a burgeoning, oppressive tool and lever of capital in any bargain. As arch-psychotic, Solanas might exemplify Slavoj Žižek s re-assertion of a feminine essentialism, capable of radical negativity that men are too weak to sustain. This is a truly horrifying [but admirable] dimension, he claims, of feminine subjectivity, in that women are able to abandon everything for nothing. Whereas men must appeal to some sacrificial logic, such as for totems of love of country or ideal, women make the ontological leap into the void.
Jennifer Doyle writes  Can we at least entertain the possibility of reading Solanas act in relation to radicalism for the sake of argument, without mistaking that thought experiment for an endorsement of violence (see Doyle 2006: 32)?
While Doyle distinguishes theoretical radicalism (that thought experiment) from how that radicalism may be translated into practice (in this case, shooting someone), the point should be made that radicalismif it is to truly be radicalmust not only rock the boat but also cross boundaries in ways that substantively and permanently alter the nature of a relationship and the landscape or rules of the arena in which it is expressed, [radicalism] that deliberately harnessed the charm associated with the radical activist and social renegade. This radicalism can arguably apply to the psychic mechanisms, the arch-militant structure is homological, shared in Capitalist, Fascist, Nazi, Communist, Feminist, or ethnic and staunch revolutionary stands for sexual and ethnic particularisms, in using the body as site for idealising violent persuasion, revolution and, [im] potently, even genocide. [Hitlers avant-gardist agenda superseded the softer radical art scene at the time, works did not entertain bodily violence since accommodating Jewish and non-Jewish intellectuals art in a form of collaboration, including collagist and ironist Hannah Hoch, and other women who worked on an equal basis with Georg Grosz and Max Ernst, voicing dissent and protest, aimed at upturning the logic of national socialist realism - see Max the film [] The artist has never the film suggests held sovereignty, has no autonomy; only the political radical may achieve this kind of status through the autonomy of violent force. The distinction to be made is between a good and bad militant programme of targeted assassinations, between a truth process, Stalin for example is not evil but in a structural process of political necessity - its Hegelian wound, and its corruption, not wounding to open the void, but directly voiding the voidthe death drive, the pure subject, the wound which decomposes itself from the body, Russia, and the communist ideal...To say it like Deleuze in negation : not a body without organs, rather an organ without a body. A wound that doesnt heal, a paradoxical wound that makes one immortal, immortal in exactly a Stephen King sense: undead[taken from A Conversation between Jonathan Meese and Slavoj Žižek]. Here Doyle returns us to a scene of the body treated as excrement, flushing away an issue of a real death to concentrate the att