On the Ethics of Display

The celebration of the bicentenary of the abolition of slave trade in Britain is the occasion of a large programming of series of exhibitions, talks and events.

Between Worlds, Voyagers to Britain presents in a neat display portraits of travellers from faraway lands visiting Britain between 1700 and 1850. It is a rather enthusiastic display, of characters posed in lavishly rich costumes, it is pleasantly presented and looks like a rather charming encounter between two cultures. Then you stumble upon that terrible representation of the Hottentot Venus Sarah Baartman, and the charming impression is somewhat chattered. Baartman, who was brought from South Africa to Europe in 1810, and quickly nicknamed the ‘Hottentot Venus’ because of her large buttocks and conspicuous female features. The unfortunate woman was exhibited like a freak in fairs, attractions and public spectacles in England and France. The infamy reached a summit when at her death her body was dissected, her genitalia and skull being kept, to this day, at the Musee de l’Homme in Paris [I shall add that the description of her sexual features was used by ‘scientists’ like Cuvier to insist on the ‘animality’ of the Hottentot ‘race’ as a ‘proof’ of the existence of a scale of races where the Hottentot was the link between the man and the Orang-Utan. Charming.)[on the Hottentot Venus Sander L. Gilman's Difference of Pathology: Sexuality, Race, Madness, as well as Sadiah Qureshi’s article )


As Oku Epkenyou (history teacher), who was participating in the panel of the ‘What should Museums display’ adjacent talk, puts it, she found it is a rather embarrassing sight when she came to visit the exhibition with her class, among whom young black teenagers undoubtedly felt uneasy. But the main cause of the image’s inappropriateness was not so much its content (after all, one must bear the sight of history for its worst and best),but the way it was displayed. ‘What should museum display?’ sounded like a most interesting discussion choice. As a postgraduate student mostly interested in representations of colonialism and race, the option of such a discussion alongside a display arguably meant to reflect upon the slave trade, was most titillating and promising. One of the most important chapters of my thesis concerns the programme of paintingsin the Salles d’Afrique in the Musée Historique de Versailles, rooms which have been inaccessible to the public for decades because of the non-politically correct content of its discourse upon the conquest of Algeria. What should, really museum curators take into account when they face questions of ethics, race and national sensitivity? Is censorship the best solution? Should we show anything on the grounds that one must reflect upon any sides of history, the best and the worst? (that would be, very much, my point).As you would imagine, it was rather expectantly and excited that I went to this talk.
The panel, interesting, varied, multi-ethnic and coming from various intellectual and museal backgrounds promised an attractive discussion. The debate started by a ‘short’ slide presentation of the exhibition by one of its curators, Jos Hackforth-Jones, a pleasant lady who did her job pleasantly but somewhat did not really raise the issues one was expecting. As soon as Oku raised her concerns over the place of Sarah Baartman in the display, the debate concentrated on this image. Oku pointed out, very sensibly, the negativity of the representation, isolated in the display both by its very critical, caricatured approach, and by its actual isolation, in a sole case, from the other objects. One could sense Oku’s pain in her words. Strangely, I do not recall the word ‘racist’ nor ‘racism’ being uttered once during the debate, but that may be an effect of my over-critical imagination. Nor was the exotic, picturesque aspect of the, apparently more positive, other portraits. I however believe that those bore the prejudicial gaze of the western eye, perhaps not as much as Sarah Baartman’s ‘portrait’, but quite still, evidently.
But this did not interest the audience nor the panel. How the Western gaze constructed racial representations was not raised either.
The discussion soon derived onto a questioning of whether or not a museal institution should exhibit human remains [I do agree with some of the speakers, notably Claude Ardouin, curator, British Museum, that those should be made as ‘restricted collections’]. Many opinions were offered from both public and speakers, but when one of the members of the audience (a PhD student from Birkbeck whom I unfortunately did not catch the name) raised the question of the trauma lived by some cultures (e.g. Kanak) at seeing remains of their ancestors exhibited in museum, this inexplicably raised no further comments, while being a fascinating issue: how can one culture (here Western) exhibit another (here Kanak) without disrespecting that very culture? can we, with impunity, displace objects from the culture they belong to?
I was hoping to find something being said about the use of propaganda discourse in art, and whether it was acceptable to display things that are now thankfully condemned [such as, say, Nazi art, or even, my Versailles example, that I mentioned to the audience] but this did not aliment the argument.


Some very interesting matters were however brought into question, such as how the choice of artworks may reflect the ethnicity of the curators (and how a multi-ethnic curatorial team can be positively productive); how do we balance curatorial choices with choices of policy (this was however passed upon rather quickly)? How should we deal with the visitors’ shock (should we ‘educate’ the public’s gaze and perception? Should we rather consult the public? but then, to what extent is a consultation process possible or is it a hindrance?) Whose consent does one ask for exhibition of human remains? How to choose artefacts respectfully with an open historical perspective?
Some necessary questions were only raised, much too quickly, as a matter of conclusion (or opening for further reflection?) How to fill in the gaps in historical narratives caused, say, by the colonial encounters (how to insert the ‘colonised’ often un(or under)-represented take of the event into the visual history. How does one explain Immigration and Imperialism to an audience with little knowledge of history? What about this aura of ‘specialness’ our culture has attributed to ‘works of art, that mediates our reaction at first encounter? Shall we alter a works of art meaning to make it acceptable? (one member of the audience mentioned the covering, after the end of the Apartheid, of ideologically loaded murals in official buildings in south Africa with a layer of glass to which were added ‘comments’). Can we put an object in isolation of his context, can it tell a story by itself? To what extent do visitors control ‘us’ (curators and art historians), and to what extent do ‘we’ control ‘them’?

Prints, etc.

There is something quite masochistic in dealing in arts – or, shall I precise, in my case.
For the past three days I helped a dealer for the London Original Print Fair, a yearly event at the Royal Academy of Arts, which showcases, as you may guess, prints, from the Old Masters to the very contemporary.
I worked for a French art dealer, specialised in prints from the 1860s to the 1950s, who was exhibiting a fine selection of works by Redon, Vuillard, Bonnard, Denis, Jacques Villon (pre-cubist periods), Toulouse-Lautrec, Pissarro, Braque etc.,… all very good quality and very enjoyable prints to admire for hours on end.
I say masochistic because I have this tendency to sell very well what I like; even if it means feeling very sad afterwards, because a fine work I would have enjoyed admiring would disappear from my sight, most certainly forever. Not only do I have a difficulty accepting the very commercial nature of art dealing (go spend an afternoon within a busy department of Sotheby’s and you will understand what I mean – so commercial, it is nauseating) but I believe that if I were a dealer myself, I would live each sale as a personal loss. However, I do appreciate and understand the vocation, the beauty of the trade and, often, the deep connoisseurship involved.

This kind of event is, very often, a means for dealers to catch up with each other and with each other’s stock, exchange tips and purchase nice findings from each other, often harshly haggled. I saw some, leaving a now miserable-looking dealer’s stand with a work in their hands and a victorious smile on their face. There is something quite debilitating in watching dealers busily making artwork going from hand to hand, sans relâches, sans états d’âme. Some are more reckless than others; some, with time, have learnt to work together, look after each other’s stand, direct customers to colleagues.
It is a funny trade really, where one mixes artistically cronyism, intuition, extortion, flatteries, and sympathies (I have seen one dealer buying from another because the latter was deserted by customers), pure business, sheer luck, avarice and extravagance.

I was lucky in that ‘my’ dealer seems to be a profoundly humane person, not so driven by money (perhaps not enough) but by the love of his profession, the respect for the craft,and a deep understanding of each artists he sells. This being said, the huge majority of the stands I visited and the works I saw infinitely beautiful jewels of prints, and I would have considered buying works by dozens if I had had any financial means. I have learnt an incredible amount of things in three days, and would now consider seriously working in a museum’s print room – but not a career in the art market.

However, one can only notice with bafflement the publics’ lack of understanding of the artistic value of a print, since I saw many customers put off by the idea of ‘repetition’ or ‘series’ and who would not buy a print unless it were signed (that is, not on the plate, but by hand), while signature is a very modern consideration.
It is also a time for customers to catch up with their favourite dealers; most of the things ‘my’ dealer sold were to regular customers. I met some incredibly sweet people, some much colder: you can’t compare apples and oranges, and some people would happily remind you that you are only a flunky.

Survival Guide for Dunces and Fools Going To The Antiques Market

Go there early. When I say early, I mean, really early, even if it means getting up at 5 am on a Sunday morning and teasing the stakes of ruining your mood for the next 12 hours. It is good to be there shortly after it opens for trade (i.e. 6 am at the latest if it opens at 5 am), since professional dealers go there themselves early to get the best stuff available.

You may consider looking at a map / weather forecast / take good shoes / a survival kit -- if you're foolish enough for not considering any of the above-mentioned precautions, you may find yourself arriving a good hour later than expected -- which would considerably ruin your chances to find anything of interest.

Take cash with you (I still don’t know what to think of sellers who have credit card facilities), but not much; that will prevent you from making any unreasonable purchase.

Walk nonchalantly through the stalls, a hand in your pocket, the other one scratching your chin (or eyebrow, or picking your nose, whatever), in a dilettante-ishly unconcerned fashion. Walk through the whole market once, to determine quality display from utter crap, scandalously overpriced stuff from out-of-the-attic mess. When your inner-radar has spotted something of interest, calmly (I said calmly), an eyebrow raised and the lips clasped tightly around that toothy smile of yours contained with extreme difficulty (showing your sudden enthusiasm would ruin anything), make a move towards the Miraculous Stall.

Look –blatantly- carefully at the stuff you’ve seen (and preferably at the stuff around too), weight it, pounce it, pinch it, gauge it, measure it… whatever you may think off (although if you sniff it the dealer might find you a wee-bit weird) – that’s to show you’re not a desperately ignorant buyer ready to shed pounds for the most miserable glittery old-ish looking piece of rag, that you may even have a slight idea of what may be that wonderfully obscurely mysterious stuff you’re looking at. To enhance that connoisseur effect, you can also, while you handle the item and observe it from all its sides, frown slightly [meaning either appreciation or disappointment; in both cases, the dealer will be eager to sell the stuff].

Then, put it aside for a while [but close enough so you can stop any inopportune hand from snatching it], displaying sudden disinterest - indecisiveness is crucial to bring the price down – and look at other stuff, intermittently going back to the item with little sighs every now and then.At this moment, the dealer is ready to welcome your (fake) naïve look while you ask ‘tell me what you know about this [insert appropriate name]’. That’s to see to what extent he/she is trying to fool you / tell the truth (pretty unlikely, especially if he/she starts by ‘do you want the truth?’ – then, beware); but also, if it’s a very lucky day, the Moon is in full connection with Mars and Venus is overlooking the Sun, a Comet rushes in the sky and a squirrel pees on your shoes, then you may expect with some hope that you’re being told the truth, and that this truth contains useful information about the item. Use facial signals to show the extent of your incredulity, then carry on looking at other stuff (lips pinched with annoyance / boredom / whatever you find suitable]. When you judge you’ve left enough time for the dealer to ponder how knowledgeable you really are, asked for the price in a detachedly bored tone.

Good Luck

[N.B: You'll probably, like me, end up going home with crap worth less than peanuts, but that's the fun and the risks of the trade, innit?]

Chronicles of the Box-Office # Epilogue.

This is the end of the Chronicles of the Box-Office.

After over two years working on the river, this is with immense relief that I have finally taken upon the opportunity of a small scholarship, to resign and get my freedom back. I feel relieved, but also strangely empty, exhausted, perhaps even disheartened.
There is not much to miss though. My Chronicles of the Box-Office were scarce (to be honest, I lacked funny material), and carefully avoided the worst moments of the job.

I have been stuck eight hours a day in a telephone-booth-sized-box, among dirty carpet, messy wires, cigarette smells and mice. I’ve been freezing cold in the winter, shivering with the wind sweeping in through the money tray. The summer has seen me heat-struck and sweating like a pig behind my greenhouse–style window. I’ve been deemed as ‘useless’ by customers when I could not answer their (irrelevant) questions, had (several) customers wishing me to be fired, got (very frequently) insulted because of a boat being late/full/cancelled/ or, even, ugly (hilarious, really). Among my top insults: ‘stupid’, ‘uneducated’, ‘strange’, ‘French’ (which, uttered by the average working-class-football-freak-beer-drunker-sporting-tacky-England-football-top, means something really, really rude), or even effing foreigner.

On busy days of endless queues, having to explain customers that ‘the next available boat will be in one hour and twenty minutes’ and that ‘they should queue on the pier is they want a chance to board’ was like calling for public lynching, and I spent the best of last summer apologising because of late/full/cancelled boats. How many times did I want to cry out my frustration because people would never say ‘hi’, ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, and find that abusing a ticket-agent is the most soothing action after queuing for a long time? Sometimes I felt it would have been less offensive if people had swept dirty shoes smeared with dog’s poop on my back, or snorted greenish snot to my face.

Perhaps one of the least enjoyable aspects of the job was working with a largely misogynist, macho, racist and xenophobic team of watermen, who called me The French Bird for the best of those two years, and who only spared me the worst jokes because 1- my fiancé is English, 2- I am not Black, nor Asian.

After setting such a picture of the job, I wonder how I have managed to stay there more than two years without jumping in the river, punching a customer, or spitting to a captain’s face.
I am surprised I have only cried a couple of times or so, out of frustration and anger.

What surprises me the most is, as much as I know I won’t miss the job, how empty I feel. Admittedly, it was not always as ‘dark’ as described above. There have been nice moments too, good days laughing with customers and watermen alike, a much-welcomed solidarity bond between foreign staff, and, frequently, the satisfaction of having been through a busy and hectic day without incident, without drama.
I realise that, little by little, for the past two years, I have been shifting from PhD student full of energy, hopes and ambitions, working for my food and rent while trying to get something better… to ticket-agent, bitter, sad, stuck in my job and grinding my teeth, feeling less than nothing because abused by customers and colleagues alike, wondering if I’d ever get positively through and interview, wondering if I’d ever get to do something meaningful in my life, wondering if I….
What happened to me? How did I end up there? Why couldn’t I get out of this infernal spiral? Why did I lose confidence? Why could I not find another job? Why have I spent two years of my life, of my precious youth, in a box? I feel like I am now in a time of re-construction, of reunion with a long-lost myself, whom I’ve missed dearly.

Neruda chain poem...

Because our Truly Outrageous Petitpoussin has got marvellous ideas, here we go:

Agua Sexual

Rodando a goterones solos,
a gotas como dientes,
a espesos goterones de mermelada y sangre,
rodando a goterones,
cae el agua,
como una espada en gotas,
como un desgarrador río de vidrio,
cae mordiendo,
golpeando el eje de la simetría, pegando en las costuras del
alma,
rompiendo cosas abandonadas, empapando lo oscuro.

Solamente es un soplo, más húmedo que el llanto,
un líquido, un sudor, un aceite sin nombre,
un movimiento agudo,
haciéndose, espesándose,
cae el agua,
a goterones lentos,
hacia su mar, hacia su seco océano,
hacia su ola sin agua.

Veo el verano extenso, y un estertor saliendo de un granero,
bodegas, cigarras,
poblaciones, estímulos,
habitaciones, niñas
durmiendo con las manos en el corazón,
soñando con bandidos, con incendios,
veo barcos,
veo árboles de médula
erizados como gatos rabiosos,
veo sangre, puñales y medias de mujer,
y pelos de hombre,
veo camas, veo corredores donde grita una virgen,
veo frazadas y órganos y hoteles.

Veo los sueños sigilosos,
admito los postreros días,
y también los orígenes, y también los recuerdos,
como un párpado atrozmente levantado a la fuerza
estoy mirando.

Y entonces hay este sonido:
un ruido rojo de huesos,
un pegarse de carne,
y piernas amarillas como espigas juntándose.
Yo escucho entre el disparo de los besos,
escucho, sacudido entre respiraciones y sollozos.

Estoy mirando, oyendo,
con la mitad del alma en el mar y la mitad del alma
en la tierra,
y con las dos mitades del alma miro al mundo.

y aunque cierre los ojos y me cubra el corazón enteramente,
veo caer un agua sorda,
a goterones sordos.
Es como un huracán de gelatina,
como una catarata de espermas y medusas.
Veo correr un arco iris turbio.
Veo pasar sus aguas a través de los huesos.

And here the Translation in English

Sexual Water

Rolling down in big and distinct drops,
in drops like teeth,
in heavy drops like marmalade and blood.
rolling down in big drops, the water
is falling,
like a sword made of drops,
like a river of glass that tears things,
it is falling, biting,
beating on the axle of symmetry, knocking on the seams of the soul,
breaking abandoned things, soaking the darkness.
It is nothing but a breath, more full of moisture than crying,
a liquid, a sweat, an oil that has no name,
a sharp motion,
taking shape, making itself thick,
the water is falling
in slow drops
toward the sea, toward its dry ocean,
toward its wave without water.


I look at the wide summer, and a loud noise coming from a barn,
wineshops, cicadas,
towns, excitements,
houses, girls
sleeping with hands over their hearts.
dreaming of pirates, of conflagarations,
I look at ships,
I look at trees of bone marrow
bristling like mad cats,
I look at blood, daggers and women's stockings,
and men's hair,
I look at beds, I look at corridors where a virgin is sobbing,
I look at blankets and organs and hotels.

I look at secretive dreams,
I let the straggling days come in,
and the beginnings also, and memories also,
like an eyelid held open hideously
I am watching.

And then this sound comes:
a red noise of bones,
a sticking together of flesh
and legs yellow as wheatheads meeting.
I am listening among the explosions of the kisses,
I am listening, shaken among breathings and sobs.

I am here, watching, listening,
with half of my soul at sea and half of my soul on land,
and with both halves of my soul I watch the world.

And even if I close my eyes and cover my heart over entirely,
I see the monotonous water falling
in big monotonous drops.
It is like a hurricane of gelatin,
like a waterfall of sperm and sea anenomes.
I see a clouded rainbow hurrying.
I see its water moving over my bones.


or, even, Dorfman reads Sexual Water

On Murakami... [recent thoughts about Murakami. to be continued]

In his Kafkaesque novels, Murakami explores the themes of loss, reminiscence of the past, defilement, void (seeking to be filled), social alienation, self-discovery, sexual perversion, lost connection to the inner-self. His characters attempt come to terms with their past, in narratives where crisp realism and fantastic elements mix up to explore a concept of double-consciousness, or connection between the real world and another dimension (is it what we call the subconscious? Is it Death? Or altogether another world?).

In Norwegian Wood, Naoko lives in the past, and so does, through her, Toru Watanabe. An absence (Kizuki’s - her boyfriend, and his best-friend) both links and separates them; meanwhile, he is drawn to Midori, whose own deficiencies are explained by parental abandonment. Throughout the novel, the characters endeavour to fill each other’s void.
Similarly, in Dance, Dance, Dance, in his quest to discover what happened to the woman he loved, the protagonist is drawn to a thirteen-years-old fan of the Talking Heads (Yuki), who tries to evolve between a careless mother and an inept father. What will be unveiled is a sordid story of sexual perversion and murder.
Toru Watanabe’s wife disappears without explanation (The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle); in his quest to find her – and their cat –, he meets the teenager May Kasahara, but also unveils a difficult truth (‘defilement’ and incest), which outcomes he can only fight (literally) through the powers of his mind.

Sputnik Sweetheart (perhaps my favourite) deals again with the theme of defilement (Miu’s chilling story) while K. desperately tries to find out what happened to Sumire. Loss again is at the centre of this short but deep novel, which explores in a very poetic way the complexity of emotions.

Perhaps the most original of the lot, because so different, is Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World – isn’t it a wonderful title? this is what first attracted me to Murakami: find out what story hid itself behind such a title. The main character, a ‘Calcutec’ (or ‘human data processor’) is charged to encrypt a message, while he is also, in another dimension, a ‘dream-reader’. In the process, he is not only saving a scientist and his (sexy) granddaughter, but also himself. Interestingly, none of the characters in this novel are named : ‘chubby girl’, ‘librarian’, ‘the old man’, ‘Junior’ and ‘Big Boy’… is all the author offers of their identity.
Finally, young Kafka Tamura (Kafka on the Shore) runs away from home to go in search of his disappeared mother, and finds himself connected to an eccentric old man who converses with cats and predicts (accurately) fish and leeches falling from the sky.

All his main characters, are, without exception, idle, male, and share, as Joseph Kugelmass says, this ‘vacant state of ordinariness’; teenagers are effortlessly cool; women beautiful, sexy (often unwillingly) and dressed with tasteful simplicity. There is nearly always a (gruesome) murder; if not, a rape (or both).
Dimensions (otherworld? underworld? death?) are connected through a ‘door’, either place or object, enabling the protagonist to communicate with: the Sheep Man through the Dolphin Hotel (Dance, Dance, Dance), his wife through a well (the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle), his inner-self through the skull of a unicorn (Hard-Boiled Wonderland), people from the past through a forest (Kafka on the Shore), etc.
Finally, each of the novels breathe through a liberating element, who brings relief as much as the key to find the truth, in the form of clairvoyants: Yuki (Dance, Dance, Dance), Malta and Creta Kano (Wind-Up Bird Chronicle), Nakata (Kafka on the Shore) etc…

What one could explain as ‘consistency’ is finally the repetition of a successful formula, which dramatically tones down the eccentricity and sheer originality of his work; or is it precisely this continuity that brings stability to the metaphysical universes he creates, a familiarity which protects the reader from the protagonists increasing insanity?


[originally posted as a comment on The Kugelmass Episodes]

Chronicles of the Box-Office # 4

Customer: 'At what time is the next Tate-to-Tate?'
[note: no 'hello', 'please' or whatever. as usual]
Me: 'I don't know'
C.: 'What do you mean 'I don't know'? Don't you work here?'
Me:'Well, I surely do work here, but not for that company.'
C., to his friend:'You really can't ask anything to these people, they don't understand anything about art, why would they bother knowing anything about the Tate!'
Me: 'Yeah, you're right, I am certainly much less interested about art than you. I am only writing a PhD in History of Art. Still, I do not treat you, nor anyone else, no matter what job one happens to do for a living, like a vulgar ignorant. Have a nice day, Sir. I hope you will enjoy the Holbein exhibition'.