The Revolution will not be Televised

Just a little Zizek-inspired thought before bed.

I remember in high school being elated at the wisdom of two lyrics from musicians I had breif and intense obessions with:

One: "The revolution will not be televised, brother!" Which was Gill Scott-Heron's exclamation in his poem of the same name. Scott-Heron is a kind of radical black slam poet and soul musician.

Two: "Sister had a birthday, won't be televised. [...] Smash the magnavox!" Which was the Blue Meanies - a noise-ska band.

I only made the connection that this sort of thinking was misdirected, misleading, inaccurate, self-defeating, etc once I read Antonio Negri's Empire. Zizek reminded me of it a moment ago.

Of course the revolution will be televised - not only will it be televised, but it will face its greatest threat by being televised. This is an easy and effective way for the dominant ideology to keep radical thought in check. Theres an over-saturation of representation of 'you and I' on television - we're on all the time, the revolution makes it to every episode of 20/20 and 60 Minutes. The only way to oppose the dominant ideology is to turn its own methods to progressive use. Echoing Scott-Heron and the Blue meanies (we're being repressed, we aren't allowed to fit in!) just reinforces the culture of otherness that has been built around this pervasive saturation of the everyman...

Okay, enough for now. Just thought it was funny that I was directing my indignation in a totally naive way for years (not to say I see the light now, but at least that's one veil lifted)...

Gallery Bound

Dan Harvey's exhibition opened a half hour ago in the Mudd Gallery. No free wine (some nice breads and cheeses instead) and no familiar faces (except Joe). His idea was really nice, but it failed for the most part - all because of the Mudd.

Dan greeted us by reading from his artist's statement: a vague manifesto for the dozen paintings hung, which he finished by reading a modified honor code and nailing it to the wall. Already this performance had begun to derail, I think. We get the picture immediately that he's hanging his ideas to the white gallery walls, placing them under the gallery microscope. Fine. I can sometimes tolerate the deathly pseudo-objectivity of gallery space, but here it was uncomfortable and disappointing to see it measureably weaken a charming collection of images and a charming performance (more on that in a bit). Really, 'charming' seems like the best word to describe Dan - barefoot and grinning in dusty, slightly torn clothes (nothing that would be out of place hanging on the frame of an ORC or Co-Op resident).

The problem was the space - white walls and a painfully standardized curatorial practice: Dan was a little absurd (which was nice) but mostly awkward (which was too bad) standing there among his paintings. The paintings themselves weren't all that interesting, but I enjoyed looking at them anyway in the way that I might casually inspect a new chair or basket or some such thing when visiting a friend. One of the canvases had a few stiched-up tears in it - "Pre #2" I think - my favorite.

Anyway, the best part of the whole deal, and what made me most of all carry out a mix of frustrated and warm thoughts, was Dan's banjo improvisations. After he nailed his statement to the wall, he sat down in the chair in the corner, and made up lovely songs about what had just happened, what was currently happening, the way his feet felt, and so on. Of course, immediately everyone pretended to ignore him and went about the usual museum shuffle from painting to painting. I did too - which was when it struck me how awkward and inappropriate the whole thing was.

Forgetting for a moment that I'm a shy guy, and don't enjoy the feeling of being watched - forgetting for a moment that it seemed like most of the attendees felt the same way - forgetting for a moment the somewhat interesting conceit of an artist telling a story about his audience as they pluck stories from his paintings - forgetting all that, Dan's banjo music simply belonged out of the gallery. It was too alive, too affecting, too good really for the gallery. What he needed was a real sit-down with some strangers, for cider and banjo music, in his home, or any other personal space - any space at all but the naked gallery.