It seems that what I wrote about season one of Westworld applies even more to season two. There are spoilers ahead. During season one, head of QA Theresa states: ‘Westworld is one thing to the guests, another to the shareholders and something completely different to management’. This statement begins taking on much more significance. The
Man, for his part, by automating his objects and rendering them multi-functional instead of striving to structure his practices in a fluid and open-ended manner, reveals in a way what part he himself plays in a technical society: that of the most beautiful all-purpose object, that of an instrumental object.1 When Baudrillard wrote this in
While far from being my favourite theorist, Baudrillard’s time may have come. While he was alive the popular uptake of his work lumped it in with the work of Derrida, Deleuze, Foucault and Lyotard — all misunderstood, all held up as examples of a bad philosophical object called ‘postmodernism’ which no-one in Britain save for
Yes, it's a twist on the old slogan 'think globally, act locally'. Bear with it, though; it means something related, but also quite different.
There is a certain degree of equivalence between a Badiouian Evental Site, the situation of mésentente in Rancière's 'part-of-no-part', Agamben's State of Exception, and, (perhaps least of all due to its apoliticity) a Lyotardian Differend. I do not know whether it was Balibar or Agamben who first noticed this. There is an excellent article on the subject of the Evental Site here.
It's sometimes startling to recall that Apartheid, slavery, and colonialism were all perfectly legal regimes. Even the Shoah was fully legislated for well in advance. In fact, a pre-occupying focus of genocide studies has been that the legal framework for acts of genocide always pre-exist the historical atrocities they legitimate, which constitutes in itself a formal, absolute, atrocity. Rancière is therefore far from merely sporting with language when he speaks of 'a wrong that is right': like Agamben, he is talking about situations of legally supported injustice. As leftists, whether we admit it or not, or whether or not it is explicit in our theoretisation, we are all dependent on a distinction between legality and justice. Without an idea or sense of justice, there can be no sense to revolutionary politics.
Just how generalizable this recognition is I do not know, but Badiou seems to have identified the formula under which the distinction is most visible: the Evental Site. Just as, for Agamben, the legal State of Exception (which defines the Homo Sacer) is both the gravest problem and the greatest hope, for Badiou the Evental Site is that place ('on the edge of the void') where organisation and true (revolutionary) political subjectification is possible.
With respect to Grenfell, for example, it is easy to see how the tragedy occurred, and difficult to see how things might have gone otherwise. Human voices were effectively put on mute; dissent from the dominant opinion was simply ignored or alleged not to exist; legal recourse was denied to residents; complaints were met with strong-arm threats and silencing strategies on the parts of the powerful. Here the structure of the situation is Evental: elements of the situation were on the edge of the void because they 'belonged' without being 'included'; they were always present but their political power considered from above was unaccounted-for, always rendered null in advance by dissuasion and threats.
Yet within this situation, in which human subjectification and the political representative link was denied to residents by those financially invested in keeping them quiet, residents formed their own collective and attempted to speak out. They attempted to give themselves a voice and make themselves known. One of these efforts was the Grenfell Action Group. When people in an Evental Site, denied voice, give themselves a voice, they are participating in revolutionary subjectification. Just as those denied human rights in detention camps around the world demanding due legal and political representation, refugees or workers deemed illegal, sans-papiers, or mere 'survivors', all contesting that they be acknowledged to be fully humanized and not pseudo-animal in status, so the residents of Grenfell were in the process of what Badiou regards as proper political subjectification, i.e. the formation of a subjective body of fidelity to a truth (in this case the truth would be something like: 'justice exists' or 'we have a right to rights'). This is far from a trivial theoretical observation. It means that, since truly public social housing has all but disappeared, the rentier and the private landlord being the ascendant figures of contemporary and near-future capitalism, and with coming generations unlikely to buy their homes, local bodies such as the Action Group are of extreme significance in our era. Perhaps even to the same extent that industrial workers' unions were in the time of bourgeois-owned factories (which constituted the Evental Sites of their times). This is all the more the case when the labourification (or monetisation) of everyday life is considered in closest scrutiny. It is not so much the worker, but the life-as-worker — the one whose ordinary living of their life constitutes an upwards revenue stream (via rents) — who constitutes the next historical subject.
Had the Grenfell community been able to reach the wider electorate, or perhaps federate with other similar communities without official voice, amplifying their own politically autochthonous voices, perhaps the tower fire might not have been inevitable. An Event was, at some point, perhaps possible. It is important that this failure is not regarded merely as the structural 'democratic deficit' of our neoliberal, democracy-abreviated times, but also at a much more grass-roots level a failure to rouse a wider context for concern, to federate, and to ally. A failure to see past the privatization of "issue" politics into groups of people concerned only with single issues affecting their members. A failure on the part of the left to regard "someone else's problems" as being a problem for all; a failure to think generic truths ('justice is a thing worth believing in', 'there is a right to have rights', etc…) in particular situations.
Roman Jakobson's communication model1, while developed on the back of studies of verbal communication and the speech event, has proved invaluable for the semiotic analysis of culture beyond the scope of structuralist linguistics. One of the primary benefits of Jakobson's functionalist understanding of language is that it avoids the transmission model's reduction of communication to the imparting of information. In Jakobson's view, this is only one of the possible functions language has. In addition, Jakobson made important distinctions between the parts of communication, such as those between code and context. Such distinctions only became more important, especially for Althusser, for whom for example message and code are irreducibly different; the ideological elements of a message can be much easier to resist than the ideological aspect of the code it uses. This of course depends on the dominance of the code in use.
Can something such as a mural be analysed in terms of a model like this? To do so, there has to exist a correlation between the constituents and functions of language (in the narrow sense of speech) and the constituents and functions of an artistically produced image. It is not so difficult to show that pictorial analogues of these constituents and functions exist. The addresser and addressee are the artist(s) and the artwork's public (both of whom are virtualised within the work itself through débrayage, as discussed in part one). If the art is inclined towards the addresser, focusing on their internal world, then the expressive function comes to the fore. If the art is inclined towards the addressee, marshalling its impact upon them, then the conative function gains in intensity. If the artwork serves to visualise a world (or what phenomenological hermeneutics would call a 'referential context', be it real or imaginary), then the referential function dominates — the image is then what art historians usually call 'figurative' (I prefer the term figural). When a work of art encourages focus on its own material constitution (as is the case in abstract or nonfigural works) then the poetic / aesthetic function is highlighted. When a work of art encourages only that the gaze of a public is maintained — when it predominantly invites the look and is interested primarily in keeping that channel open — then it is functioning in a phatic mode. And when a work of art orients attention towards the codes and conventions it makes use of, it can be said to be functioning in a metalingual mode. Thus, term for term, Jakobson's functionalism can be appropriated for the semiotic analysis of visual culture and art, providing a methodology that opens up an object's various dimensions for discussion.
In treading this path, we have to be cautious that the linguistic constituent called code is given its fullest, social-historical weight. We are not only dealing with the broad conventions of a particular medium, but with the narrower conventions of particular representations within certain social groups. Thus, for Ockerman, the choice between generic (or even abstract) representation and identifiable, personalised figures that always faces the painter of political murals gives way to the pre-existing or historical codes of satire, lampooning and caricature. Falling back to an already-established, but deeply anti-semitic, series of stereotypes which depict the political influence of financial institutions and their mechanisms of power broking through cartoon-like representations of a certain physiognomy, postural and gestural isotopy, the artist cannot help but orient public attention towards this narrow, exclusion-creating, code. We have to ask from where this code originates, who uses it, and how it attempts to situate us as viewers. This is easily done through thought experiment, and the asking of a handful of critical questions. Which traditions are those which have used similar depictions? How would we react if this mural had been sponsored or patronised by a right-wing politician such as Donald Trump, a member of his administration, or a prominent member of the UK's Conservative party? What are my feelings as a Christian, Jew, Muslim, Wiccan or Atheist in regarding this image? How am I included into or excluded by the referential context generated by this image?
What comes to the surface is the way the conative function of the image, its attempt to persuade its public of something, is deeply dependent on the assumptions of its coding. Understood as a mural depicting caricatured individuals after a certain tradition, the image openly displays its code conventions through the metalingual function. So in this case, the metalingual and the conative functions of the image work together to create an already emotive or attitude-laden context for the referential function to act upon. There is nothing neutral about this context. When a member of the public has an identity that is at odds with the sharing of this code and its referential context, the image threatens persecution, and remains deeply offensive at best. The origins of this code have been addressed in part one, drawing from early twentieth century anti-semitic caricature in print, then from right-leaning libertarianism of the kind that was highly popular and vocal amongst 1990s newsgroup and bulletin board culture. This analysis was recently echoed by author Richard Seymour.2 Seymour also elaborates on the unsavoury alliances forged in the 1990s era between fringes of the left and certain libertarian and conspiracists whose views were circulating on the internet. One of the social causes of such alliances was the deep isolation suffered by leftists during this period, in which visible representation on the political stage was at a dire level, owing to Bill Clinton and Tony Blair's policies of triangulation, the continuing attack on all forms of social security, a deepening assault on democracy, and the virulent spread of neoliberal economics among the managers of public services. Throughout the 1990s on the fringes of the left a seemingly apolitical anti-authoritarianism — a vacuous and generalised opposition to surveillance and government but with little in the way of genuine social principle — grew in line with a fervid millenarian eschatology. It was Chris Carter's Fortean-styled paranoid TV shows, a newfound availability of esoteric texts, beat generation lit., early peer-to-peer file sharing, acid-trip-riddled newsgroup browsing and a vague sense of cyberfreedom that gave birth to this strange tendency (I myself observed it, but was never 'of' it). Twenty years later the 'false-flag', 'black helicopters' and 'chemtrail' conspiracy industry is going strong it seems, perhaps today shorn of its hippy, Reichian sex-machine and Laingian anti-psychiatry trappings, but is also a good deal more politically invested (in the libertarian right).
As Pierce put it, '[a] sign… addresses somebody'.3 The structuralist notion of an address is that it always positions and corresponds to a subject, but here 'subject' should be understood to mean not an actual person but a series of roles. Gender, ethnicity, social class and age are some of the ways in which a subject-position can be ideologically weighted in terms of value. Clearly, in the case of Ockerman's mural the subject or addressee supposed by the image has multiple effects on actual communities of individuals. On the one hand, those who would identify with the actant-narrator (or simply 'narrative' of the image) are of a certain political disposition, age, ethnicity and so on. The libertarian right is a largely white, young to middle-aged, Anglo-American public. On the other hand, those who find themselves implicated, blamed or persecuted by the image is a somewhat more fuzzy group. Is it enough, for example, to be a member of the Jewish faith, or does one have to also be involved in finance, or western mysticism? Are the categories of people which Ockerman's conspiratorial figures stand for supposed to be read synoptically or serially? The very slipperiness caused by the ensemble of identifiable figures around the monopoly board (which, while uniting them in gaming the capitalist system also divides them as competitors), their collocation and simultaneous being-together, multiplies their persecutory power. The uncertainty as to whether or not one is being blamed directly, indirectly, by association, and so on, for all the widely acknowledged ills of capitalism is, indeed, one of the principal ways in which shaming and blaming practices capture their victims, intensifying their power to interpellate. For a Jewish public the figures condense an emotive message that feels much like hatred, especially when taken against the historical background of anti-semitic caricature in right-wing politics. The mural constructs a murkily-defined fantasy object, a multifaceted (literally many-faced) scapegoat ensemble, and by intention suggests to Jews, 'whatever this is (and I can't really be bothered to think it through), you are this'. Those protesting that the image is anti-banker rather than anti-semitic have failed to understand the very indifference towards the boundaries of communal identity inscribed in Kalen Ockerman's mural itself, the way that it takes the principle of equivalence (on which, according to semiotics, all representation is based) and intentionally loosens its boundaries, intensifying its power to draw into itself, associate and signify.
Why then, would Jeremy Corbyn, in October 2012, make the following comment on Mear One's facebook profile?
'You are in good company. Rockerfeller [sic] destroyed Diego Viera's [sic] mural because it includes a picture of Lenin.'
Factually, the last part of this reply is absolutely correct. In 1934 Diego Rivera's unfinished mural Man at the Crossroads was indeed removed from the wall of the Rockefeller Center, which had previously sponsored it, when political conservatives objected to the inclusion of a figure of Lenin.4 The destruction of the work sparked a protest, one of several actions by the Artists' and Writers' Union in support of alternative public painting.
It is worth considering more fully the mural which Corbyn mentioned in order to get some context to his reply to Mear One.
“Man at the Crossroads” proved out to be one of the most groundbreaking works of Diego Rivera. The center of the painting portrayed a commanding industrial worker with his hands on the controls of heavy machinery. The crossroads were formed by two long narrow slides intersecting at the centre, right below the worker. One slide displayed a microscopic view of body cells, reflecting sexually transmitted diseases (STD) and another presented a telescopic view of the universe. The painting was roughly divided into two sections. The left panel showed elite people, especially women, enjoying, drinking, and partying. A contrast was reflected on the same side with a group of people protesting and being clubbed by the police.
The right side of “Man at the Crossroads” showed a May Day parade with workers and people living in harmony. At the center of the left side, there was an image of Vladimir Lenin (Russian communist leader), as if joining hands in power with a black farmer, a white worker, and a soldier. The presence of Lenin in the painting hinted at an ‘Anti-Capitalist’ flavor. To avoid any kind of political controversy, Nelson Rockefeller requested Rivera to replace the face of Lenin with any ordinary face. Diego was an ardent fan of the Soviet leader and so he refused to replace Lenin in the painting. He instead offered to add American leader Abraham Lincoln’s face to another part of the mural. Their differences were never resolved.
Rivera wished to get a few pictures taken of his “Man at the Crossroads,” but photographers were banned from the center. Lucienne Bloch, one of Rivera’s assistants, snuck in a camera into the building and took some pictures to record the mural. These pictures are the only original records of the mural. On May 22, 1933, Rivera was paid in full and was barred from the premises, without letting him complete his work. The painting was then draped and was hidden away from the public eye. On the midnight of February 9, 1934, a few workers marched into the center with axes and hammers and destroyed the mural.
Diego Rivera was determined to finish his painting “Man at the Crossroads,” so he reproduced his work under the name “Man, Controller of The Universe.” This painting also depicted Lenin and Rivera added a portrait of Leon Trotsky (another communist leader). This painting can be seen in the Palace of Fine arts in Mexico. At Rockefeller’s Center, the mural replacing that of Diego’s has Abraham Lincoln as its key subject.5
(Man at the Crossroads, 1932, by Diego Rivera, pencil on paper, MoMA, Drawings and Prints Department, object number 138.19356)
As fascinating as this history is is to an art historian, especially one working towards a more inclusive art history such as myself, it hardly needs stating that Corbyn's (surprisingly badly misspelled) reference to it was more of a (surprisingly badly misspelled) name-drop, perhaps to bolster his own 'knowledgeable leftist' credentials than a genuine endorsement of Kalen Ockerman's mural. After all, any old graffiti artist tagging the same wall keeps the same 'good company' (Rivera) when the administration removes their work; it does not mean they are birds of a feather. Nonetheless, it was a serious oversight on Jeremy's part (and I say this as a strong backer of Corbyn and McDonnell's political vision) to have missed the deeply anti-semitic and injurious nature of Ockerman's mural. Also, the statement that 'Rockerfeller [sic] destroyed [the mural]' is playing into the hands of the conspiracists. It was not a case of one man, cloistered and enthroned in his own private sphere of power, unilaterally and autocratically deciding to wreck the work, but rather a decision owing to a general registration on the part of the Rockefeller Center of a malaise among 'political conservatives' over the mural's content. It was an institutional decision, not the fiat of a puppeteer. Corbyn could have been a lot more sensitive to the reception that his post was likely to get from this particular audience, and it is absolutely right for him to have issued a full apology recently for having given the impression of lending support to an anti-semitic artist.
In the wider context of what appears to be a sustained programme of smear attempts on Jeremy Corbyn by the media, including the BBC7, we have to be careful not to dismiss actual carelessness and mistakes made on the left. While anti-semitism is far more prevalent on the right wing of politics8, it is a problem across the political spectrum and has had certain pockets and fringes of accommodation on the left as has been mentioned above. In other words, it is a real problem to be stamped out.
(Corbyn figured against backdrop in a pastiche of Soviet Constructivism, featured on the BBC's Newsnight programme)
Sooner or later, this argument always appears: if you don't support art you disagree with politically, and shrug as it is whitewashed away, then sooner or later art which you do agree with will go the same way, and you will be left with no argument. This is the so-called 'freedom of expression' angle, a favourite argument, unsurprisingly, of libertarians. The argument fails on several counts. First of all, free expression is a political concept rooted in a constitutionalism intended only to limit the power of governments from impeding free speech. When it comes to private property, even public-facing private property such as the wall of an institution, we are not dealing with a public sphere as such but some strange (and as history shows frequently contestable) zone on the fringes of the legalistic applicability of 'free expression' politics. Several competing claims as to the ownership of the space in which a mural is painted can exist, and this particularly the case where public-private partnerships exist. More important, however, is to really understand what freedom of expression can mean. Does it really extend to the freedom to offend, to injure or persecute? The classical liberal definition of freedom used to be that it ended where the use of freedom diminished the freedom of another party. Clearly, even by classical liberal standards then, Ockerman's mural is suspect. Any representation that creates or seeks to create public animosity towards Jews is culpable as a use of 'freedom' that oversteps its limits. And as a critic of the liberal concept of freedom in the first place, I would suggest that it is not even consistent to regard this as a 'use of freedom' or that 'freedom' as a formal or abstract concept in this sense is of much use as a fundamental category of human relations. But this discussion would take us outside of art history as such and into a series of complex social theory arguments I am not prepared to make here today.
 Sebeok 1960:350-77; Jakobson 1990:69-77
 SoundCloud 2018
 Peirce 1932:228
 Lee 1999:149; San Francisco News 1934
 The Virtual Diego Rivera Web Museum 2018; Ezine Articles 2009
 MoMA 2018
 Maugham 2018
 Institute for Jewish Policy Research 2017
- Ezine Articles, 2009, 'His Most Famous Painting "Man at the Crossroads" by Diego Rivera' by Annette Labedzki [webpage] available at http://ezinearticles.com/?His-Most-Famous-Painting-Man-at-the-Crossroads-by-Diego-Rivera&id=2315023 accessed 06/04/2018
- Jakobson, Roman, 1990, On Language, (eds. Linda R. Waugh & Monique Monville-Burston) Harvard University Press, Cambridge MA
- Institute for Jewish Policy Research, 2017, 'Antisemitism in contemporary Great Britain: A study of attitudes towards Jews and Israel', conducted by L. Daniel Staetsky, September 2017, available at https://cst.org.uk/public/data/file/7/4/JPR.2017.Antisemitism in contemporary Great Britain.pdf accessed 29/03/2017
- Lee, Anthony W., 1999, Painting on the Left: Diego Rivera, Radical Politics and San Francisco's Public Murals, University of California Press, London
- Maugham, Jo, 2018, 'Just remembered I have a written message from a senior BBC bod explaining (unambiguously) that the BBC does code negative messages about Corbyn into its imagery' [Tweet], available at https://twitter.com/JolyonMaugham/status/975335522150297600 accessed 29/03/2018
- MoMA, 2018, 'Diego Rivera. Man at the Crossroads. 1932 | MoMA', available at https://www.moma.org/collection/works/34635 accessed 06/04/2018
- Pierce, Charles S., 1932, Collected Papers vol. II: Elements of Logic, eds. Hartshorne, C. & Weiss, P., Harvard University Press, Cambridge MA
- San Francisco News, 1934, 'Destruction of Rivera Mural in N.Y. Termed "Murder" and "Capitalism Couldn't Take It" Declares Steffens', February 14, 1934
- Sebeok, Thomas A. (ed.), 1960, Style in Language, MIT Press, Cambridge MA
- SoundCloud, 2018, 'Richard Seymour on Labour, Anti-Semitism and the Left' by Politics Theory Other [audio], available at https://soundcloud.com/poltheoryother/seymour-interview-new accessed 11/04/2018
- The Virtual Diego Rivera Web Museum, 2018, 'Man at the Crossroads: the Rockefeller Controversy' [webpage] available at http://www.diegorivera.com/?p=60 accessed 06/04/2018
As someone deeply invested in the disciplines of art history and visual culture studies, the recent shitstorm over a comment Jeremy Corbyn made in 2012 regarding a mural by Mear One (Kalen Ockerman) keeps flying into my radar range. Because it's Easter and I'm supposed to give myself a break, I'll stick working towards my research pro forma on hold for a day or two and wade into this furore.
Firstly, let's talk about this mural. Yes, it is antisemitic. No, this cannot be watered down into 'features antisemitic elements'. When you are used to perusing images, you come to regard them in terms of not just what they represent (if anything), but in terms of what they do, and what they want with us. Art (of this kind at least) does not occur naturally, it is fabricated by human intelligence. Furthermore it is publicly displayed, which means it has a claim on us; it is staked upon, motivated by and addressed to our attention. Visuality is a primary modality, perhaps the primary modality (it's tempting to rank it equal to musicality), in which ideology is propagated and reproduced in contemporary life. Since at least the early 20th Century this was recognised among newspaper editors, who coined the idiom that 'a picture is worth a thousand words': if you had something to say, say it with a bold image, then append the argument textually. Since that time, among the weaponry of journalists their cameras have taken pride of place and it is often (though not always) the case that it is the securing of an image that will make or break the rationale for a story. No one can doubt the extraordinary impact of images today. However, the powerful 'speech' of images, their ability to hail or interpellate a public, precisely by virtue of standing in for or condensing the argumentative impact of 'a thousand words', also elides the discursiveness and rational argumentation that those thousand words would have had to present in order to achieve a similar intensity of effect. In other words, the impact of images takes place largely in an affective register; they appeal to the emotionality of their public and not, primarily, to their discursive or critical thinking, which they tend to short-cut. It is this emotive character of images that lends to them a rhetorical, persuasive character. All of this is absolutely obvious of course, but it is necessary to step through it in order to approach the specific image.
Before we begin interrogating the mural, there are some important caveats that would need to be included in any visual analysis. Firstly, whenever I discuss the image in terms of what it 'does' or what it 'wants', this is in no sense to be taken as an categorical attribution of agency to the image. Taking note of the debate between Mitchell1, Freedberg2, and Wolff3, it is entirely possible to speak of an image being motivated or having motivations without this slipping into philosophical animism. This is possible because we are dealing with the production of an artist or author, and can therefore approach the mural in terms of the process known to Greimasian semiotics as débrayage.4 Rather than having the artist who calls himself Mear One standing before us presenting us verbally with some kind of argument or narration, Ockerman instead delegates his enunciatory power to the expressiveness of the mural and its iconography. It is in this sense of débrayage or disengagement, and in this sense only, that we can speak of the actantial aspect of the image.5 However, this has important ramifications, since it means that the entire background network of cultural assumptions on which Ockerman's delegated enunciation would have depended are as implicated by the imagery of the mural as they would have been were he himself present.
Furthermore, just as the artist's function as enunciator is virtualised within the medium by disengagement and delegation to the expressiveness of the medium, so too is the function of any hypothetical enunciatee presupposed and virtualised by the production of his artistic labour. The fictional 'voice' of the image (that which is colloquially regarded as 'saying something', and whose impact on an audience would be 'worth a thousand words') is a virtualised 'I' which addresses a no-less simulative 'You', just as narrator and narratee are constructed and organised by a text. Both this 'I' and the 'You' it addresses are actant-delegates,6 in this case not virtualised through strictly textual strategies but via the visual and compositional organisation of the mural itself. Recall that the mural is a public-facing surface composed of symbols which are presupposed as intelligible or bearing semantic freight. The 'I' and 'You' formed by this visual distribution further presupposes a relationship whose modality is fiduciary. Without an assumption of trust on the part of a public no artificial image would be able to mean anything at all; we are supposed to believe that something intelligible is there to be conveyed to us — not necessarily propositional, but at the very least signifying. More prosaically, the mural can be said to construct or elect an audience, which may or may not conform with its actual publics. An actual public, in regarding the mural, can thus be said to be offered a subject position (which it may or may not be at ease with). For in-depth visual and formal analyses of works of art it is imperative to identify such a subject position, in short to ask: who are 'we' supposed to be when this image is addressing itself to 'us'?.
The second caveat is the following: it is important to clarify the distinction between image and the physical existence of the mural. The physical mural was available purely in terms of its sensual existence — its visual medium (painted mural), its form (delineation, texture, recession, multiplicity, clarity, etc.), its support (the wall of a building), and in its environmental context (its location, not only geographically but socially and historically). Although the original mural has since gone, it has been reproduced many times over in digital form online, through photography. It makes sense therefore to say that the material support of the image still exists, but that its environmental context and its support have altered considerably. As an image, however, the mural is also immaterial, reproducible and reiterated through memory and imagination. As an image it persists in the 'mind's eye', as an artefact not of some specific visual encounter (embedded in physical context) but of visuality as such, as one within countless images we tend to call 'mental images'. While some mental images can fade and be forgotten, the physical existence of a picture, painting or material artefact in a public arena is not easily overcome without concerted, collective action. This is important because, for a public who encountered the original material and experienced its problematic or offensive nature, the re-encounter with its myriad digital versions in circulation can serve to verify, or perhaps even amplify their experience. It is for this reason I have chosen not to further circulate or recycle the image by posting a photo with this blog post. This is in line with an ethic of not providing a material support for an offensive image. Should anything I write here require confirmation, a search for '"Freedom for Humanity"' and "Mear One" will bring up plenty of versions.
It is also clear from such an understanding of artificially created images that they can never be regarded as neutral with respect to intentionality; there is no way to reduce the image to its material support, as in the disingenuous arguments of those who would defend it as 'just some paint on a wall'. To speak of an image is to be already engaged in interpretation; an image cannot exist in an uninterpreted state. The composition, medium, practical history and forms of its material support must already be understood as presenting an image before we were able to designate it as such. The habit of regarding purposive markings on a surface as an image is encoded and presupposed by the action of the artist painting the mural. Its manufacturedness is clearly evident; it didn't arise by itself but is the product of purposive human action. Therefore it is entirely unreasonable to regard it as anything other than an intentional statement bearing specific human and social weights.
One of the most striking things about this image is its deliberate stylistic crudity, intending it to be situated within a whole series of cartoon-like images, many of which are modern or contemporary, but which are overlapped in part by a tradition of political caricature in print since the late seventeenth century. That tradition is deliberately contemptuous of the human form in particular, and has frequently been used in racist typifications. The figural elements in the mural itself follow this pattern.
The upper part of the mural is dominated by the eye of providence, which has ever since the libertarian-right cyberculture's embrace of psychedelic fiction such as Robert Anton Wilson's trilogy Illuminatus! in the early 1990s, been used in online meme culture as a symbol of occult puppet-masters pulling political strings. This symbol needs especial care, as it signifies on several levels and has been especially hegemonised by both counter-culture and mainstream cinema. Historically speaking, the eye of providence as recognisable today comes from the emblematic tradition in engraved works, sometimes alchemical, sometimes purely exoteric and moral. Many guilds and fraternities, such as the order of foresters and the order of operative masons (precursors of Freemasonry) have made use of the symbol, but it is by no means exclusive to any of them. There is no record of its use in Freemasonry before the late 18th century. Much has been made by conspiracy theorists (again, prompted by psychedelic fiction and 'occult' literature) of its use in the great seal of America, held to suggest that the founding fathers were, in the main, Freemasons. While a role for secret societies in both the French and American revolutions is acknowledged by historical record, there did not exist at the time anything like the well-organised, regularised systems of Freemasonry such as those which exist today. In addition, Catholic anti-revolutionary propaganda has inflated many accounts. The narrative of a shadowy Bavarian Illuminati masterminding the 1789 revolution, recycled and popularised in early 1990s fiction, has little to no historical basis in fact. However, the lure of the narrative of a clandestine continuity to history has an appeal outside of film and literature. Many enlightenment-by-mail-order 'mystical' fraternities still exist, for example. Such bodies concoct their own histories, sometimes claiming the Providence emblem as a symbol for 'ascended masters' in some dubious precursor spiritualist society, borrowing much of their mystique from Helena Petrovna Blavasky's Theosophy and the reactionary theurgic writings of Martinez de Pasqually and Louis-Claude de Saint Martin. The continuing appeal of belonging to such 'special' or exclusive communities naturally fuels the paranoia of those who see in them a political influence on global events. In a further manoeuvre, such profit-making 'mystical' corporate bodies often attempted to link their initiatic pedigree to whichever floating signifiers still remained enigmatic from antiquity, such as the pyramids, the sphinx, and the Wedjat (eye of Horus). This hermetic quackery and charlatanry has many precedents, perhaps one of the most infamous being 'polymath' Athanasius Kircher. Kircher, on whose work some elements of the Western Mystery Tradition is partially based, claimed to have translated Egyptian Hieroglyphs before the discovery of the Rosetta Stone. What he produced was a tract of pure gibberish according to modern linguists, but the work was held as deeply meaningful among esotericists, particularly in the occult revival of the Victorian fin de siècle. Although egregious from an academic point of view, lacking anything like scholarly or intellectual persuasiveness, such currents are on the whole politically harmless. What is not harmless, however, is the image of them that conspiracy theorists generate, linking them to contemporary political events and with the idea of a Jewish plot that has persisted in the right wing mind ever since, at the latest, the Protocols of the Elders of Zion forgery.
As always when dealing with conspiracy theorists, 'secret histories' and 'forbidden knowledge' of this kind we have to tackle the displacement and reduplication of the Big Other. For a conspiracy theorist it's never simply that everyday language oppresses, but that there is another, secret language behind it. It's never that everyday social structures and relations effectively stratify society, but that there is another, secret structure behind society ordering it. To the paranoid mind, the psychoanalytic concept of the Big Other (language, society, history) is not enough of an account to explain the way things are; there must be another Other, behind the scenes. It is trivial to demonstrate that the iconography of the eye of providence has changed historically in order to accommodate this particularly postmodern paranoia. While its real origins as an emblem can be found in Christian and Talmudic exegesis, as when God promises to Moses to be ever watchful from the heavens (this explanation was still current within masonic literature of 1877, under which rubric the symbol is known as 'the all-seeing eye')7, its present associations with conspiratorial plots and secret histories eclipse this.
Providence is a theological concept that the Church Fathers knew also as dispositio or oikonomia, meaning the 'economy' or 'household rule' which distributed, within the totality of God, his being or essence on the one hand and his executive powers on the other. For the Catholic church this doctrine was essential to the narrative of a tripartite, yet still unified, godhood: the holy trinity. Thus in time the clouds, from which early renditions of the eye of providence gazed, came to be replaced with the triangle. Within the iconographical traditions of Europe from that time onwards, the eye of Providence symbolised the omnibenevolent omniscience of a three-in-one Holy Family (in which, as feminists have often pointed out, the role of mother became mystified and buried) that help form the 'nuclear' patriarchal model of western 'civilisation'.
Those iconological origins, however, were not intended by the mural as painted by Ockerman / Mear One. Rather, the artist has capitalised on the later meaning given to the symbol by libertarian literature in the late twentieth century, in a reuptake of occult sources such as Aleister Crowley, MacGregor Mathers, and Israel Regardie's pseudo-Kabbalistic expositions on the symbology of the Golden Dawn and the OTO, all of which circulated freely in internet newsgroups during the 1990s and in the 'New Age' literature of the time. In short, we are supposed to see the eye in the pyramid as representing not theological Providence but a shadowy cabal, an unseen — and for the uninitiated, unseeable — influence on world governments. As representations go, the appropriation of the (essentially Catholic) symbol by a libertarian right wing extremely wary of big government and surveillance is easy to understand. An all-seeing-eye would, to the kind of person who supported, say, the Tea Party in America, or who counted David Icke as a source of information, appear every bit as menacing as the lidless eye of Sauron would appear to a hobbit of Tolkien's Middle-Earth. As a symbol the eye connotes a destruction of privacy; no interiority; no subjectivity allowed. In the mind of a libertarian right-winger drunk on the ideal of abstract or formal freedom, all thoughts are laid bare by such an eye, leaving it open to the scrutiny and policing of us bureaucratic leftists who would, it is supposed, like to curtail their freedom. This is not by any means a left wing piece of art.
It is likely that at some point someone will compare the mural, particularly the pyramidal form of its main figures, with the classic anti-capitalist illustration, Pyramid of Capitalist System, disseminated by the International Workers of the World (a legitimate left wing group informally known as the 'Wobblies') in 1911.8 There are indeed some minor similarities, but a closer look reveals how superficial those similarities are, and how profound the differences.
The first thing to note is that Nedeljkovich, Brashich, and Kuharich's poster of 1911, while employing generic or stereotypical figures to represent various social layers (in terms of function: labour, bourgeoisie, military, clerical, executive), none do so in what can be regarded as a malevolent, conspiratorial or pernicious way. There are no gleeful hand-rubbing anti-semitic Shylock figures to be seen. In contrast to the ruling classes that comprise the executive, political-ideological wing and the military, the most malignant thing the social stratum representing the bourgeoisie engages in, in fact, is to eat and celebrate. They are characterised not as insidious evil doers; their 'sin', if the image is to be moralised, is largely one of blithe ignorance. The hierarchy is, of course, entirely supported by human labour, but rather than being structured from above by a mystifying emblem ramifying hidden ('occulted') political agendas, the whole exists to support the bag of money which, for Marxists, represents not any human group but a social relation: capital. In short, capitalism emerges and is the apex of a system in which abstract labour power and the production process is devalued and the surplus value thus created is placed on a pedestal as the teleological goal of the entire system of relations. There are no 'elites' in this picture, just a simplified illustration of the social stratifications on which the reproduction of the system is staked: the class relation which devalues labour. As a pedagogical tool or teaching aid, the illustration is, in some respects, Brechtian: generic roles are presented against the background of their historical contingency, and, perhaps by design, do not appear naturalistic, let alone reducible to any kind of biopolitically racist body morphology.
If we now return to the Mear One mural, and contrast its personalised, mystifying and anti-semitic character with the clarity of the Marxism in the IWW poster, things become much easier to point to. The figures seated around the table are intended to be identifiable individuals, namely (from left to right): Mayer Amschel Rothschild, John D Rockefeller, J P Morgan, Aleister Crowley, Andrew Carnegie, and Paul Warburg. The leftmost and rightmost are actually Jewish people, depicted in full-blown anti-semitic stereotypy — Rothschild, robed and full bearded, is actually counting out money. Indeed, it's as if the monopoly game is there simply as an alibi for this depiction. Crowley, meanwhile, was an antisemite but was steeped in the Western Mystery Tradition, which in the woolly associationism of a conspiracy theorist like Ockerman (who has actually turned to no less a fantasist than David Icke for defence of his mural) is equivalent to a 'New World Order' plot. The foregrounded monopoly game and its players occur against a background of turning gears, linking them to a paranoid vision of predestination, a worldview in which nothing happens that has not been orchestrated by 'the cabal'. It is not insignificant that this Laplacian, deterministic, world-view, which leaves no room for agency (or indeed complexity), is exemplified by the cogs and wheels of industry, since this condenses on the one hand a legitimate plea against the automatisation of life with a tainted, racist view of commercial industries as being in the hands of Jews and exotic cabals to the extent that the figure of the Jew and the machination of history become indistinguishable. Again, this is a mystification and a displacement.
In part 2, the context of the mural's reception, and especially the context of the media story generated on the back of Corbyn's apparent support (or at least, lack of criticism) for the mural in 2012 will be given some thought.
 Mitchell 1995; Mitchell 2005
 Freedberg 1989
 Wolff 2012:3-19
 Martin & Ringham 2000:47, 58
 Martin & Ringham 2000:18, 58
 Martin & Ringham 2000:58
 MacKenzie 1987:31
 Labour Arts 2018
- Freedberg, David, 1989, The Power of Images, University of Chicago Press
- Labor Arts, 2018 (1911), 'Item no. 28201: Pyramid of Capitalist System', issued by Nedeljkovich, Brashick and Kuharich, Cleveland: The International Publishing Co., 1911, available at http://www.laborarts.org/collections/item.cfm?itemid=428 Accessed 31/03/2017
- MacKenzie, Kenneth R. H., 1987 (1877), The Royal Masonic Cyclopædia, Aquarian Press
- Martin, Bronwen & Ringham, Felizitas, 2000, Dictionary of Semiotics, Cassell
- Mitchell, William J. T., 1995, Picture Theory, University of Chicago Press
- Mitchell, William J. T., 2005, What Do Pictures Want?: The Lives and Loves of Images, University of Chicago Press
- Wolff, Janet, 2012, ‘After cultural theory: the power of images, the lure of immediacy’, Journal of Visual Culture, vol 11, no 1, pp 3–19, Available at http://vcu.sagepub.com/content/11/1/3 Accessed 9/03/2015
If history teaches us anything, it is that lesson plans are lies. Useful lies, sometimes, but lies nonetheless. How do we really learn things? How is it that something I did not understand yesterday, I can understand today? What did I do that uncovered a new relationship to the object of my inquiry, and can it even be replicated? I'll leave these kind of probing questions to professional epistemologists (there's a few out there I assume, with ID and job title swinging from their institutional lanyards). For my purposes here it's best to look at the paradigmatic cases: things that might have gone unexamined but which at some moment in time gave up their workings — things we became 'educated' about.
Marx dared to enter the holy and mystical cave of the economists with a crystal-cut determination to see what was really going on there, he dared to lift the lid on the illusionist's cabinet. He wanted to understand precisely what this thing 'value' was; where it came from, how it was born, how it functioned and changed its own shape and its name, what it did. He wanted to understand its own logic. There is something at least minimally sacrilegious, heretical, or even blasphemous in the gesture by which Marx enters into his discussion of the commodity. It is like taking a forbidden camera into a church with the desire to document its material culture accurately and meticulously, and to analyse how it worked as a whole system. This transgressive, profaning gesture — that of trespassing in a sacred space and liberating its apparatus for a human use, the use of analysis upon the supposedly numinous — is something Marx learned from the Young Hegelians: Feuerbach in particular.
What one can say of Marx with respect to 'Value', one can say of Nietzsche with respect to 'Christian Morality', Foucault with respect to 'Power', Freud with respect to 'Consciousness', Barthes with respect to 'Cultural Mythology', Anderson with respect to 'Community', Kristeva with respect to Otherness and 'Abjection', Hobsbawn with respect to 'Tradition', Derrida with respect to 'Presence', and so on. In each case (of a theoretical rupture, a shift or turning point in epistemological paradigms) there is a wary and self-conscious trespass into a forbidden zone of thought, something whose weight of tradition has made it resistant to critique, made it a 'mode of thinking' or 'usual form of thinking' that had gone unquestioned and its internal logic unexamined. Defamiliarisation, the alienation of the familiar, is a necessary step into the moonlit, shadowy realm where the workings of the everyday reveal their historical contingency — their strangeness. The assumed or imaginary relation to the sunlit everyday world shows itself as a leap or lapse, caesura, lacuna, a hiatus of thought, a fall or sleep of reason, a space of idiocy. Or: the alienation effect succeeds in dis-alienating the human subject from its own alienation, thus rendering it real, active, and political.
Transgressions are a dime a dozen, all meaningless unless they actually break the world in some way. Perhaps there are only a few things worth breaking, but they are the things that matter, the things we hang our hats on every day. Things we cannot but take for granted if we are to socially reproduce existing conditions: ideological practices so ideological they don't stick out in any way. Theory lines our shelves and victories are sparse, and from this we might learn: if you're going to intentionally drop the ball, drop it when it counts. A strike is only a strike when, afterwards, one can say 'we struck'. We have to invent some formations of this 'we'; we are only a we when we can federate in new ways.
Of all the usual forms of thinking we are ensnared by, perhaps the most predominant today is the thought of competition and of competitiveness. The online world, or the new patronage as some have called it, is a system whereby content providers vie for exposure, their output formed, tuned and adjusted by the signals of commenters, subscribers and donors, and in many cases regulated by what advertisers are willing to associate with through the monetisation of attention. The attention economy, it is held, is born out of the cinematic mode of production. It's about spectacle, it's about pyrotechnics, making noise and putting on a show. As far as the sphere of entertainment goes, this seems fine for the most part, but what about other spheres? The civil sphere, the public sphere, the sphere of education, for example? Can we participate in rational debate, can we decide matters, can we learn anything, in an intensely competitive environment?
Questions like this, particularly as they concern critical pedagogy, came to the fore last year when Jo Johnson — as if this were not already a fait accompli — announced that he wanted to bring the world of education within the model of entrepreneurial business, and to change the fundamental mission of the university from the production of knowledge and culture into the production of competitiveness. That is to say, the production of competitive subjectivity. If I was young and healthy and had nothing to lose but such a future — a dismal, unendingly bleak future of permanently indebted competitiveness — then I would be rioting like a mad bull.
Competition is not, by itself, an ill. There is always some element of co-operation lurking within situations idealised by economists as competitive, just as competition seems intrinsic to co-operation. Total competition means everyone must agree to compete — an overwhelmingly co-operative act; total co-operation is likewise meaningless. These are merely abstract concepts, reified by economic theory. Pure competition effectively represents an ahistorical fiction much like a void of indivisible atoms bouncing around without clinamen, that is, without any intersubjective, historical or dialectical intrusions into their space. Any kind of internal relationships between closed capsule-like identities are entirely absent from such a vision, there is no 'ethical substance', and everything is overdetermined by self-interest. Interest groups and co-operative, social tendencies are either recognised as unnatural obstacles (when they are socially oriented) or disavowed (when they represent the private interests of a ruling class). However, historical space is not like this; it is structured by the very thing that allows us to recognise it as historical. The fiction of idealised markets has them existing sans human while simultaneously depending on a particular anthropology: the human figured as asubjective competitor, 'rational' in the utilitarian sense, meaning politicised or historicised only to the extent that it serves some kind of self-maximising strategy. Meanwhile the real referent of competition, real in the sense of a factor which always escapes calculation, can only be the human factor of desire. Desire upsets the economic picture because it does not bow to 'usual forms of thinking', and in many ways can only appear to economists as struggle for its own sake. For example, the significance of the conceptual figure of the proletariat is that it is the class that fights for its own self-abolition. Its 'self-interest' is indistinguishable from its struggle for self-extinguishment. It seeks neither its self-maximisation nor self-extension, and still less its absorption and integration into existing structures through adaptation and listening to feedback. Struggle, indeed, is an apt representation of desire: struggle against all that which is considered normal, but need not be so considered.
The fire of class struggle is an important way in which desire is both deeply embedded in, and obscured by, a social formation. Class struggle is a social reality that 'competition' could meaningfully refer to, but tends in usage never to refer to. Neoliberalism, arguably, might even be defined as the attempt to foreclose such a meaning, principally by obscuring it with a lexicon of the 'horizontal': an object language designed to mask an inverted class struggle being continually waged and fought from above — the CC-PP game of socialising costs, privatising public assets, and creaming off profits for obscured, nested directorates no paper trail can hope to illuminate. The usual forms of thinking 'competition' open into an imaginary of field sports, played on a level surface, rather than pre-structured by history. Thus the ordinary usage when it comes to the term is, again, largely meaningless. This ordinariness is something we must alienate ourselves from, in order to disalienate ourselves from the historical conditions in which we can speak meaningfully about co-operation and competition. Within the current horizons of our history, one of the the few actual kinds of competition that the human subject can engage in (while accomplishing the status of a subject) is the struggle against exploitation. If we are to be educated — if education is to mean anything at all once considered another arena for the production of competitiveness — then it can only mean the unveiling of social struggles, of finding oneself immersed within antagonisms. Education entails collectively taking up such a position, and keeping faithful to the desire to engage in the formation of subject-bodies.
The temple of competition is of use only when it has been thoroughly profaned — when it allows us to strike upwards, instead of lashing sideways or kicking those already caught under the juggernaut. Education, meanwhile, must be prevented from continuing in the mold of a talent contest, but must be preserved for desire as tool, toy, and weapon.
For Michel Foucault power is not a substance held by one person and not by another. Nor does it function in a 'top-down' manner as classically considered. With Foucault, power is decentralized, and operates through a distributed agency. Power functions through a range of relationships. For Foucault power is 'capillary', 'cellular', and 'exercised from innumerable points, in the interplay of nonegalitarian and mobile relations.'
Foucault defines 'techniques of the self' or 'arts of existence' as 'those reflective and voluntary practices by which men not only set themselves rules of conduct, but seek to transform themselves, to change themselves in their singular being, and to make of their life into an oeuvre that carries certain aesthetic values and meets certain stylistic criteria'.
Foucault described traditional notions of the author as being restrictive. The author is a category or way of organising texts [the 'author function'] which has a history and needs to be challenged. For example, the psychological entity of the author and the use of the author as a way of organising texts are two different things and need to be treated separately.
Foucault generally uses the term apparatus to indicate the various institutional, physical and administrative mechanisms and knowledge structures, which enhance and maintain the exercise of power within the social body. The original French term dispositif is rendered variously as 'dispositif', 'apparatus' and 'deployment' in English translations of Foucault's work.
In the slim volume What is an Apparatus? (and other essays) Giorgio Agamben traces out several journeys that the critical idea of an apparatus must have travelled:
- Oikonomia: a theological term, used already by the time of Clement of Alexandria, which merges with the previous term 'Providence'
- Dispositio: from the Latin Fathers, another theological term
- Positivité: Early Foucault (1960s), taken from Jean Hyppolite's work on the young Hegel (e.g. Hegel's Die Positivität der christliche Religion)
- Dispositif: Later Foucault (1970s), usually translated 'apparatus' in English
- Gestell: Martin Heidegger: 'the gathering together of the (in)stallation (Stelm) that (in)stalls man, this is to say, challenges him to expose the real in the mode of ordering (Bestelm)'
According to Agamben, '[w]hat is common to all these terms is that they refer back to this oikonomia, that is, to a set of practices, bodies of knowledge, measures, and institutions that aim to manage, govern, control, and orient – in a way that purports to be useful – the behaviors, gestures, and thoughts of human beings'.
It is Agamben himself who claims continuity between his own use of the term 'apparatus' and Foucault's methodology:
The Latin term dispositio, from which the French term dispositif, or apparatus, derives, comes therefore to take on the complex semantic sphere of the theological oikonomia. The 'dispositifs' about which Foucault speaks are somehow linked to this theological legacy. They can be in some way traced back to the fracture that divides and, at the same time, articulates in God being and praxis, the nature or essence, on the one hand, and the operation through which He administers and governs the created world, on the other. The term "apparatus" designates that in which, and through which, one realizes a pure activity of governance devoid of any foundation in being. This is the reason why apparatuses must always imply a process of subjectiﬂcation, that is to say, they must produce their subject.
While Foucault's modelling of the prison, clinic and confessional are by now well-known in terms of their architectonic power as apparatuses, Agamben extends Foucault's basic insights into their subject-producing effects to incorporate everything from mobile telephones to language itself, pitting this wholesale and incessant production of subjectivity against another 'great class' of things: the living being.
Further expanding the already large class of Foucauldian apparatuses, I shall call an apparatus literally anything that has in some way the capacity to capture, orient, determine, intercept, model, control, or secure the gestures, behaviors, opinions or discourses of living beings. Not only, therefore, prisons, madhouses, the panopticon, schools, confession, factories, disciplines, juridical measures, and so forth (whose connection with power is in a certain sense evident), but also the pen, writing, literature, philosophy, agriculture, cigarettes, navigation, computers, cellular telephones and-why not-language itself, which is perhaps the most ancient of apparatuses-one in which thousands and thousands of years ago a primate inadvertently let himself be captured, probably without realizing the consequences that he was about to face.
To recapitulate. we have then two great classes: living beings (or substances) and apparatuses. And, between these two, as a third class, subjects. I call a subject that which results from the relation and, so to speak, from the relentless fight between living beings and apparatuses. Naturally, the substances and the subjects, as in ancient metaphysics, seem to overlap, but not completely. In this sense, for example, the same individual, the same substance, can be the place of multiple processes of subjectification: the user of cellular phones, the web surfer, the writer of stories, the tango aficionado, the anti-globalization activist, and so on and so forth. The boundless growth of apparatuses in our time corresponds to the equally extreme proliferation in processes of subjectification. This may produce the impression that in our time, the category of subjectivity is wavering and losing its consistency; but what is at stake, to be precise, is not an erasure or an overcoming, but rather a dissemination that pushes to the extreme the masquerade that has always accompanied every personal identity.
Somewhere in this extension of meaning, it is possible to lose sight of the more specific political meaning Louis Althusser gave to the apparatus, for example in his distinction between the repressive and ideological state apparatus. While Agamben's apparatuses are for him political in the sense of furnishing various philosophical anthropologies (which might be designated politics with a capital 'P' to indicate their ontological/Heideggerian nature), Althusser's apparatuses, together with their mode of subjectification ('interpellation'), are closer to Foucault's in being more localised within a specific (capitalist) history.
Althusser is generally regarded as avowedly attempting to expunge Hegelianism from theory. Yet even Althusser's residual historicisation, which remains after structuralism has reformatted his categories (indeed even Gramscian 'specific and concrete conjunctures within structural totalities'), leads after all to periodisation. So either the 'idealism' of Hegel — supposedly overcome by Marxist materialism — is something of a worm that snakes its way back in to theory whenever we consider the historical domains of apparatuses, or 'idealism' describes a different problem altogether. Is not the methodological and theoretical approach which considers artefacts as embedded in their social history both Hegelian-Idealist and Marxist-Materialist in this respect? Indeed, the very distinction seems a little pointless outside of pure ontology. History, whether conceived of as the self-development of geist or as the dialectically mutating ensemble of social relations and material practices, is regarded in both veins to be singularly determinate. Be it a top-down, bottom-up or even horizontal Spinozian-Deleuzian system of determination, it is the effervescence and mutability of history which determines the social 'place' in which the subject and its significance is produced. There is a certain positivity, historical normativity, social effectivity, symbolic efficacy, ethical substance, social objectivity, or let us just say 'institutional and/or cultural reality' to the place produced for a subject. All we really need bear in mind, in the interests of avoiding 'idealism' as an objection, is that history is a-teleological. This must be always borne in mind; for Althusser, and most contemporary Marxists, history is not a sequence of developments unfurling from some inner plan: history is, for materialists, aleatory. Thus, against the notion of some metaphysical gigantomachia waged between the forces of living substances and ruling languages, which is where Agamben feels to have left us, we are perhaps better to focus in on the specific and historical 'kludges' and always-being-hobbled-together apparatuses that our chance encounters with history throws up, rooted in the ongoing struggles between socially antagonistic parts of human society.
 Foucault 1980:96
 Foucault 1979:149
 Foucault 1990
 Foucault 1992:10-11
 O'Farrell 2007
 Agamben 2009:12
 Agamben 2009:11
 Agamben 2009:14-15
Agamben, G., 2009, What is an Apparatus? (and other essays), Stanford University Press
Foucault, M., 1979, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan, Vintage Books, New York
Foucault, M., 1980, Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972-1977, ed. Colin Gordon, Pantheon Books, New York
Foucault, M., 1990, The History of Sexuality: An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley, Vintage Books, New York
Foucault, M., 1992, The Use of Pleasure. The History of Sexuality: Volume Two, trans. R. Hurley, Penguin, Middlesex
O'Farrell, C., 2007, 'Key Concepts' [online] available at < http://www.michel-foucault.com/concepts/ > accessed 18th Nov 2015