Tuesday, July 15, 2014

And so, oui

The 16th document of the 18 to be provided for a long-stay visa to France is proof of applicant children's enrollment in a French school. Like all of the documents needed, this one is presented as non-negotiable and absolute - a tone struck especially clearly with the FAQs, to which every single answer is no (as though all questions were simply attempts shirk obligations). And so I've been anxious about our submission of our local principals' letters detailing the kids' long-distance education plan while we live in Paris from August to December. By all internet accounts, French culture (and certainly the French educational system) looks down on what they call "l'école en famille" (family schooling), what we call here "home schooling." It is seen as a breach of the social contract that is education (we could go all the way back to Rousseau if we wanted to) and into which the French government and thus society has invested so much. And I profoundly admire that social contract, I marvel at its reach and federalism (the entire country shares textbooks and curricula - the much-debated Common Core of the United States is a mere dance step in the complex ballet of the French academic system - grade levels? non, non, non: CP, CE1, CE2 and then change it all around, but every French kid that makes it that far will know all of the intricacies of what it means). But since school doesn't begin until almost mid-September, and since there will be two weeks of vacation and strikes and travel, I don't see the kids having enough time to gain traction with the French language. I do (but don't want to) see them, with their little legs dangling beneath their desk arranged in a neat row of like desks, while Paris teems and calls and thrives outside. Let's be clear: I am ambivalent about this. I worry about the lack of socializing and friendship (knowing we'll rely more heavily on expat communities at first because they're friendlier in a short amount of time), and, well, I worry about turning my back on Another Great Social Program that France has poured its energies into. At the same time, I see this as the opportunity of a lifetime: to let my knowledge of the city (earned and treasured in a 1989-90 study year, a 1993-4 dissertation research year, and then all of the wonderful brief visits) be guided by my children's curiosity. To show them every last thing I ever marveled at. To share this city absolutely with them and find out what seizes their imagination. To go off the pedagogical grid (as far as the Swiss Virgo inside will let me) and teach and learn tremendously differently. All this to say, there was a lot at stake in not supplying the requested documentation of number 16.

Airplanes in chapel! (Arts et Métiers)
And then the French government said "yes" - or, uh, "oui" of course. Unflummoxed by the strange request, no doubt chalking up our misguided freedom to our being foreigners, the French government has granted all of us visas and we are good to go. We leave in two weeks and the summer's academic work will continue right up until the last minute. It's a heady time (revisions, book review, a collaborative project proposal, a deep desire to get a new article started), but now most of my afternoons working around the house frame insistent daydreaming about all that we might do together. Certainly we'll all work at home in the mornings, and then Mac and I will split the day (or the week, depending on how things go) to work in the Bibliothèque Nationale or any number of super specialized libraries. After lunch, out we'll go into Paris, France. When we read Le Petit Prince (bilingually!), can we also read Wind, Sand and Stars? Can we go to the Musée des Arts et Métiers and look at the planes hanging from the chapel vaulting? the engines ensconced in individual chapels? Yes! Yes, I do believe we can! Will there be invitations to consider what Rembrandt's Bathsheba is thinking? Oh yes. Will we ask about Benjamin Franklin's endeavors in Paris, France? Well, most of them. Do I mourn the departure of two of Paris's cooler museums, le Musée National du Sport (to Nice) and le Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires (where I used to go listen to recordings of breton and other dialects made by Claude Lévi-Strauss students and played back in stilled and strange dioramas) (to Marseille)? Very much. But there will be other and new places - and the serendipity of exhibitions and happenings and the sequential thinking skills and thrills it takes just to use the Metro.

Room of Endangered or Extinct Species
So I'll be posting out here about this aspect of the experience. About home-schooling in Paris, France; Paris-schooling?; about the resources and challenges of it (my never having done it, my now studiously approaching mathematics which I used to love and kind of can't wait to see operative again, my only pedagogy really being curiosity); and about some of these crazy ideas for shared endeavors (that we'd all read the same book, all study the history of the same park, each find an animal to champion in the Salle des Espèces Menacées et des Espèces Disparues - Room of Endangered or Extinct Species). This absolutely lucky, unprecedented, unique, suspended five months that will have nothing and everything to do with our lives in Indiana.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

"Cathedral Thinking" - on collectivity

Feininger, Cathedral of the Future, 1919.
I have been writing a review of Medieval Modern; Art Out of Time by Alexander Nagel and have thus been thinking a good deal about meetings of the minds across temporal divides, and (because it is summer, and I am grateful for the time to actually really think with all of the wonderful people past and present engaged in this endeavor of searching and researching and writing) meetings of the minds in general. This book, for me, joins the great work of Bruce Holsinger's Premodern Condition and Amy Knight Powell's Depositions in opening up period boundaries and exploring, as Nagel says it so well, "a dizzying pattern of recursions" (273). The image I have here, which also graces the cover of Nagel's book, makes me marvel at how the Middle Ages became a time whence future time could be thought, indeed, envisioned. It also makes me wonder about the process of separating form and content in the radically secular Bauhaus's embrace of religious architectural process. And it unnerves me to think how easily (in the early 20th century. Today?) an image of a cathedral (an oppressive image to so many) could become a utopic image. There are many ways to think of the inheritances and legacies of the Middle Ages, complex and multivalent as they are, and I'd like to think for just a little bit on how collective rethinking can be a reshaping of the period - as well as how the collective we have come to call the Middle Ages shapes us, we who have never been just modern.

Exploded diagram by Leonardo da Vinci
How a collective comes together (to build a cathedral, a barn, a school of thought, a discipline) is itself a process of assemblage that can be treasured by memory/history and loved in language, all the while never being fully understood or predictable. Karl Steel and Jonathan Hsy have recently shared fantastic collectivities - click here for one including a "superfluity of nuns" and here for another celebrating a "fellowship of Tolkienists." Angie Bennett Segler wrote a declaration of "radical hospitality" that, along with the post from Eileen Joy that she cites, has been inspiring me all summer. Mary Kate Hurley invites feedback (literally! you can do so until July 10!) on "Creating Alternative Communities" in an age and within an academic institution that does a whole of individuating and isolating. And the Material Collective gladdens to new writers keeping (to me) that most wondrous of collectives, that between art and humans, decidedly "strange." I gather all of these collectives in my thoughts and on this page now in a luxurious (and kind of wonderfully disorienting) moment of self-awareness, typing away in the quiet of my building in the middle of my town ensconced in corn fields in Indiana. As the Material Collective had voiced during the "Impossible Words" session at Kalamazoo, "a collective cannot see itself in its totality." For some reason, right now, it's very thrilling to me to think of so many people in such disparate places striving in so many different ways towards/with things medieval. I think of Ian Bogost's discussion of exploded diagrams in Alien Phenomenology - all of the medievalist collectivities I've listed here (and many and any others) are themselves parts apart, but also take this thing called the Middle Ages apart. The cathedral need not loom so large. The medieval period sits in the perpetual potential of the exploded diagram we constantly redraw for it.

And so to end (quickly because, summer, pool, children) by asking the reverse. If modern shapes the medieval, how does the medieval shape the modern? Nagel, Holsinger, and Powell are asking exactly this question. Jeffrey Cohen asked it of the medieval eco-criticism panel at Kalamazoo this year in asking after points of contact between modern theorists and medieval ones (and ideas and scenarios and images). I find that I asked the question in my review of Caroline Walker Bynum's Christian Materiality and Mary Carruther's The Experience of Beauty in the Middle Ages at Different Visions. I guess that I'll end with that today:

Many of the revelations of agency and materiality being developed in contemporary theory were active in the Middle Ages, and medievalists have much to share with modern thinkers struggling through the economic, ethical, and social problems of inert materiality and deadened physicality.

I was prompted to write this entry, I realize now, not so much because of the review that is being written, but because of the collectivities that I find myself reading with and within. I feel boundless gratitude for them, and the friendship and momentum and meaning they generously offer. And so, an effort at the first draft of a book review has become a love letter. Thus it goes. 

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Breathing with Hildegard

Pearl Jellyfish at the Shedd Aquarium, Chicago

When we read excerpts of Hildegard of Bingen's 12th century medico-mystical/mystico-medical work Causae et Curae in my "Gender and Identity in Medieval Art" class this spring, my students prized being invited by her words to think about their bodies as complex, integrated, pulsing and purposeful systems. The nose as an organ of wisdom (sapientiae) cracked us up, and then we settled into thinking about smell and taste and discernment of good from bad. The idea of the cosmos as a giant stomach seemed, well, unpoetic, until we started thinking of the drive of hunger, of one thing feeding (into) the energy of another. But the one that we spent the most time talking about, the one that we actually wanted (could) experience together was her claim for our lungs.
  • The heart is the seat of all knowledge, the liver is the seat of the feelings, the lungs are like veins in the leaf of understanding. - Causae et Curae (translated as Holistic Healing by M Pawlik, Liturgical Press, 1994, p. 38).
Our humble, weird, fragile, unnoticed lungs! Granted the noble quality of rationalitas! Breathing as understanding! But as we heard a student's sharp intake of breath before she said "Oh!" in recognition, we started, yes, to understand. A long, slow exhale through pursed lips (the realization that you're overwhelmed, granting to yourself that you're tired); a sigh that slowly caves your body in (the sympathy you have for the demise before you); the disruptive impatience of a sighing student (demise of the classroom, surely); how much breath it takes to laugh (again, sympathy came up); the huge, greedy gulps of breath reclaiming consciousness after a nightmare (your breath letting you recognize that you're awake, that it's ok); the terror (and damage to the brain and its cognition if it continues) of not being able to breathe; the way breathing slows and regularizes when you're reading (slipping almost entirely out of your awareness of it); the deep breath you take before going on stage/being tested (resolution, understanding what you're facing/up against). Some of these are culturally specific (I love how French produces "Oui!" with a sharp intake of breath), some of them are not (is sighing trans-cultural?). And then, of course, those modes of thought, of powerful concentration, that valorize and study breath - we came up with two: yoga and giving birth (a pretty interesting pair, actually). So yes, yes we realized, breathing is understanding. It is a rational mode. It is also a sympathetic mode (and you can consider all of the times we breathe with someone: in sleep, in laughter, in sighing).

Alexander in a Diving Bell, The Met
At Kalamazoo this year, Karen Overbey shared/generously gave a brilliant meditation of "Breathing" as an Impossible Word. Thinking about Alexander the Great's ambitions to breathe underwater (searching led me to this beautiful Indian manuscript image from the late 16th century, in which the water swirls around Alexander's diving bell as it is being lowered), Karen asked after our own breathing, our own consciousness of something we do unconsciously. Answering that call took our bodies and our trust, as we touched the one standing next to us (and were touched by the same), so as to feel each other breathing. Fragile, poignant, ordinary, deep, momentary every time.  So yes, when we breathe, we participate in this great "leaf of understanding." That's (still) much harder to fully understand. It's more Hildegard and less modern: more her cosmological scale, her deeply integrated universe - that breathing courses (carries nutrients through, as veins do within a leaf) this larger floating thing, this leaf of understanding.

Why does she keep showing jellyfish?

But maybe our breathing and our understanding is all interconnected. The air we breathe is completely shared within this planet, gusts and winds moving it along (as Steve Mentz made me realize in his fantastic postmedieval essay on "Air"), redistributing it, bringing the increasingly complex chemical plumes we project along, redistributing those. It's the two-dimensionality of the leaf of understanding that defies my understanding - but maybe I need to think more three-dimensionally about leaves: enter their thickness and complexity. Consider entire systems that breathe. When we were at the special "Jellies" exhibit at the Shedd Aquarium this week, my daughter marveled at a tank full of them. "Look at them all breathing together!" she said (to be corrected by her much more precise, more scientific sister who explained about the absence of lungs, heart, brain even (though we all loved the idea of a "neural net" instead of a brain)). The movement of a jellyfish can look like an image of breathing - to me, that partly explains why almost any jellyfish exhibit I've seen (my fair share) has New Age music piped in, and glowing blues and greens backlighting the tanks (red for the deeply poisonous ones, of course). Jellyfish indeed do not have lungs, but they might look like lungs breathing because they absorb the oxygen they need through their entire body. Their entire body is a breathing surface. Entering almost any idea for me begins with an etymology - and so "lung": a solid Old English, proto-Germanic, Norse word simply meaning "light" - as in "not heavy" (as in "floats to the top when boiled unlike the other organs" - shudder). Our own lightness of being within, connecting us instantly to greater currents. But then, the very different word, "poumon" (the French word for lung) - of course it's from the Latin, pulmo. And if you keep reading the entry in the Latin dictionary, you understand (with a delighted intake of breath) that our linguistic net turns out to be as interconnected as our breathing. For pulmo marinus (ah!) means jellyfish.

Friday, May 16, 2014

Gathering

“Gathering”
Address to the Senior Class of 2014

Let us raise a toast “To our hale and hearty host!” …. That, of course, is the cheer I imagine being raised at a medieval feast of good King Arthur, as the gathered company settle into their meat and drink [their sandwiches and Gatorade], and the warmth of each other’s company. This feasting, this slaking of thirst, this moment to rest, this gathering, creates a space in between everything else – suspended and beautiful and yours.

Gathering is an ancient, ancient word. It speaks to one of the oldest practices of life: to pull together, to amass, to mobilize, to muster – to collect ourselves. As a species, we most likely gathered before we spoke, we grouped around first fires; we gathered from disparate parts; were ready to disband again. Then we gave this act a word, we gave it shape in multiple languages, signaling this very moment of people drawn together just for a while (a meal, an hour, a night, four years…). In English, its first manifestation is in Old English around the year 900 and it’s a broad word, a generous word – it speaks of gathering and sharing gold, weapons, flowers, lands, thoughts, and people. It’s akin to a word that has become so generous that it’s lost its original meaning. In the oldest of Old English the word “thing” meant a gathering, an assembly [“Are you going to the thing?”] – it became the matter of the gathering [“Did you hear about the thing?”] – and it’s now become one of our most ordinary words [“What’s the thing…?”]. But today, I think of the word “thing” in all its origins of gathering and generosity. When the assembly gathered together multiple nations, it was called, in Old English and Old Iceland, the “Althing.” You are about to participate in an Althing of the 18 nations you come from tomorrow, an Althing of the 536 of you and all of your possibilities and generosities. An Althing that is gathering, even as we speak, people unto you, converging energies and loves and efforts upon our strange little island home of Greencastle, Indiana.

So now, I’d like to invite you to pan out in your mind’s eye (like they do in so many movies when they hover way above the action) and think with me of the multiple somewheres that are starting to pull your family and friends to gather here for you. Somewhere right now, a father is looking for another pair of socks to pack – it may take him longer if he finds that poem you wrote him in 7th grade. Somewhere right now, a mother holds a picture of you in your Little League uniform, looking down at your gap-toothed smile, unable to keep talking on the phone. Somewhere right now, a music teacher or a history teacher or a physics teacher or a gym teacher or an English teacher is reading an e-mail from your family about how you’ll graduate on Sunday. Somewhere right now a little cousin or brother or sister has no idea what’s going on except that “We have to get in the car right now or we’ll miss it!” Somewhere right now, that aunt or uncle you always thought was so cool, thinks you’re so cool. [pause] Somewhere right now, a grocery clerk is helping pack road-trip snacks. Somewhere right now, a last toll before Indiana is being paid. Somewhere right now an airport official is checking a passport and telling your family that the flight is on time and all is well.  If we could but isolate the sounds that are being made right now all over the planet for the sake of this gathering we would hear car doors slamming, airplane seatbelts clicking, children squealing, suitcase wheels dragging, grown-ups calling out over their shoulders, travel bags zipping, lipstick cases snapping shut, ties being straightened, breaths caught, sighs rendered, “I love you” and “She did it” and “He’s graduating, honey” whispered.

According to your faith tradition or your metaphysics, we can pan out even farther, to those who will be gathering in spirit – your ancestors, those who watch over you, those who love you so that they are only a thought or a prayer away. If you’re a physics major who deals with time/space continuums, you may even be able to imagine future gatherings of your descendants cheering you on. You are very loved indeed. You are deeply believed in. You are gathered unto. You are worth all the effort of this gathering. And, standing up here, I’ve been seeing you gather unto each other: moving a chair, clearing some room at the table, gladdening each other with a hug or a smile. You are generous in your gathering.

And so to end with a gift. If your smartphone entertains QR codes, you can scan the one on the table, or go to "Medieval Meets World." That’s my blog, my resting place, where I go to gather my thoughts, and where I have an image waiting for you. It’s by a painter named Pieter Bruegel, and it’s of an enormous canvas (5’ by almost 4’) of the Tower of Babel. [Try not to scroll down to the details – let’s walk it through together.] Bruegel painted it around 1563 and it’s in Vienna today – but it’s also right under your fingertips, right beneath your eyes. It’s of one of the most ambitious and, to me, important and poignant, gatherings in the history of humanity. It’s of a time after the flood that Noah and his family survives, but before God’s covenant with Abraham and the declaration of Israel and religion as such. It’s of a time before linguistic difference: when everyone spoke the same language. And an attempt is made to build an impossible structure, to lay brick upon brick, building upon stone crag and cliff, to reach the very heavens themselves – and the story (in Genesis 11) goes that God is unsettled and so says “Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other.” 

And if we had world enough and time, I’d share with you all of the great philosophical musings on Babel and babeling and on how it isn’t a cause only of tragedy, it can become a claim that our differences ARE our humanity.  And I would tell you of what a dear friend told me, that it isn’t always completely something to mourn (this loss of a common language), but rather that it invites our greatest moments of humanity as those in which we seek each other out and gather to create our own common language; that the difficulty of difference is met in the generosity of gathering.  

And so I won’t dwell on the unfinished state of the Tower of Babel (closure is over-rated anyway) – instead, we can scroll through to images of gathered efforts. 
Pieter Bruegel, The Tower of Babel, 1563, 45" x 61" Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna (Austria)

In the second image, you see a king, more or less in charge, while masons hew stones all around him, and women emerge from their homes to see what the fuss is about. 

IMAGE 2: the king and the masons and the women


In the third image, you see the bricklayers coming in with their shipments of warm, pink bricks – getting ready to build. 

IMAGE 3: the bricklayers


The fourth image has you zooming out again, one last look at the big picture, before I draw your attention to this last small group in the upper far right reaches of the Tower. 

IMAGE 4: the Tower


That’s who you see in the fifth image: that group of Babelers who have momentarily stopped their labors to look out upon the horizon, to wonder about what’s next, to think about what worked and what didn’t in construction, to already start figuring out the next endeavor, to rest together, to lean on each other a bit. And that may be the most apt way to understand where you stand right now, where we stand with you, and where so much love and so many people are gathering:  right here on the edge of All Things, where the generosity of your gathering (this one and many future ones) charts out so many possibilities.

IMAGE 5: Gathered Babelers



Thursday, May 15, 2014

Kinship: the Material Collective at Kalamazoo

You're invited: http://thematerialcollective.org/ 
I've just grabbed the baton in the post-Kalamazoo relay and am going to run with it. There are great recollections out there already from Alexa Sand and Jeffrey Cohen, and Karl Steel. Look to the Material Collective website for Maggie Williams's excellent run-through of the "Faking It" panel sponsored by the Material Collective. Also look there for other writings and invitations from the Material Collective, a collaborative of art historians and students of visual culture. No dues, no deadlines - just exploration, and being collective. At Kalamazoo that meant many things this year: it meant gathering around multiple kinds of tables: seminar table, roundtable, dinner table, and those tiny, high tables you put your drink down on so you can gesticulate your point or get in one more dance move. It meant being together in very precise spaces and times (one of the visceral joys of Kalamazoo is to move from the virtual realm (join our Facebook group, too!) to the material one). So yes, embraces and smiles and touches to the elbow. I think that this warmth, and the palpability of human presence is what is insistently presenting the word "kinship" to me as I think about Kalamazoo 2014. The fluidity of "kith and kin" of friend and family, of kindred spirits and generational/sibling mentoring, gave this Kalamazoo its rhythm for me. And so, two moments: one of a collective here and now, another of collectives past and future.

Impossible Words
This session was the product of kinship: a meal shared, a question asked, answers noted, session organized (this is also the driving and generous genius of Jeffrey Cohen who gathered us all). "What's an impossible word?" was the question. There were enough to overflow the Kalamazoo cups, so there was an extra-conference session, dubbed "rogue" the night before at Bell's and the official (still pretty rebellious) session the next morning.  I've written about my contribution to the rogue session (a bit on gossamer), and so I think it's just mood I want to describe here. Follow the rhizome to Jeffrey's account (and great photographs) of the words themselves. Mood will be important to what happened the next day: to the shifts and emotions of all those gathered. A frame of songbirds sounds like a literary device and was certainly used that way in medieval dream poetry, but it's more than frame live: it's shape and volume and a physicality to the very air around us (more on acoustic ecology in a moment). The birds' aural adornment of our speech never let us forget the bigger picture, and the grass beneath our feet, the breeze, the beer, the sun setting - it all seemed to invite a constant gathering around each word. More laughter, more asides, more facial expressions than the conference hall. Crepuscular roguery forever.

Portable Altar, British Museum
 Treasures of Heaven show

I have a relatively impossible (ha!) work of art for our work here: a 12th-century portable altar from Hildesheim now at the British Museum which features the bones of 40 saints (whose names are inscribed on the back in a babbling, continuous flow of names) and whose porphyry stone is framed in an engraved copper-gilt surround adorned with walrus ivory pendants of the Crucifixion and the Virgin and Child above and below and painted vellum covered in crystal panels to the left and right. Its materiality collects such a diversity (vellum! ivory! bone!) and quantity (40! for a 35 cm x 25 cm setting!) of stuff that it brushes up against the impossible. It's also wildly divergent from modern aesthetics which demand more coherence of materials. And yet here it is, collected in a powerful collective (40 saints' relics in a tiny altar that is mobile). And so, the pieces of our Impossible Words panels came together: Randy Schiff on Bliss in and our of Pearl; Dan Remein on Survival and the mistrust of narrative; Karl Steel on Satisfaction and an interested deity; Chris Piuma on "I"and what the letter-as-word collects unto itself; Laurie Finke on Tolerance and the wild oscillations of its scale (from peanut butter to nation-states); and George Edmonton on community and its lacks, and melancholy. All too brief these annotations, for each one was a beautiful meditation on the word and what it could not contain, what it opened up onto that was much bigger than itself. Which is pretty much exactly what happened with the Material Collective's word Collective. I have the text for you down below, if your cup of coffee is deep enough, but it was the happening that mattered. The idea was to read our meditation, then invite audience members (provided with slips of paper upon which the phrases bulleted below had been written) to read statements about collectivity out loud and add their own thoughts - the growing rhizome, the expanding kinship. And what happened was exactly that, but with a power of physical presence that we had not accounted for in dreaming up our words in virtual space online with each other. For when the phrase "So Say We All" which was the manifesto language of the Material Collective three years back was spoken in the text, it wasn't just the four or five Material Collective members in the audience who spoke them, it was many people - was it 40 scholars whose voices were collected and concentrated? I don't know, but standing in the front of the room, the only phrase that described the shock I felt was "a wall of sound." CRITICAL MASS MATTERS, PEOPLE (and this is where I realize that writing about acoustic ecology and how sound creates environments overflows the bounds of this post - but must be addressed!). I love the sharp/gossamer/impossible space of the tipping point, and somewhere between 5 and 40 is it when it comes to people speaking the same phrase at the same time. Marty Shichtman brought us there brilliantly with the word "creepy:" when does a phrase/a collective go from rebellious to commanding? from protest to power? from many to mass? And you stand there before a sound that means something so far beyond words; you stand watching as sound takes over meaning, as associations override content, as history overtakes the moment. The conversation that followed was fascinating: Laurie Finke spoke about the problematics of the the word "collaboration" - even as her collaborations with Marty have become one of the most beautiful and effective models of deep collegiality. And we realized that all of these words have their tipping points, all of them (I invite you to think them through) - that perhaps one of the unifying impossibilities of these words were their volatility in terms of containment - that they are words that are impossible to fully contain and control. What's going to be interesting to continue thinking about is the volatility of words when embodied in voice, when embodied in many voices. Eileen Joy intersected two critical terms: solidarity (and please see Maggie's comments below) as an operation of a collective; and specificity, found in the operations of multiple and different collectives. The space of collectives matter as well. The space of the Material Collective has been largely virtual - and watching it make that transition into embodied presence was powerful indeed. The ethos and momentum stays the same: you're invited, there are conversations and projects, there's a striving to communicate and connect about visual culture and its inter-actors - the presence took on a new shape, one that enters a dynamic of collective and diffusion, of kinship and rhizomes extending in voice.

Materiality and Aesthetics
British Museum (the curve of the tusk!)
Which (segue!) is what brings me to the panel, "Materiality and Aesthetics" sponsored by the Material Collective, organized by Gerry Guest, and presided over by Beth Williamson. Sunday morning. 10:30 a.m. - hope of a full room questioned by the insistent sound of the suitcase wheels of departing medievalists all over campus. And yet, this session: full to the brim - not a seat left empty in the grey space of a Schneider room soon to be filled with lush, colorful images and thoughts on those who found them beautiful. Marian Bleeke outlined a bright new trajectory filled with interpretive possibilities for ivories, from earlier monumental entities (such as the Virgin and Child here whose lilt bespeaks the extent of the elephant tusk from which it was carved) to the more intimate examples of combs and mirrors whose availability to touch provided the evocative "tactility and transformation" aspect of Marian's title and talk. The trajectory takes a major turn when new trading routes and partnerships open up for Genoese merchants in North Africa and the material presence of ivory becomes much more prominent. The prestige and wonder never leave the medium: it is always rare, the color always complex and inviting, the response to human touch always warming. But how the prestige and wonder are manifested, and the role of touch in these transformations, is what Marian invited us to consider so brilliantly. Consider the agency of ivory in wonder, consider the agency of touch in aesthetic transformation.

One of my favorite hearts: dear Anne
of Brittany (Musée Dobrée, Nantes)

Marian's paper immediately established that this session's "aesthetics" would not only be the pursuit of beauty but also that of intimacy. Marguerite Keane's paper on "Materiality and the Reliquary Collection of Blanche of Navarre" brought us an inside look, through a careful consideration of inventories, at how already-beautiful things are further valued by love. "Look" is a term of desire here, as all of the items listed in the inventory are lost to us (the poignant reminder that resurfaces in every conference and every read of the medievalist, that we are working with bright glimpses only). But the descriptions are vivid, and vary quite radically according to audience. The 18 reliquaries given to churches are described according to their basic materials (silver, gold), their outlines (box, shrine), and their form (large, small, accompanied by a statue of Blanche and the Virgin). The 10 objects given to family members (to kith and kin, if you will) pop with color: gems are mentioned, cameos are cited, a sapphire heart reliquary we all especially yearned to see (thus my image of Anne of Brittany's heart reliquary) is bedecked with the description of an "Oriental ruby;" the reliquary belt of Philip VI (worn by him into the awful first defeats, which he would survive, of the Hundred Years' War; this king girded by relics, for me giving his nickname "Le Fortuné" new meaning) is given to Charles VI with the love of specificity. [Completely anachronistically, I saw here the first sketches of the designo and colore debate of 17th century painting academies stirring in the heart of dear Blanche). Aesthetics shift with emotions, Marguerite showed us, and setting, even necessarily imagined, matters.

St. Francis, bedecked,
Museo Proziuncola, Assisi
John Renner helped us see "The Beautiful Wounds of Saint Francis" treasured by so many - a beauty that can elude the grasp of modern aesthetics which are more materially contained and coherent (we can debate this, but having evoked 17th century painting academies and their love of the bounded frame, let's just say that's what I mean by modern). Saint Francis's body was itself beautiful material, sculpted by the divine, Bonaventure tells us in the Legenda Maiora (13.5). It's how that material proliferated in images that John pursued, tracing a multiplicity of materialities that collected around Saint Francis's unique beauty in wounds. No matter how many images of Saint Francis I know, love, and teach there are, it seems, more. The audience buzzed with the excitement of discovery (at least for many of them, myself included) of new images of Saint Francis, which John generously brought forth in his consideration of not just the beauty, but I would say the beautification of Francis's wounds: their adornments and frame, such as the example you see here of the saint before a cloth of honor framed in gold and glass on panel painted in tempera. This image in particular made me revisit the perceptual excitement of medieval beauty (yes! in the terms outlined by Mary Carruthers in The Experience of Beauty in the Middle Ages) in its multiplicity of materialities: wood, gold, glass, tempera - wound, body, saint, angels. There was a wonderful connection (yes again! kinship) here between the descriptions of Saint Francis being "squared like a stone... and brought to perfection by the honor of many tribulations" and presence of images of Saint Francis being crafted from so many resplendent materials.

Christ Holding
Saint Francis
Like stained glass. And here, Nancy Thompson invited us into depths intense with aesthetics, with beautifully interwoven chemical and mystical intimacies. In the aesthetic interactions of "Stained Glass, Fresco, and Material Transformation in Fourteenth-Century Italy," we looked at glass at the cellular level, its volatility there as its molten state shapes its solid one. We saw stained glass anew as a medium permeable not only to light, but to the material effects of molecules in the air, acids in the rain. Nancy's lucid explanations of complex chemistry accessed a familiarity with the medium that, for me, evoked the artisan's knowing gaze, his quick, sure nod of understanding. You can tell where stained glass comes from by the origins of the potassium used to cool it: beech is what they burned in the North, marshy materials in the South. Materiality here eschews iconography in matters of provenance (but let's call it "origins," too). From the knowledge of the artisan, Nancy brought us to knowledge of the theorist via Vannoccio Biringuccio's 1540 treatise, Pirotechnia, a text which revels in the fusings of fire (and is available in an inexpensive edition: highly recommended reading for the agency of the element of fire!). This intimacy of fusing (violent and volatile, but momentarily tamed by art) led us out of the workshop and back into the installation space of stained glass to one who stood before the glass: not the artisan, not the theorist, but the mystic. As all three previous papers had shown: the viewer's desires for the materiality of a work of art shape its aesthetics. Angela of Foligno's desires fused with the illuminations of stained glass. She has a vision before a stained glass window that leaves her screaming with the pain and beauty of the All Good. There is talk of an image, of Christ holding Saint Francis - is that image this window? is the mystical the material? The two fuse and spark in Angela's fervent vision. And so we ended Kalamazoo in wonder and intimacy, the last questions of a generous and energetic audience accompanied by the sound of the conference stirring itself one last time, as we all collected ourselves, our belongings and our thoughts, and traced our individual paths back to our specific locations on the rhizome, eager already to reunite with kith and kin next year.

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IMPOSSIBLE WORDS: COLLECTIVE

ANNE: We wish to join the ranks of “collective nouns;” to link our impossibilities with theirs. We wish to be considered amongst a gaggle of geese, congregation of alligators, an array of hedgehogs, a piteousness of doves, a murder of crows… an academy of scholars, a gobsmack of enthusiasts - multiplicities on the move carefully contained with evocative words that seek to make singular their collective identity. To know that, on any given day, as we pull digital images and modern editions into teaching in our respective classrooms, we are doing it in multiple geographies and places and times - that as a filigree or a line of poetry, a gesture or an idiom slips into understanding and wonder in one place of the ever-shifting collective, it will re-emerge in another. We do this unknowingly, it is one of our impossibilities: to know our every move. To think about collective bargaining and the politics and economics of what we do and to want thriving for each other. To realize that good will is rigorous. That generosity is no threat to the field. We’ve been told those are impossibilities: we’ve been shown slippery slopes - and have jumped down together.

RACHEL: We want to live in impossible and intimate reflection with the works of material culture prized from the Middle Ages: cross, reliquary, fresco, enamel, panel, ivory, cathedral, stained glass, manuscript - all collectives: of craft, labor, animal sacrifice, ritual, stuff, fire, time.  All impossible because they should have never been possible. As is this field. As is this Kalamazoo. Collectives that gather out of sheer will and desire. We would want to move as one (SSWA!) (So Say We All!), but we and All The Things have trajectories within collectives - wanderings that create contingencies, that put the collective in flux. We want to stop and look at the collective in its impossibilities: in its disparate parts that make the momentary whole; in its pieces as they lay scattered, soon to be taken up. And so we invite you to, if you choose, to read your fragment of the collective, or fashion your own into the collective.

ALL/AUDIENCE: And so we ask what a collective does that is so impossible
  • a collective collects but does not necessarily keep
  • a collective is a space: virtual, magical, later tonight.
  • a collective is a rhizome: tendrils reaching out.
  • a collective is organic, it grows and moves.
  • a collective is a grammatical wonder: multiple in identity but singular in verb
  • a collective holds us up (holds us tight) but allows us to go off on our own in unexpected ways
  • collective is indeed a noun
  • a collective doesn’t really know what’s going to happen next 
  • a collective yearns towards itself
  • a collective collects itself in great bursts of collectivity
  • a collective cannot see itself in its totality
  • a collective is now, right now
  • a collective prizes kinship over category 
  • a collective can’t yet be the way we do things all the time
  • the collective hovers in and above
  • the collective rocks

ASA: Collectives are very active in their impossibilities. A collective memory is being created right here and now: fleeting, soon to be supplanted perhaps, but gathered and shared. Collective operates on scale – there is the collective memory of Kalamazoo, of academe, of Western culture to consider and critique. And that’s just the scale of breadth. Collective consciousness is a collective in depth – what we might all be aware of, what we might all know: not in sameness but in momentum – about human subjectivity, sexuality, our shared ecology. Any critique can become a collective. We can even go deeper: the collective unconscious – that which moves us without our knowledge. It’s murkier here because we really can’t figure out who’s in charge, who has agency. That’s all right: we’re all in it together. In the collective, as the collective, with the collective, the impossibilities are endless.



Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Gossamer


The first Kalamazoo gathering was at Bell's, outside - framed by goodwill and bird songs. This generosity and attentiveness is familiar from past sessions organized by Jeffrey J. Cohen, but it feels wondrous every time. The session was on "Impossible Words" and it was rogue - not in the program! Kalamazoo proper begins tomorrow, but we are all here - very much so now.  The words came about when Jeffrey went about last year and asked for them. When he came to me, I said "Gossamer." So here it is. If you're reading this on a smart phone, all the better - you'll get to really enjoy the gossamer touch.

Gossamer 

When Jeffrey asked me about an impossible word last year, I went with what was making me impossibly happy right then and there: the feeling, two Sidecars into the evening, that we were all safeguarded in this invisible but palpable frame, that (figuratively, mind you) beautiful, silken threads could frame the night, suspended and strange. Gossamer in that moment for me meant the marvelous impossibility of realizing your own frame. The surety that you can touch something, but its lying just beneath tactile sensation.  That place of solid certitude, the OED, yields up a greater lightness of touch than with most entries: “a fine, filmy substance, floating in the air in calm weather” – “Of things,” it specifies, “both material and immaterial” (you can’t narrow down gossamer) – there’s an alternative spelling: “gossamour” – it turns out you can be gossamered if you’re ever overlaid with what you can’t really take a hold off. I’m gossamered by so many things.


Gossamer is sought on at least three scales: there are the tiny spiders who spin a special kind of thread specifically meant for “ballooning,” for hopping on and letting the wind take you. There is the fabric, light and sheer which you can only ever feel slip between your fingers. That’s the stuff that seizes your haptic imagination, cool and intertwines between your fingers. That’s what we can feel by looking. If you uncover your first image, you’ll see the angel with black wings pressed against Christ in the Man of Sorrows by Meister Francke holding Christ through gossamer fabric. Your fingers sliding in a widening arc over the screen to make the picture bigger can almost touch it. How light Christ’s body becomes when it is gossamered! Next image down, Veronica holds the veil that Christ pressed his face into, that now holds his image: divinity suspended in gossamer. The third image is a detail, so we can marvel at gossamer’s that been folder, a neat fabric to unfold carefully to reveal Christ, an impossibly thin application of paint on panel to make us desire touch. Gossamer’s third scale weighs the same as the spiders as the fabric: the planet Jupiter has two gossamer rings, both named for nymphs, Amalthea and Thebe, taken by Jupiter, now fated to frame him. They have a thickness of 2300 km - gossamer depths and textures that are impossible to the touch, but never to the haptic imagination.