<< Curtis x Laing x Bourriaud x Bey x more (Part 1: Diagnosis)
I apologize for taking so long to post this second part. You may want to refresh your memory of Part 1, as I pretty much jump right in. I’ve also realized that this post is still going to be too long, even in two parts, and so there will be a third part additional parts forthcoming.

Raoul Vaneigem’s book The Revolution of Everyday Life is split into two parts: “Part one: Power’s perspective” and “Part Two: Reversal of Perspective.” Similarly, in Part 1 of this post I set up Adam Curtis and R.D. Laing’s near-dystopian interpretation of history and society. In this second part, I will outline a few strains of thought which offer tools for combating/transforming this dystopia - tools for reversing the perspective of power they’ve described.
Art critic Nicolas Bourriaud’s book Relational Aesthetics begins with the line, “Artistic practice is a game.” Yet whereas John Nash’s game theory imagined all human interaction to be a competitive game, where the most rational way to “play” (exist) was to be constantly plotting against everyone around you, the art that Bourriaud champions embodies a radically different type of game playing, one that emphasizes the exact opposite values from those of Nash.
In the book, Bourriaud defines relational aesthetics as “a set of artistic practices which take as their theoretical and practical point of departure the whole of human relations and their social context, rather than an independent and private space.” Although the term is used to cover a diverse range of artists, all with widely divergent politics and practices, many of them have in common a desire to create democratic spaces of conviviality, dialog, and play.
Some examples…


Rirkrit Tiravanija is most famous for his (mostly untitled) mid-’90s installations in which he created makeshift kitchens and dining rooms within gallery spaces and served free Pad Thai, Vegetable Curry, and other meals to visitors. In his 2002 piece Apartment 21 he constructed a replica of his apartment (complete with working bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, living room and outside area) in a gallery and lived inside, keeping it open 24 hours a day and encouraging visitors “to drop in for tea and a chat.” As part of the 2003 Venice Biennale, in collaboration with curators Hans-Ulrich Obrist and Molly Nesbit, he created Utopia Station, a hub for a number of projects “striv[ing] to orient individuals of varying perspectives toward collective action” - “a scene of both organized and spontaneous performances, lectures, panel discussions, workshops, and film screenings” and “at different times, a space for discussion, argumentation, relaxation, refreshment, meditation, and celebration.” [reference]

Between October 2006 and April 2007, Carsten Höller placed gigantic, metallic slides (up to 5-stories tall) inside the Tate Modern and allowed visitors to slide down them (Test Site).

In Gillian Wearing’s 1992-3 work Signs that say what you want them to say and not Signs that say what someone else wants you to say, she stopped random individuals on the street and asked them to spontaneously write something on a piece of paper. Photographs of them holding their “signs” were displayed in the gallery not as the work itself, but as documentation.

Jeremy Deller’s work Risk Assessment for the Folkstone Trienale consisted of, in his words, “a series of slapstick interventions performed unannounced around the town” by local actors - real world homages to Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd, like getting caught in a beach chair or tripping over themselves. This past year, in a project called It Is What It Is: Conversations About Iraq, he brought together “a revolving cast of participants including veterans, journalists, scholars, and Iraqi nationals who have expertise in a particular aspect of the region and/or first-hand experience of Iraq” and had them “take up residence in the New Museum’s gallery space with the express purpose of encouraging discussion with visitors to the Museum.” Also present in the gallery was the remnants of a car destroyed in Iraq. Later, he brought along several of the participants (and the wrecked car) on a cross-country tour, occupying galleries and museums and engaging in conversations with visitors.

Felix Gonzalez-Torres, the now deceased artist to whom Bourriaud devotes an entire chapter of Relational Aesthetics to, was most well known for his (again, mostly untitled) installations in which he placed large piles of wrapped candies in the corners of galleries and invited visitors to take them. Similar works replaced the candies with stacks of posters, often political in nature (such as this one, documenting the 464 people who died gun-related deaths during one week in the United States). In a brilliant 1995 interview with critic Robert Storr, he spoke about his interactions with the security guards in the institutions displaying his work: “In my recent show at the Hirshhorn, which is one of the best experiences I have had in a long time, the guards were really in it. Because I talked to them, I dealt with them. They’re going to be here eight hours with this stuff. And I never see guards as guards, I see guards as the public. […] In Washington people asked me, ‘Did I train the guards, did I give them a lecture?’ I said, ‘No, I just talk to them when I’m doing the work.’ They said, ‘You know we have never been to an exhibit where the guards go up to the viewers and tell them what to do, and where to go, what to look at, what it means.’ But again, that division of labor, that division of function is always there in place to serve someone’s agenda.”
Mirroring Laing’s opposition to schools of psychiatry which focus on the individual psyche as if in isolation, Relational Aesthetics shifts the focus of art away from solitary contemplation and introspection and toward the consideration of the group. Bourriaud even references anti-psychiatrist David Cooper, whose views closely resemble Laing’s: “According to Cooper, madness is not ‘inside’ a person, but in the system of relationships of which that person is involved. People don’t become ‘mad’ all on their own, because we never think all on our own” (RA p81). Relational aesthetics posits that art, likewise, should be considered within a social context.
But the way in which that social context is conceived is directly oppositional to the social contextualization of game theory. Play doesn’t fit into the game theory model. Nor does eating free pad Thai with strangers in a gallery. RA aims to create spaces where suspiciousness, selfishness, and social climbing can be set aside; where alternatives exist to the model of homo economicus. Bourriaud is abundantly clear in what he considers the ‘goal’ of this art: “The enemy we have to fight first and foremost is embodied in a social form: it is the spread of the supplier/client relations to every level of human life, from work to dwelling-place by way of all the tacit contracts which define our private life” (RA p83). This ‘enemy’ is as good a description of the game theory mindset as any.

According to Bourriaud, contemporary art rejects the idea of “sense” or “meaning” inherent in human activity (RA p53) - the cold rationality of game theory - in favor of a much more complex idea of human nature. It instead champions the imagination and the irrational (an approach inherited from Dada, etc?). Again channeling Cooper and Laing: “reality is what I talk about with a third party. It can only be defined as a product of negotiation. Escaping from reality is ‘mad.’ Somebody sees an orange rabbit on my shoulder, but I can’t see it. So discussion weakens and shrinks. To find a negotiating space, I must pretend to see this orange rabbit on my shoulder. Imagination seems like a prosthesis affixed to the real so as to produce more intercourse between interlocutors. So the goal of art is to reduce the mechanical share in us. Its aim is to destroy any a priori agreement about what is perceived” (RA p80).
“So art is opening up fluid social relations at precisely the time wider society is closing them down,” Momus summarizes, “Relational Aesthetics is what we do when machines take over. ‘The general mechanization of social processes gradually reduces the relational space.’ So art has to increase it again.”
Since writing Relational Aesthetics, Bourriaud has coined a new term - “Altermodernism.” According to him, the utopian goals of modernism aren’t dead, but must be revised and approached differently in light of the failures of the 20th century. Instead of a grand plan for societal change, there are small experiments; instead of tearing down the old world and starting from scratch, we have to work with transforming and improving what we already have; and since there is no remaining undiscovered territory, these experiments and transformations must be temporary and dispersed - “interstices” or “islets of resistance.”

Terms such as these should sound familiar to anyone who’s read the work of Hakim Bey. Although Bourriaud has never once mentioned Bey in his writings, the similarities between the two are so uncanny that I’d hesitate to believe he had not read him. Bourriaud’s essay “‘Islets’ and Utopia…” in particular - a brief summation of his idea of the utopian interstice - has overt parallels to Bey’s work, right down to his referencing of the free party and rave movements.
Bey’s most well known work, T.A.Z.: The Temporary Autonomous Zone, is about exactly what Bourriaud is describing when he speaks of “islets of resistance.” Using the historical and fabled example of the ‘pirate utopia‘ - “whole mini-societies living consciously outside the law and determined to keep it up, if only for a short but merry life” - as his template, he conceives of temporary spaces of total autonomy hidden within the existing world.
The concept of the T.A.Z. has many of the same roots and starting points as relational aesthetics and Bourriaud’s “interstices.” Like Bourriaud, Bey also writes of “the closure of the map”: “The last bit of Earth unclaimed by any nation-state was eaten up in 1899. Ours is the first century without terra incognita, without a frontier. […] Not one square inch of Earth goes unpoliced or untaxed… in theory.” And just as Bourriaud looks to revise the goals of modernism by looking at its failures, so too does Bey ground his theory of T.A.Z. in the shortcomings of the revolutionary project: “revolution has never yet resulted in achieving [the anarchist] dream. The vision comes to life in the moment of uprising - but as soon as ‘the Revolution’ triumphs and the State returns, the dream and the ideal are already betrayed.” And it’s not only Bourriaud’s theory that shares an intellectual heritage with Bey - the actions of the artists he describes do as well. Tiravanija’s artist colony/”micro utopia” The Land is a clear inheritor to the dreams of utopian socialists such as Robert Owen and Charles Fourier (an enormous influence on Bey’s ideas), yet is far more open than the communities they created or inspired.

The concrete definition of a T.A.Z. is left largely ambiguous, and we are left to fill in ourselves what such a space would look like. In fact, the term does not merely point to future possibilities, but can be used as a description for spaces existing in the past or present. It might be a squat. It might be a website or application used to bypass regional or national censorship laws (the “counter-Net” as Bey describes it) such as Wikileaks or Freenet. It might be a counter-cultural festival or temporary intentional community (like Burning Man or a Rainbow Gathering). Micronations might be T.A.Z.s. Catalonia during the Spanish Civil War most certainly was. In a nation with a highly oppressive state, a T.A.Z. might be a safehouse, used to provide shelter for dissidents or refuges. In a democratic, capitalist nation like the U.S. or France, it might be a space in which capitalism is excluded entirely, and systems of generosity form a hyper-localized alternate economy - a really really free market or a skillshare, for instance… or a Rirkrit Tiravanija or Felix Gonzalez-Torres work.
The T.A.Z. or “islet of resistance” could also potentially be conceived of as a place free from paranoid, dysfunctional normalcy or a place of psychic healing. This is the etymology of “psychiatry” - “a healing of the soul/mind” - which David Cooper aimed to recoup by labeling traditional psychiatry “anti-psychiatric.” Likewise, R.D. Laing wished to recoup the term “asylum” as a name for his Kingsley Hall experiment. Instead of its modern usage describing essentially a prison for the mad, it would once again revert to its original meaning: Greek for “refuge,” from the roots meaning “without right of seizure.” In other words, an autonomous zone.
Summarizing Guattari, Bourriaud writes: “Psychoanalysis and art? Two sorts of subjectivity production, interconnected, two operational systems, two preferred tool systems, which are joined together in the possible solution to the ‘Malaise of Civilization’” (RA p88).
But can art really accomplish all that Bourriaud seems to imply it can?
In the third and final part additional installments of this post, I will present a number of critiques of Bourriaud’s ideas, and drawing upon the antecedents, successors, and relatives of relational aesthetics, describe a broad range of projects with similar and perhaps more tenable utopian potential.
>> Curtis x Laing x Bourriaud x Bey x more (Part 3.1: Critique)