Post-Rant
This uninformed rant was inspired by a recent visit to ‘Postmodernism: Style and Subversion 1970-1990’ at the V&A Museum. What follows is an attempt to articulate my misgivings about Postmodernism, understood by few and used by many, with a brief description of its predecessor Modernism, in the hope that a comparison between the two might sharpen the edges of blurry Postmodernism.
The more I think about it, the more I realise how much I dislike the term Postmodernism. What exactly does it stand for? The manipulative nature of its essentially empty rhetoric irks me, as when the Daily Mail resorts to ‘common sense’ or some luminaire in the Literary Review ponderously declaims that we inhabit a post-ideological world, then relentlessly pushes their own agenda, wrapped in an oratorical blanket of increasingly fatigued and meaningless prefixes. Postmodernism is the most recent movement and so exerts a great influence on our world-view, and yet there have been previous movements, and there will be something post-postmodernism, whatever we decide to name it. If I knew this future buzzword, I would probably not be a rich woman, but I would certainly get misquoted a lot, and you know that the more you are misquoted the more people you have reached. And the fewer have read you.
But I am ignorant as to what the future holds. Frankly, I am not even sure about the state of the present. That there is a retrospective on Postmodernism at the V&A would indicate that it is firmly in the past, further confirmed by the subheading ‘Style and Subversion: 1970-1990’. And yet the term ‘postmodern’ still gets its fair share of airplay in 2011. What I have noticed is that its temporal proximity - whether it has happened or is still unfolding - has led many to lose perspective. There is nothing revolutionary about Postmodernism, no more than there was about the Enlightenment or Romanticism. What makes it special is precisely the same immediacy that has rendered us so short-sighted; We are living it. Nothing has changed in the grand scheme of things, yet everything is different, as it always is and always will be.
Thus we are uncertain if we inhabit Postmodern times, or what this entails, apart from this penchant for sticking arbitrary prefixes on words to increase their emotional resonance and impact. ‘Neo’ has become the preferred, catch-all, semantically slurred yet emotionally charged prefix for right-wing resurgences - neoliberalism, neocon, neonazism, neoprene. ‘Post’, on the other hand, is the default indicator for the discourse deconstruction and ‘decentredness’ that ‘postmodernism’ and ‘poststructuralism’ celebrate. Whatever that means. We are constantly reminded that there is no ‘truth’ to be found, that everything is subjective and the idea of an objective independent reality is a mere mirage. The era of grand all-encompassing narratives like Christianity or Marxism is over. Yet people keep telling each other stories, only this time with more prefixes. These days, one has to muse about ‘subversion’ and ‘dystopia’, suspiciously close sometimes to the old ‘progress’ and ‘utopia’ but masquerading under less politically charged names, and without the whiff of fascism that ‘progress’ now gives off.
So what is ‘Postmodernism’? It peppers our academic speech and generously seasons our (my) half-baked remarks about art, music, and society. Even ‘conditions’. What exactly is the postmodern condition? Postmodernism was always one of those words that was semantically unstable, because it defined itself against the equally porous ‘modern’. The latter is normally applied to the first half of the 20th century - the era of Modernism. It is the term given to different artistic movements that rejected objectivity in favour of subjectivity — no longer was it about what we saw, but how we saw it. This was partly spurred — as are all new cultural expressions — by new technological developments. With (for instance) the increased popularity and availability of the camera, painters no longer needed to strive to perfectly reproduce reality. Instead they started to ponder the exact nature of this reality. They revisited that age old ontological conundrum that had taken Plato to his imaginary caves — what, if anything, is the essence of something? Picasso famously painted a violin from all angles simultaneously, which created a distorted image, but one still recognisable as a violin. In literature, the omniscient narrator and linear narrative were abandoned in favour of stream-of-consciousness and fragmented narrative, traditionally interpreted a reactions to the the totalitarian discourses and blind belief in progress that had led to both world wars.
Unsurprisingly, many people became wary of panoptic narratives with such an unwavering faith in their authority, and which caused so much pain and destruction in Europe. Modernism, then, is about the rejection of this authority. Modernists do not share the teleological views of history popularly associated with their predecessors, the Victorians. The two world wars put a dent in the the idea that humanity is progressing, that it has a final destiny towards which it has been advancing (‘telos’ being ‘end’ or ‘purpose’). Postmodernism is not particularly fond of grandiose statements either and, like Modernism, it is also characterised by fragmentation. The difference lies in how they approach this SHATTERED EXISTENTIAL MIRROR. Modernism traditionally laments the loss of this age of innocence in esoteric elegies about waste lands whilst Postmodernism famously celebrates this fragmentation through ironic pastiches and meta-patchworks of intertextuality set to groovy soundtracks. Basically, Postmodernists like Tarantino films and Tumblr, with its assorted quotations, random fonts, existential Instagrams and amusing gifs. What this definition tells us is that Postmodernism has really good PR. Any undergraduate who has trudged through the compulsory Critical Theory module will tell you that Baudrillard & co are not precisely happy chappies when they postulate the loss of objectivity, fixed meaning, and even reality in magnificently obscure sentences that sometimes undermine the most basic premises of grammar. They fill their intentionally playful and ambiguous prose with an irresistible intertextual insouciance. Apparently. (???)
Modernism, on the other hand, lacks such professional PR, partly because everybody involved is kicking up the daisies in Elliot’s wasteland, and can no longer defend themselves. Also, partly because everybody of my generation had to read Mrs Dalloway at school, a book that contains a disappointingly low number of ninjas and a complete lack of 70s blaxploitation musical references. The classic stereotype of the Modernist woman is of course Virginia Woolf, who committed suicide, and is hailed as part of the literary canon. But Modernists, particularly female, were not all as despondent as this portrayal. Many women were rather excited about the emancipatory possibilities that industrialisation brought. And as devastating as the two armed conflicts were, the absence of men meant that women had to replace them in factories, hospital wards, offices, even in the streets as bus drivers, as well as other public spaces normally reserved to men (they were sent packing back to their domestic spheres after the war, but the seed had been planted).
So things are not as simple as they seem. I want to finish this post with the classic ‘it’s complicated’, which is a rather fittingly postmodern end to this unfocused rant. I will, of course, describe my argument as ‘fluid’. Postmodernism - whatever it is - has claimed a monopoly on ambiguity. And yes, the irony is not lost on me. Ambiguity, together with subversion, seems to be one of its most frequent escorts whenever Postmodernism puts its ironic hat on and goes for a spin round the cultural landscape. Perhaps that is the reason why I have developed a dislike for Postmodernism — because it is so omniscient and at same time nobody can explain exactly what it is. A bit like gravity really. When it comes to gravity, few people gripe about the impossibility of escaping the laws of physics. But can we escape the Postmodern condition? Are we all Postmodern now? This was the question posed at the recent V&A retrospective, as we left the exhibition to the sound of New Order. What a fatuous thing to ask. Is this meant to be food for thought, something to ponder on the way back home? Of course we are all Postmodern now. And post-Renaissance, and post-Enlightenment, and post-Industrial Revolution, and post-Victorian and post-Capitalist and first-past-the-post and any other post you care to think about. It is all part of our cultural DNA.
Postmodernism has just made us hyperaware of the hybrid nature of our culture, that we are all assembled from the different discourses and ideologies that we have inherited and picked up along our trajectory. Just as it is difficult in this post-Freudian era to analyse our actions without resorting to the language of psychoanalysis, Postmodernism has simply given us a new vocabulary with which to articulate our experiences and preoccupations. Some are specific to our time and the moral dilemmas and problematic developments that advancement brings, such as cloning, or the internet. Other are age-old longings revisited, like the yearn for authenticity and distinction, now threatened by new technologies that can easily and cheaply reproduce anything, from an image to an expensive leather bag. All movements and cultural expressions have attempted to conceptualise and give voice to cultural neurosis and anxieties (in a post-Freudian era _everything_ is an anxiety). This is not new to Postmodernism. I’m still not sure if Postmodernism isn’t just Modernism in drag.
It’s complicated.
Beards, Brows and Procrastination
Today was one of those muggy languid days that compels you to dramatically lower your standards to reap a sense of achievement, any achievement, at the end of it. Or dispose of standards altogether. In this way such mundane pedestrian activities such as cheese eating, wall staring or even hand-eye coordination will seem like a veritable tour de force.
Speaking of which, I was browsing GQ today.
Reason 540 why I hate GQ: Spinning some vacuous bile about the fear of appearing middlebrow as if you were the freaking Bourdieu of coolness, while failing to mention that the high/low culture divide is a deeply ingrained arbitrary divide borne out of the Industrial Revolution, developed specifically to preserve a condition conceived of as “high” from dilution and corruption by new forces seen as “lower” - for instance mass-production and increased purchasing power. See how easy it is? I don’t even know what I wrote there - I just turned on my cultural theory babble mode. Obviously this writer’s switch has been stuck since 1960. Which would explain GQ’s attitude towards women.
(Yes I did just lambast GQ’s lack of incisive cultural critique. I must obviously be insanely highbrow. In fact my brows are so divorced from my eyes that a look of permanent incredulity frames my face. Like finding out that Zach Galifianakis’ beard is apparently lowbrow. And that I should care.)
How to Speak and Write Postmodern
First, you need to remember that plainly expressed language is out of the question. It is too realist, modernist and obvious. Postmodern language requires that one uses play, parody and indeterminacy as critical techniques to point this out. Often this is quite a difficult requirement, so obscurity is a well-acknowledged substitute. For example, let’s imagine you want to say something like, “We should listen to the views of people outside of Western society in order to learn about the cultural biases that affect us.” This is honest but dull. Take the word “views.” Postmodernspeak would change that to “voices,” or better, “vocalities,” or even better, “multivocalities.” Add an adjective like “intertextual,” and you’re covered. “People outside” is also too plain. How about “postcolonial others”? To speak postmodern properly one must master a bevy of biases besides the familiar racism, sexism, ageism, etc. For example, phallogocentrism (male-centredness combined with rationalistic forms of binary logic).
Finally “affect us” sounds like plaid pajamas. Use more obscure verbs and phrases, like “mediate our identities.” So, the final statement should say, “We should listen to the intertextual multivocalities of postcolonial others outside of Western culture in order to learn about the phallogocentric biases that mediate our identities.” Now you’re talking postmodern!
Stephen Katz, How to Speak and Write Postmodern
Zeitgeist for beginners: A brief introduction to East Berlin
“How quickly revolutions grow old; and, worse still, respectable.” G.K. Chesterton
Yesterday I moved to the East, after spending two months in the West, in elegant Schöneberg. Sandwiched between prim Charlottenburg and perennially radical Kreuzberg, this charming Berlin neighbourhood nowadays feels like an ageing courtesan reminiscing about her glory days during the Weimar Republic, when she was the cultural heart of Europe, the cradle of political radicalism, the centre of unbridled 20s hedonism, the home of the divinely decadent Sally Bowles. It has clung on, and rightly so, to the title of Europe’s oldest gay quarter, but is otherwise like an old aunt with patrician features and a glint in her eye. The radicalism has gone.
El Dorado - Europe’s most decadent club during the flapper era. Now an organic supermarket.
If Christopher Isherwood were to return to Berlin, he would go East, provided of course that he had a fondness for minimal techno, flea markets and psychotic cyclists. Oh and the alternative scene, of course. Everybody in East Berlin is into the alternative scene.
Even good old Kaiser’s has received the alternative treatment.
Bananas are no strangers to urban alienation. Who knew graffiti was the perfect medium to express the angst of tropical fruit?
So, what if Isherwood were to return to the Prussian capital and head to the West again, a place so obviously lacking in brutalist Communist architecture and kitsch GDR furniture? The fool! How will he be able to express urban alienation? Where would he hold his guerilla literary salon? How would he be able to express his individuality without the presence of state planned and mass produced orange wallpaper with floral patterns? I can sense you fear, watching the zeitgeist escape down an alley to an abandoned warehouse where Ricardo Villalobos is holding a clandestine gig.
Me pondering about the unbearable lightness of being, or how to get to my 5th floor saniert Altbau flat without a lift, after an 8 hour brunch and much Käse consumption at the local cafe.
Fear not, with this foolproof guide, you too can become an East Berliner!
1) Get knocked up: If you’re in Prenzlauer Berg, being pregnant will make you indistinguishable from a local. But only if you’re over 30. If you’re under 30 and over 15, you should consider Friedrichshain, which is edgier (read poorer) and also contains less information architects. If you’re a man, and are therefore hindered by nature, a pushchair that costs more than a Toyota Prius is an acceptable alternative. For that extra touch, bring all your sprogs into your local organic Osteria during Sunday brunch and set them loose, like a bunch of amphetamine-crazed marmosets who have just set their eyes on Del Monte’s banana warehouse.
Kollwitzstrasse: breeding ground for freelance graphic designers and gallery owners
2) Never drink at place with a name: Drinking a place with a Google map pin on it is not ALTERNATIVE. This whole business of naming things has been done for millennia. It so conventional. What is it with this penchant for labeling things? It stifles and limits the fluid and slippery postmodern identity. It fails to accurately reflect the transient ephemeral nature of human existence. Nomenclature is out, is too bourgeois. Plus it saves money on an actual sign.
There are of course two exceptions to this rule that will not result in social suicide:
-Bars/shops with stupid quirky names: You can name venues as long as it undermines one of its primary functions, i.e. to remember what the place is called, which let’s admit it, is too conventional and convenient. Convenience is an evil capitalist plot. So is logic. Your name should be as quirky and surreal as possible, and sound like something Lou Reed might have written after a four day binge in the Lower East side. Like ‘Ick koof mir Dave Lombardo wenn ick reich bin (‘When I’m rich I’ll buy Dave Lombardo’). It might have been an epiphany discerned through the marihuana haze. but now makes less sense than Mandarin video recorder instructions. Dave Lombardo is, in case you’re wondering, the drummer of trash metal band Slayer. Still no bells ringing? Good.
If you’re not an art student, and has therefore not had André Breton’s Surrealist Manifesto inflicted upon you, or just can’t afford the drugs, you can always pick lyrics from hip alternative 90s underground bands like Sonic Youth (signed to Universal Records, and not Sony, like that other beacon of anti-establishment, Rage Against the Machine)
“I’m just popping down to ‘I stole my sister’s boyfriend. It was all whirlwind, heat, and flash. Within a week we killed my parents and hit the road’” (Luckily they know more about vintage clothing than nomenclature -excellent selection and very lovely people)
-’ Meta digits’ are okey: Bar 103 is, you guessed it, a bar on number 103. Street numbers are immune to the capricious and transient nature of urban topography. Number 103 is and will always be number 103, whether is a horse hospital or a bar, or preferably a horse hospital turned into a bar. Which brings me to the next rule:
3) Never drink in a a venue that was built for that purpose: Ideally it should have originally been a brothel (a horse brothel?), because nothing is as edgy as downing capirinhas in a former syphilis hotbed. Otherwise, anything else will do - a hedgehog hospital, a anarchist sanctuary, a nuclear shelter, a pickle factory. You name it -The more unusual the better. Unless it is one of those dives that has remained unchanged since the Wall came down, because as I have mentioned before, nothing screams individuality more than state planned and mass produced orange wallpaper with floral patterns.
The public baths in Prenzlauer Berg, now a funky edgy establishment for the urban disenfranchised youth. And corporate events.
The KulturBrauerei, because nothing says culture like beer
This is obviously a very brief sketch, although rest assured that I will fill in the contours as I become more familiar with my new neighbourhood. For a comprehensive and hilariously incisive take on the Teutonic equivalent of that most pretentious of London creatures, the Hoxtonite, I can’t recommend enough Ich werde ein Berliner. In fact, this post is my little homage to this brilliant blog.
Tom bowled over by the urban alternative experience. Or was it one too many Fruhstück at the Ost Fee?
Our local, The Fairy of the East. Many people in East Berlin are away with the fairies. Sometimes without chemical aid. Lovely staff, four different sorts of Chai and 5 min from my house. What more can a girl ask for?
