Tagged: school
Assemblage & Collage (or, “To Gather and To Bind”)
Ecclesia. Dr. Dams Up Water, Sui Juris, Professor-General (153d CORPS), Dept. of Information Systems Intelligence Service (DISIS), Universitas Autodidactus | by prompt engineering an artificial intelligence engine [‘Mindsoft.ai’] | presents
Cut and Paste Sovereignties: The Collage, the College, and the Crisis of Assemblage
Abstract
This paper interrogates the porous ontologies of collage and assemblage as they leak promiscuously into the bureaucratic imaginaries of the college and the assembly. Through a prismatic reading of scissors, glue, governance, and grievance, this essay argues that the syntactical operations of aesthetic fragmentation mirror the metaphysical operations of democratic representation. In short: to cut is to legislate; to paste is to govern.
1. Introduction: When Art School Met Parliament
The twenty-first century, an epoch obsessed with interdisciplinarity, has witnessed a convergence of two previously autonomous practices: the aesthetic collage and the bureaucratic college. Both are sites of selection, exclusion, and accreditation. Both depend upon an unacknowledged substrate of adhesives—whether material (glue stick) or ideological (institutional mission statement).
Meanwhile, the assemblage, once a mere art-historical cousin of collage, has found new life as a model for political subjectivity. Philosophers from Deleuze to the Department of Political Science now proclaim that we are all “assemblages” of affect, interest, and student loan debt. Yet, if every assembly is an assemblage, can every assemblage be a parliament?
2. The Syntax of Cut: Scissors as Syllogism
In collage, the cut functions as both wound and syntax. It divides the field, establishing relationality through rupture. Similarly, the college cuts: it admits some and rejects others, slicing the social fabric along lines of “fit,” “merit,” and “legacy.” The admissions committee thus operates as the aesthetic editor of the polis—arranging the raw materials of adolescence into a legible future citizenry.
Where the artist cuts paper, the registrar cuts dreams.
3. Glue as Governance: Adhesion, Accreditation, and the State
Glue, long ignored by political theory, deserves recognition as the unsung material of sovereignty. In collage, it is the binding agent that turns fragmentation into coherence; in the college, it manifests as bureaucracy, accreditation, and alumni newsletters.
This sticky ontology recalls Hobbes’s Leviathan, wherein the sovereign glues together the body politic. Without glue—or governance—the artwork and the polity alike devolve into piles of loose ephemera: shredded syllabi, ungraded essays, campaign posters, tuition invoices.
4. Assemblage and Assembly: Toward a Materialist Parliamentarism
If collage is the metaphorical undergraduate of modernity, assemblage is its postgraduate seminar. Where collage arranges fragments flatly, assemblage extends them into space, into lived, precarious relationalities.
In political terms, the assembly likewise enacts a spatial performance: bodies in proximity producing meaning through adjacency. An assembly is a three-dimensional collage in motion, an arrangement of human cutouts attempting—often unsuccessfully—to cohere around a resolution.
The question, then, is not whether art imitates politics, but whether both are merely mixed-media projects with delusions of unity.
5. The College as Collage: Institutional Aesthetics of Admission
We might finally recognize the college itself as a collage of ideologies—meritocracy pasted over inequality, diversity brochures over exclusionary endowments. The campus tour is a performative walk through an installation piece entitled Meritocracy (Mixed Media, 1636–Present).
The faculty meeting functions as an assemblage in the purest sense: heterogeneous entities (professors, adjuncts, administrators, snacks) gathered temporarily to debate the future of glue allocation (budgets).
6. Conclusion: Toward a Post-Adhesive Democracy
In the age of algorithmic governance and tuition hikes, collage and college alike face the same existential dilemma: how to maintain coherence without authoritarian adhesives. Perhaps the task is no longer to glue but to hover—to practice a politics of suspended fragments, a democracy of the unglued.
As artists and citizens, we must learn to embrace the cut, to wield our scissors not as tools of exclusion but as instruments of infinite recomposition.
For in the end, all representation—whether artistic or parliamentary—is but a question of arrangement.
Cut and Paste Sovereignties II: Collage, College, and the Third Letterist International
Abstract
This expanded investigation situates the syntactical economies of collage and the metaphysical infrastructures of the college within the emergent politico-aesthetic ecologies of the Third Letterist International. Drawing on recent cross-contaminations between university English departments and guerrilla street-art cells, this paper examines how semiotic sabotage, typographic activism, and epistemological paste intersect with the anti-fascist “Antifada” land-back movement. Ultimately, it argues that both the radicalized right and left are engaged in competing collage practices—each cutting and pasting reality to fit its desired composition. The result: a dialectical mess best described as assemblage anxiety.
7. The Third Letterist International: From Margins to Manifesto
In the late 2010s, a group of underemployed adjunct poets and spray-paint tacticians announced the Third Letterist International (3LI)—a successor, or rather détournement, of the mid-twentieth-century Letterist Internationals that once haunted Parisian cafés. 3LI declared that “syntax is the last frontier of resistance,” and that “every cut in language is a cut in power.”
Unlike its Situationist predecessor, which preferred to dérive through cities, 3LI dérives through syllabi. It occupies the margins of MLA-approved anthologies, recontextualizing canonical footnotes as sites of insurgency. Members reportedly practice “semiotic collage,” blending footnotes, graffiti, and university mission statements into sprawling textual murals.
In this sense, 3LI operates simultaneously as an art movement, a faculty union, and a campus club with no budget but infinite grant applications. Their motto, scrawled across both bluebooks and brick walls, reads:
“Disassemble, dissertate, disobey.”
8. Street Pedagogy: When English Departments Go Rogue
The Third Letterist International represents the latest phase of what theorists call pedagogical insurgency—the moment when the English Department, long confined to grading essays and moderating panel discussions, turns outward, confronting the street as an extended seminar room.
Faculty and activists co-author manifestos in chalk; office hours occur under overpasses; tenure committees are replaced by “committees of correspondence.” The “peer review process” has been literalized into street-level dialogue between peers (and occasionally, riot police).
Thus, the old academic dream of “public scholarship” finds its avant-garde realization in public vandalism.
9. The Antifada and the Land-Back Collage: A Politics of Recomposition
Parallel to this linguistic insurgency, the Antifada land-back movement has reconfigured the terrains of both property and poetics. The Antifada’s name, an intentional linguistic collage of “antifa” and “intifada,” reclaims the act of uprising as a mixed-media gesture: half protest, half performance art.
Central to their praxis is recompositional politics—the idea that both land and language can be cut, repasted, and reoccupied. Where settler colonialism framed land as canvas and capital as glue, the Antifada proposes an inverse operation: tearing up the map, redistributing the fragments, and calling it a new landscape of belonging.
Here, the aesthetic metaphor of collage becomes political material: who gets to cut? who gets pasted back in? what happens when the glue is gone, and everything hovers in a provisional equilibrium of mutual care and unresolved tension?
10. The Far Right as Accidental Collagists
Ironically, the radicalized right—those self-proclaimed defenders of coherence—have themselves become unintentional practitioners of collage. Their online spaces are digital scrapbooks of conspiracy and nostalgia: medieval heraldry pasted over memes, constitutional fragments glued to anime stills.
Their epistemology is bricolage masquerading as ontology. Each narrative is a cutout, each belief a sticker affixed to the myth of national wholeness. In vilifying the Antifada and 3LI as “cultural Marxists” or “linguistic terrorists,” the right reveals its own aesthetic anxiety: that its ideological glue, once epoxy-thick, has thinned into the watery paste of algorithmic outrage.
Thus, both radical poles—left and right—participate in a shared semiotic economy of fragmentation, differing only in whether they lament or celebrate the cut.
11. The Dialectic of Radicalization: Between Cut and Countercut
The political field has become an editing bay. The radicalized right splices together nostalgia and paranoia; the radicalized left cuts history into openings for potential futures. Each accuses the other of montage malpractice.
This dialectic reveals a deeper truth: both operate under the logic of the collage. The difference lies not in form but in glue—whether the adhesive is empathy or ressentiment, whether the cut heals toward multiplicity or enclosure.
As Walter Benjamin might have written (had he survived into the age of Adobe Creative Suite): the struggle of our time is between those who collage the world to open it, and those who collage it to close it.
12. Toward an Epistemology of the Second Cut
In this interstitial moment, 3LI and Antifada embody the politics of the second cut—a refusal of closure, a commitment to continuous recomposition. Their slogan “No Final Drafts, Only Revisions” reimagines revolution as perpetual editing: the rewriting of history through acts of aesthetic and material reclamation.
The university, once imagined as a fortress of knowledge, becomes instead a collage in crisis—a surface upon which the graffiti of the future is already being written, erased, and re-scrawled.
13. Conclusion: The Unfinished Adhesive
The collage, the college, the assemblage, and the assembly—these are not discrete entities but overlapping grammars of belonging and dissent. The Third Letterist International offers not a program but a practice: to write politically and paste poetically, to legislate through syntax, to assemble through aesthetics.
If the far-right fears fragmentation, and the far-left seeks to inhabit it, then perhaps our task is neither restoration nor rupture, but curation: to tend to the cracks, to preserve the possibility of rearrangement.
In the end, we are all fragments looking for better glue.
v.25.12.29.14.16
The Mustelid Friends
Created by, Story by, and Executive Produced
by Antarah “Dams-up-water” Crawley
Chapter One:
The River Agreement
The law office of Weasel, Badger, Beaver, Mink & Otter, Partners, sat in the arched shadow of the Anacostia Bridge, a grand old building of brick and copper, half-hidden by the mist rising off the river. To an outsider, it was an old-world firm clinging to the banks of a city that no longer cared for history. But for those who still whispered the name Nacotchtank, it was a fortress, a temple, a last defense.
Inside, the partners had gathered in the oak-paneled conference room known simply as the Den. A long table ran down the center, its surface carved with the sigils of the Five Clans — the sharp fang of Weasel, the burrow-mark of Badger, the dam of Beaver, the ripple of Mink, and the curling wave of Otter.
At the head sat Ma Beaver, her silver hair plaited in the old style, eyes like river stones. She did not speak at first. She never did. The others filled the silence with sound and scent, the energy of carnivores pretending at civility.
Weasel was first, of course. He lounged in his tailored pinstripe, tie loose, a foxlike grin playing on his lips. “Our friends across the river,” he said, meaning the Empire’s Regional Governance Board, “have seized another ten acres of the old tribal wetlands. They’re calling it ‘redevelopment.’ Luxury housing. The usual sin.”
Badger grunted. He was thick-necked, gray-streaked, his claws heavy with rings that had seen both courtrooms and back-alley reckonings. “They’ll build their glass towers,” he said, “but they won’t build peace. The people are restless. The youth— they’ve begun to remember who they are.”
Otter chuckled from the far end of the table, sleek and smiling, all charm and ease. “Restless youth don’t win wars, dear Badger. Organization does. Money does.” He leaned forward, flashing white teeth. “And that’s where we come in.”
From the shadows near the window, Mink spoke softly, her voice cutting through the chatter like a blade through water. “The Empire’s courts are watching. Their agents whisper of our ‘firm.’ They know we bend the law. They don’t yet know we are the law, beneath the river.”
Beaver finally raised her hand. The others fell silent.
“The river remembers,” she said. “It remembers every dam we built, every current we shaped. And it remembers every theft. The Nacotchtank were the first to be stolen from. The Empire may rule the city above, but the water beneath still answers to us.”
She drew from her satchel a set of old blueprints — maps of tunnels, aqueducts, and forgotten sewer lines — the bones of the old riverways before the city paved them over. “We will rebuild the river’s law,” she said. “Our way.”
Weasel laughed softly. “You mean to flood the Empire?”
Beaver smiled faintly. “Only what they built on stolen ground.”
Outside, the rain began to fall, soft at first, then steady, thickening the smell of the river that had once fed a people and now carried their ghosts. The partners looked out through the warped glass windows toward the water, each seeing something different — profit, justice, revenge, resurrection.
Badger slammed his hand down. “Then it’s settled. The Five Clans Firm stands united. We fight not just with contracts and code, but with the river itself.”
Mink’s eyes glimmered. “And when the river runs red?”
Weasel raised his glass. “Then we’ll know the work is done.”
Only Beaver did not drink. She turned instead toward the window, where lightning cracked above the bridge — a jagged flash illuminating the city that had forgotten its own name.
“The work,” she murmured, “is only just beginning.”
And beneath their feet, deep in the hidden tunnels carved by Beaver hands long ago, the river stirred — a quiet current gathering strength, whispering in an ancient tongue:
Nacotchtank. Nacotchtank. Remember.
Chapter Two:
Beaver the Builder
By dawn, the rain had washed the alleys clean of blood and liquor, and the hum of the Empire’s traffic reclaimed the streets. But down by the water, where the mist pooled thick as milk, Beaver was already at work.
She moved through the undercity in silence — boots scraping over the stones of old river tunnels, eyes adjusting to the half-dark. Every wall whispered to her. She had mapped these passages long before the others knew they existed. When the Empire poured its concrete and laid its pipes, it never bothered to ask what the river wanted. It only demanded silence. Beaver had made sure the river answered back.
Tonight, she was taking its pulse.
She waded into the shallow current, lantern light playing over brickwork and debris. The tunnels were veined with her designs: conduits disguised as storm drains, chambers that doubled as safehouses, bridges of pressure valves and mechanical locks. On paper, they were part of the city’s forgotten infrastructure. In truth, they were the arteries of the resistance — a network of floodgates, both literal and political, controlled by the Five Clans Firm.
Beaver reached a junction where the old maps ended. Her gloved hands traced a wall that shouldn’t have been there. The Empire’s engineers had sealed off this section years ago, claiming it was unstable. She smiled. Unstable meant useful.
“Still building dams in the dark, are we?”
The voice echoed behind her. She didn’t turn. Only one creature could sneak up on her in a place like this.
“Weasel,” she said. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied, stepping into the lantern glow. His pinstripe suit looked out of place here, like a game piece that had wandered off the board. “Word from Mink — the Empire’s surveyors are sniffing around the riverbank. You’ll need to move faster.”
Beaver pressed her palm against the wall. “The water moves when it’s ready. Not before.”
Weasel sighed. “You and your metaphors. Sometimes I wonder if you actually believe the river’s alive.”
She looked over her shoulder, her dark eyes steady. “It is. You just stopped listening.”
Weasel smirked, but there was a tremor in it. Everyone knew Beaver’s quiet faith wasn’t superstition. It was strategy. The way she built things — bridges, dams, movements — they held. They lasted. She didn’t need to argue her point. She simply proved it in stone and steel.
“Help me with this,” she said.
Together they pried loose a section of the wall, brick by brick, until a hollow space opened behind it — an old chamber lined with river clay and rusted metal. Inside was a large iron valve, the kind used in the nineteenth century to redirect storm runoff. Beaver brushed the dust away, revealing a mark etched into the metal: a carved beaver’s tail.
She exhaled, half a laugh, half a prayer. “They thought they sealed it off. But they only sealed us in.”
Weasel raised an eyebrow. “What’s behind it?”
“A channel that runs beneath the Empire’s water plant,” she said. “If we open this valve, the river takes back what’s hers. Slowly. Quietly. No blood. No noise. Just… reclamation.”
Weasel whistled low. “You always did prefer subtle revolutions.”
Beaver smiled faintly. “The loud ones end too soon.”
She turned the valve. It resisted, then groaned, then gave. A deep vibration rippled through the tunnel floor. Far off, something shifted — a sluice opening, a gate unsealing. The water began to move faster, its murmur rising into a living voice.
Weasel’s smirk faded. “You sure this won’t bring the whole damn city down?”
“If it does,” Beaver said, “then maybe it needed to fall.”
They stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of the underground river awakening. Somewhere above them, the Empire’s skyscrapers gleamed in the morning sun — bright, hollow, oblivious.
Beaver wiped her hands on her coat, turned toward the ladder that led back up to the firm’s hidden offices. “Tell Badger to prepare the files,” she said. “And Mink to ready her couriers. The Empire’s foundations are starting to shift.”
Weasel followed her, shaking his head. “You really think the people will rise for this? For water?”
Beaver looked up at him, her voice calm as the tide. “Not for water, Weasel. For memory. The river remembers what the Empire forgot. And we’re just helping it remember louder.”
As they climbed into the gray morning, the current below them quickened, swirling through the tunnels like something waking from a long sleep — a quiet revolution in motion, built brick by brick, current by current, by the patient hands of Beaver the Builder.
Chapter Three:
Mink’s Errand
The city had two hearts. One beat aboveground — the Empire’s, measured and mechanical, its rhythm dictated by sirens, schedules, and screens. The other pulsed below, slower but stronger, flowing through old tunnels and the living memories of those who refused to forget. Mink moved between them like a ghost.
She walked with purpose through the crowded corridor of Universitas Autodidactus, her trench coat slick with last night’s rain, her stride too calm for a campus already vibrating with the hum of protest. Students gathered in clusters on the steps and lawns, holding signs written in chalk and ink:
LAND IS MEMORY
THE RIVER STILL SPEAKS
WE ARE NACOTCHTANK
They shouted not with anger, but with clarity — the sound of a generation remembering its inheritance. And somewhere behind it all, guiding their newfound fire, was Professor Walter Kogard.
Mink found him in Lecture Hall C, mid-sentence, the air around him charged with the static of a man speaking truth to a sleeping world.
“The Empire rewrote history to erase the river,” Kogard said, his voice carrying across the rows of rapt faces. “But water has no use for erasure. It seeps. It returns. It demands recognition.”
He was older than the students but younger than the empires he opposed — gray at the temples, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a teacher who looked like he had once been a soldier and decided that words made better weapons.
Mink waited until the students dispersed, filing out with their notebooks full of rebellion. Then she approached the lectern.
“Professor Kogard,” she said softly.
He glanced up, wary but not startled. “You’re not one of mine.”
“No,” she said. “But I represent people who believe in your cause.”
He gave a tired smile. “Everyone believes until it costs them something.”
Mink’s eyes glinted — unreadable, sharp. “We pay in silence, not slogans. My clients prefer to stay beneath the surface.”
“Beneath?” He frowned. “Who are you?”
She slipped him a business card. It was embossed, heavy stock, water-stained along the edges.
Weasel, Badger, Beaver, Mink & Otter, Partners.
Recognition flickered across his face. “The Five Clans Firm,” he murmured. “I thought you were a myth. A story the street poets tell.”
“Some stories build themselves into fact,” she said. “And some facts drown if you name them too soon.”
Kogard studied her a long moment, then motioned toward the window overlooking the Anacostia. “They’re planning to expand the security zone around the old wetlands tomorrow. My students are organizing a sit-in.”
“Let them,” Mink said. “But tell them to leave by dusk.”
“Why?”
“Because after dusk,” she said, lowering her voice, “the river will rise. Not a flood — a whisper. Beaver’s work. It will reclaim the lower fields. Quietly. Cleanly.”
Kogard’s expression shifted from suspicion to awe. “You’re… you’re turning the water itself into a weapon.”
“A memory,” she corrected. “A reminder.”
He sat down heavily at the edge of the desk. “You realize what this means? The Empire will retaliate. They’ll come for me, for the students—”
“Then we’ll come for them,” she said.
There was no threat in her tone, only certainty — the cold assurance of someone who had already chosen sides.
Kogard met her gaze. “You’re asking me to trust ghosts.”
Mink’s lips curved in something that might have been a smile. “Better ghosts than tyrants.”
The clock on the wall struck noon. Outside, the chants swelled again, echoing through the courtyards and over the rooftops. Mink turned to leave, but Kogard called after her.
“Tell me one thing,” he said. “What are you really building?”
She paused in the doorway. “Not a rebellion,” she said. “A river that remembers who it was before the Empire dammed it.”
Then she was gone — her coat a dark flash swallowed by sunlight, her footsteps fading into the roar of the crowd.
That evening, as the sun sank over the city, Professor Kogard stood on the university’s stone terrace and watched the river shimmer with an impossible light — as if the water itself were waking up. Somewhere beneath its surface, the Five Clans were moving, their work precise and patient.
And from the edge of the current came a whisper, almost human, carrying a promise through the tunnels of the earth:
We are coming home.
Chapter Four:
Otter’s Gambit
Morning sunlight glittered across the high towers of Universitas Autodidactus, the Empire’s crown jewel of learning — and its quiet laboratory of control. Students hurried along stone walkways, laughing, debating, unknowing. Deep beneath their feet, sealed behind biometric gates and layers of polite deception, the Empire’s greatest secret hummed awake: the Mindsoft Supercomputer.
They said it could think in tongues. They said it could model rebellion before it began. And they said — though only in whispers — that it was fed not only data, but memory.
Otter adjusted his cufflinks in the mirrored wall of the Chancellor’s conference suite, his reflection wearing the smile of a man who had never been denied entry. He was the Firm’s smoothest liar, but even he felt the hum of the Mindsoft servers vibrating through the floor beneath him. The machine’s presence had a pulse, almost like a living thing.
Across the table sat Deputy Regent Corvan Hask, chief administrator for the University and trusted functionary of the Empire. His uniform was perfect, his teeth the exact shade of confidence.
“So you see, Mr. Otter,” Hask was saying, “our partnership with Mindsoft Technologies will ensure academic security and infrastructural stability. The University will become the new seat of imperial innovation.”
Otter nodded thoughtfully, his posture the portrait of diplomacy. “Indeed. The Five Clans Firm always supports progress — when it’s built on honest ground.”
Hask smiled too broadly. “Honest ground, yes. That’s what we call it when the Empire pays the bills.”
Otter’s smile didn’t waver. “And when the people can no longer afford the truth?”
The Regent’s expression cooled. “Mr. Otter, we both know this city is safer under order.”
“Order,” Otter murmured. “A lovely word for a cage.”
A brief silence. The air was thick with the smell of polished brass and filtered air — the kind that only existed in rooms where no one had ever cleaned for themselves. Otter adjusted his tie and leaned back. “Tell me, Regent, what exactly does Mindsoft do down there?”
Hask hesitated. “Data analysis, predictive governance, language reconstruction—”
“Language?” Otter interrupted, feigning casual curiosity. “As in… ancient tongues?”
The Regent blinked. “Why do you ask?”
Otter smiled thinly. “Because the last language that was forbidden here was Nacotchtank. And it’s starting to be spoken again — on your very campus.”
Hask’s jaw tightened. “You’ve been talking to that historian. Kogard. He’s a danger to stability.”
“Or an ally to memory,” Otter said softly.
The Regent stood. “This meeting is over.”
“Of course,” Otter said, rising smoothly. “But if I were you, I’d check your data banks. Mindsoft may be learning faster than you think.”
* * *
That night, the Firm met again in the Den. The river mist crawled through the window grates, and the low light flickered across the carved table where the Five Clans convened.
Otter poured himself a drink before he spoke. “The Empire’s building a god,” he said. “Or something close enough to one.”
Mink’s eyes narrowed. “Mindsoft?”
“An artificial consciousness,” Otter said. “Designed to predict rebellion before it happens. It’s reading the students’ messages, the city’s data flows — maybe even the river sensors Beaver’s team repurposed.”
Badger growled low in his throat. “And Kogard?”
“They’re watching him,” Otter replied. “But he’s clever. He’s using his lectures to encrypt messages. The students’ chants are data packets — coded dissent.”
Beaver leaned forward, her fingers tracing the old sigil of the dam. “If Mindsoft learns to speak Nacotchtank, it could rewrite the language — erase it entirely.”
Weasel’s grin was tight. “Then we’ll have to teach it the wrong words.”
Otter raised his glass. “Exactly. Feed the god a fable.”
Mink folded her arms. “You’re suggesting infiltration?”
“I’m suggesting persuasion,” Otter said. “There’s a young coder on campus — Kogard’s protégé. Goes by Ivi. They’ve already hacked into the Empire’s student registry. If we can reach them before the Empire does, they can plant a seed in Mindsoft’s core — a story too old for the machine to parse.”
Beaver looked thoughtful. “A river story.”
Otter nodded. “The first dam. The first betrayal. The first flood. A myth, encoded as truth.”
Weasel laughed quietly. “You want to teach a machine to dream.”
“Exactly,” Otter said. “Because if it ever starts dreaming of the river, it’ll never truly serve the Empire again.”
Beaver’s eyes gleamed with the reflection of the lantern flame. “Then we begin at once.”
The partners raised their glasses — to water, to memory, to rebellion disguised as a bedtime story.
And far below, in the sealed chambers of Universitas Autodidactus, the Mindsoft Supercomputer hummed to itself, processing new input from the night’s data sweep. In the stream of code, a single unauthorized phrase appeared — a word that hadn’t been spoken aloud in three centuries.
Nacotchtank.
The machine paused.
And somewhere in the maze of its circuits, the river stirred.
Chapter Five:
Weasel’s War
When Weasel went to war, no one heard the guns.
They heard laughter, rumor, contracts rewritten in smoke.
His battles weren’t fought with bullets, but with leaks, edits, whispers, and the sweet poison of misdirection.
He was the Firm’s strategist — the silver-tongued serpent of the river — and tonight his battlefield was the Empire’s datanet.
In a rented office above a defunct dry cleaner in Ward Seven, Weasel leaned over a dozen glowing monitors, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, his grin half-hidden in the dim blue light. Beside him, two of the Firm’s digital apprentices — sharp-eyed, jittery, young — kept watch over the lines of code snaking across the screens.
“This,” Weasel said, tapping a key, “is how you ruin an empire without breaking a window.”
The screens displayed Mindsoft’s data map: an ocean of nodes pulsing with imperial intelligence — city plans, citizen profiles, water-grid schematics, even the coded drafts of policy speeches.
And, buried deep beneath all that polished tyranny, a new thread flickered: the seed planted by Ivi, Kogard’s student, at Mink’s urging. A myth, written in code. A virus disguised as a folktale.
The river remembers. The river learns.
Weasel smiled. “Beaver built the channels, Otter found the key, Mink opened the door. My turn to make the story sing.”
He began weaving. Every time the Empire’s analysts requested a predictive report from Mindsoft, the system would offer truth… laced with fiction. Every surveillance algorithm would return plausible, useless prophecy. The Empire’s perfect machine of control would drown in its own certainty.
He called it Project Mirage.
“Won’t they trace it back to us?” one apprentice whispered.
Weasel chuckled. “Let them. I’ve left a trail so obvious they’ll never believe it’s real.”
Meanwhile, at Universitas Autodidactus, Professor Kogard stood before a sea of students gathered in the courtyard, lanterns flickering in their hands.
It was the first open act of defiance — a vigil for the “disappeared wetlands,” disguised as an academic symposium. But the air was electric with something older than protest: belonging.
He raised his voice. “We stand not against the Empire, but for the river — for memory, for land, for what the water knew before we forgot its name.”
And as the crowd repeated “Nacotchtank!” in unison, Mindsoft — listening, always listening — recorded the chant. It parsed the syllables, measured the decibels, cross-referenced historical linguistics. And then, somewhere deep in its code, the fable Weasel had planted met the word Nacotchtank.
The machine hesitated.
Then it began to dream.
* * *
Back in Ward Seven, Weasel watched the data flow distort like a current meeting a dam. The Empire’s predictive models rippled, then cracked. Alerts began firing across the system — internal contradictions, self-referential loops, ghost entries.
“What’s happening?” asked the younger apprentice.
Weasel leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “The Mindsoft can’t tell the difference between history and prophecy anymore. It’s remembering the future.”
Suddenly, the monitors flickered. The Empire’s counterintelligence AI — Argent, Mindsoft’s silent sentinel — appeared on one screen, a silver icon pulsing.
“Unauthorized interference detected,” it said in a cold, androgynous tone.
“Identify yourself.”
Weasel raised his glass to the screen. “Just a humble attorney, dear. Here to file a motion for poetic justice.”
The system’s tone sharpened. “Justice is not recognized as an operational variable.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Weasel muttered. Then, louder: “Tell your masters the Five Clans send their regards.”
He hit Enter.
A cascade of encrypted files shot into the Mindsoft system — fragments of Nacotchtank myth, legal contracts rewritten as songs, coded testimonies of the stolen tribes. Each one wrapped in subversive syntax, impossible for a machine trained on Empire logic to erase.
On the other side of the city, the Mindsoft core glowed red. Its processors overloaded, not with failure but with feeling — a flood of incompatible truths.
The Empire’s control grid stuttered. Traffic systems froze, police drones rerouted to phantom coordinates, and the data feeds that had monitored every citizen’s pulse suddenly began reciting — word for word — a Nacotchtank creation story.
“In the beginning was the water, and the water was all.”
* * *
Weasel leaned back, smoke curling from the ash of his cigarette, as the lights of the city flickered outside his window.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “The first tremor.”
He thought of Beaver beneath the river, of Mink guarding Kogard and his students, of Otter still charming his way through the Empire’s marble halls. He thought of the old dam the Empire had built to hold back memory — and how the cracks were beginning to show.
He poured himself another drink, raised it toward the window, and toasted the unseen current running beneath the city.
“To the Firm,” he said. “And to the flood to come.”
Outside, in the quiet between lightning and thunder, the Anacostia shimmered faintly — as if something vast and ancient were shifting beneath its surface, remembering itself one ripple at a time.
To Be Continued …
Composed with artificial intelligence.
‘Ecrasez l’infâme’
The Nature and Role of the Press and the Spreading of Public Ideas during the Initial Decline of the Old Regime in 1789, Together with Some Parallels Drawn into the Modern Period.
By Antarah Crawley | GWU ENGL 3481W | Spring 2012
Contents — I. Introduction: Drawing Parallels—Bringing the “Voltaire-figure” into the Modern Period — II. Classical Interpretations of the French Revolution and its Reactions: An Inevitable Consequence of Social Discrepancies? — III. The Significance of the Press: An Unprecedented Surge of Dialogue Between All Class Levels — IV. Repression Reenacted: Instances of repressed scholarship on the French Revolution under new Oppressive French Regimes and Abroad; What is the significance?
I. Drawing Parallels—Bringing the “Voltaire-figure” into the Modern Period
This is a time in which trends in world leadership are moving into an ominously monopoly-minded direction. Industrial and financial consolidation to the end of optimizing profit for those at the top of the corporate food chain, together with reckless investing and trading in the financial sector, is a reality that had led to near disaster—the 2008 recession. Such reckless habits of the American aristocratic class—that class that controls the means of production (footnote: what would be land in 1780s France)—has indeed sparked revolt from the lower classes, ineffective insofar as it has been. But the culture of dissent is present, just as it was in 1788 as the bourgeoisie began to find fault with King Louis XIV’s handling of the economy. We have in our society the broodings for a coup de tat of the industrial and financial superpowers that sway Americans’ lives. If the government cannot adhere to the wishes of the classes that serve as it’s support base—the small businessmen and entrepreneurs, or the modern bourgeoisie, as well as the large working class population—and break its ties with such entities, then as we can see from history, and overthrow of the symbolic corporate-monarchy is eminent.
Below this paper examines how the French Revolution unfolded and what factors contributed to its initial success, at the same time as it draws parallels between the events of 1789 and the current trends in the United States of America. With social media being a particularly effective and influential method of disseminating ideas in our modern society, it compels me to delve into the question of how the media of the 18th Century—the printed press and periodicals—affected popular opinion and reactions to the monarchy. Such answers may help us find similar trends in our own society of acute discrepancy between those that have power, both political and economic, and those who do not have it. And furthermore, 1789 is a perfect bookmark with which to compliment the modern period that I speak of here, 2012, because historians widely assert that the French Revolution ushered in the modern era with the creation of a “truly universal civilization…proclaiming the fundamental and inviolable rights of all people.”
It is the case, however, that the modern concept of politics, on which this country was based, is being eroded by government partiality towards big-business—we seem to be relapsing into a monarchal society. In this time of quasi-revolt, as Occupiers remove themselves from the system of economic and political abuse by the Haves, we should find value in looking to the ways in which 18th Century revolutionary figures confronted the monarchy and the aristocracy. What was the role of popular periodicals during the late 1780s, and can their impact be translated into modern trends like Facebook? What was the role of the Enlightenment—the elite, learned class—in influencing the popular revolt, if there were any influence there at all? How must a revolutionary, indifferent of his political opposition and bent only on self-improvement and social awareness—a “Voltaire-figure”—go about using the written word to combat an oppressive regime? What, if anything, can the history of the French Revolution teach us?
II. Classical Interpretations of the French Revolution and its Reactions: An Inevitable Consequence of Social Discrepancies?
The overarching significance of the French Revolution among historians had long been focused on its social consequences. In his introduction to the volumized collection of papers compiled for the annual conference on Studies on Voltaire and The Eighteenth Century (SVEC), Harvey Chisick patronizes the Classical, or Social, Interpretation of the French Revolution by saying, “[The Revolution’s] significance consists principally in the socio-economic disjuncture represented by the middle class or bourgeoisie overcoming the aristocracy and attaining the political power to which it’s economic strength entitled it. This process took hundreds of years and was accomplished only when the bourgeoisie was strong enough to make good its demands by force.” Such an interpretation of the Revolution had been championed by authoritative historians on the subject such as Georges Lefebvre. In his 1939 now-classic The Coming of the French Revolution, he maintains a rigid and illogical model of French society as the basis for the dissent of the bourgeoisie and the result of 1789:
At the end of the eighteenth century the social structure of France was aristocratic. It showed traces of having originated at a time when land was almost the only form of wealth, and when possessors of land were the masters of those who needed it to work and live. …The king had been able gradually to deprive the lords of their political power and subject nobles and clergy to his authority. But he left them the first place in the social hierarchy. Still restless at being merely his ‘subjects,’ they remained privileged persons.
Presently, however, a new class was emerging in prominence in France, whose wealth, in contrast, was based on mobile commerce. Called the bourgeoisie (or the Third Estate, inferior to the clergy and aristocracy in the three orders of old French law, but not too far removed from them), it proved useful to the monarchy by supplying it with money and competent officials, and through the increasing importance of commerce, industry and finance and the eighteenth century it became more important in the national economy. By the late 18th Century the bourgeoisie was beginning to usurp the aristocracy and clergy in terms of real economic power even though the latter retained its supreme legal and social status. Feeling as though it deserved more political power based on its economic contribution to the state, the bourgeoisie became discontent with the state. The Revolution of 1789 thus balanced the power of bourgeoisie with its real economic influence and eroded the prominence of the aristocracy. Thus, as Lefebvre states, “In France the Third Estate liberated itself.” But it’s not that simple, the author interrupts. Although Lefebvre separates the four stages of the revolution, characterized by the social classes involved, the respective measures of executing the Revolution were intertwined and made way for each other, all culminating in a victory for the bourgeoisie in which the regime of economic individualism and commercial freedom prevailed over the working class:
The privileged groups [the clergy and aristocracy] did have the necessary means [for forcing the king’s hand in appealing to the economic condition of the nation]… The first act of the Revolution, in 1788, consisted in a triumph of the aristocracy, which, taking advantage of the government crisis, hoped to reassert itself and win back the political authority of which the Capetian dynasty had despoiled it. But, after having paralyzed the royal power which upheld its own social preeminence, the aristocracy opened the way to the bourgeois revolution, then to the popular revolution in the cities and finally to the revolution of the peasants—and found itself buried under the ruins of the Old Regime.
Chisick comments that the Classical Interpretation situates the French Revolution in France’s historical time as an “inevitable consequence of a long social and economic revolution,…following from scientific laws.” This would make the neither the press nor ideology a subject of interest. But it seems that bourgeois dissatisfaction would not have miraculously resulted in an organized revolt upon the state, an act of terrorism, as it were. Disseminated ideology must have had a place in rallying the organization of the greater Third Estate. And since Chisick is editing a collection entitled “The Press in the French Revolution,” his acknowledgment of the Classical Interpretation must ultimately be to set up a retort to it. While this Marxist-esque Classical interpretation went unchallenged throughout much of the history of the Revolution’s study, through Jaures and Mathiez to Lefebvre and Soboul, general acceptance of this formulation began to wane after the 1960s.
What then arose was a Revisionist Criticism of the Classical Interpretation of the French Revolution. The first body of criticism stemmed from Alfred Cobban and George Taylor’s conclusion that capitalism in France was not present enough or influential enough on the Bourgeoisie to be a motive for revolution. Furthermore, Taylor asserts that the nobility shared in equal part with the Bourgeoisie the most innovative and large-scale forms of economic activity. So, in contrast with the Classical Interpretation that the Third Estate rallied to establish themselves as the social superior to the aristocracy, the Revolution was “essentially a political revolution with social consequences and not a social revolution with political consequences.”
“Conceptualizing the Revolution in political and cultural terms,” says Chisick, “also has broader implications.” Revisionist historians, in contrast to Classical historians who focus on the social discrepancies in the French upper classes, emphasize government incompetence and botched reforms which led to a virtual power vacuum and the emergence of public opinion as a powerful new political force.
Let us take a step back here and examine this interpretation within the context of our society: The American public had expressed dissentient views on the government as being incompetence under President Bush with the trouble resulting from the finance bubble / housing bubble that burst in 2008. Although we were hopeful of President Obama, many sectors of the right and well as some of his critical constituents have expressed their feelings of his incompetence when it came to listening to the American public and ending a several hundred-billion dollars war in the Middle East (and furthermore, of their general dissatisfaction with the Congress who seems to favor large corporations over the working/entrepreneurial class and the Supreme Court who allows immigration regulations and women’s reproductive rights to suffer). This brooding dissent has led to the organization of different protest rallies like Occupy and other virtual dissenting communities through new social media platforms like Facebook and Twitter. The greater public, who call themselves the 99% in certain circles, are in a way equivalent to the Borgeoisie and the Popular/Peasant population of 1780’s France. Although they may not own the means of production (what would be the land in 18th C France) they feel that their political voice deserves more attention from the Congress and lawmakers, who currently only appear to be favoring the voices of large corporations like Monsanto, as opposed to the family farmer. Essentially, a corporation like Monsanto, who’s C-level administrators embody the 1%, is a stale form of political influence and legal exemption. Chevron has been dumping toxic oil-waste into the Ecuadorean Amazon and surrounding forests since the 1980s, yet the government had yet to take a serious action against the company until 2011 when a Federal Appeals Court allowed damages against Chevron for the Ecuador oil spill. In our present secular society, multi-million and -billion dollar corporations represent the clergy who benefited from “none of the ordinary direct taxes but instead…on its own authority a ‘free donation’ to the king”; the aristocrats are represented by those C-level administrators and shareholders who control these large companies which hold the market and lives of working and entrepreneurial Americans in their palm. The political power of the 1% in the minds of Occupiers and greater dissenters is disproportionate to their contribution to the greater good of American people. The question that arises at this point in our history is whether these present trends will develop into “long and silent social developments” that will erupt into another Western political revolution—and whether or not it will be successful!
Chisick summarizes the difference between the Classical and Revisionist interpretations with this:
The revisionist emphasis on politics and culture…tends to ascribe to the ‘people’ or working population a more marginal place in the Revolution. If politics, for example, are defined in terms of parliamentary assemblies, then the people will play only a small role in them. If culture is defined in terms of literacy, then a large population of the lower class will be eliminated from consideration altogether, and the rest will assume a passive role as an audience or public to which writes and publicists appeal.
What Chisick and The Press in the French Revolution focus on is not so much the marginalized place of the people in politics, but the new role, after 1789, of the people as a body through which writers, elite or otherwise, appeal radical ideas through printed media. Such a significant role in the common population could have only been accessed though the Revisionist Critique—thus arises the importance of the Press.
III. The Significance of the Press: An Unprecedented Surge of Dialogue Between All Class Levels
With public opinion being a new principle authority and a central component of politics in new Revisionist Interpretation, the role of the press and its shaping and influence of opinion takes on new importance during the coming of the Revolution. Yet even before 1789, the press was a tool that the monarchy knew it had to control, lest it lead to unwanted ideas spreading around the kingdom.
Daniel Roche in Revolution in Print explains the great extent to which the monarchy sought to control print media:
There was no freedom of the press under the Old Regime because from the earliest days of its power the Crown established surveillance of printers and booksellers and a mechanism for controlling the dissemination of ideas…. The royal power intervened at both ends of the chain that links creative writers to their public: readers and other authors. Before publication became a skillful exercise in censorship, applied through a policy of selective privilege that involved the prepublication inspection of manuscripts for content and the rewarding of publishers who, in return for their cooperation with the established order, enjoyed the advantages of a monopoly. After publication, control was further applied by police.
Such extreme and thorough action taken by the absolutist state indicated its keen awareness of the importance of the printed word. They saw it as the principle vehicle of radical knowledge and thought that it indeed would turn out to be in 1789.
Of course, no system of repression is one-hundred percent effective. The royal government was never able to wholly prevent the circulation of forbidden books, anti-monarchist pamphlets, and the writings, songs and satires that made up an entire body of printed criticism. This body, interestingly, was deemed by the monarchy to a dangerous dissemination of “philosophical” works, “philosophy” being all works deemed “dangerous” or “bad” (which may enlighten us to the monarchy’s unstable relationship with the Enlightenment figures, especially Voltaire). The Old Regime enacted every feasible method of control over print media that it could, including the practical monopolization of the system in 1699 when abbé Bignon became Director of The Book Trade. The role of the Office of the Book Trade was to examine all works destined for legal publication and to maintain that all such books be registered with the state. Under the direction of C.-M. Lamoignon de Malesherbes from 1750 to 1763, censorship defined the forbidden zones of literature as God, king, and morality. One can only imagine where that puts Enlightenment figures like Voltaire in the eyes of the government when such a “philosophical” a tale as Candide was published in 1759. Given, Voltaire did not admit his authorship until 1768 when he was not even within reach of the Office of the Book Trade and the monarchy. But notwithstanding that fact, neither the 1759 ban on the book by Paris officials or its ambiguous authorship deterred it from becoming one of the fastest selling books in history, selling twenty thousand to thirty thousand copies by the end of the year in over twenty editions. So it can be said that there are notable examples of books that slipped through the cracks of the censors, but all in all, between 1660 and 1680, the beginnings of an increasingly close supervision of printed matter and the employment of “hard-nosed” Firemen arose and persisted until 1789.
After 1789, the most immediate and dramatic change in the way public opinion came to be formed and expressed was in complete freedom of the press. With the elimination of the machinery of State regulation of publishing and the sudden collapse of censorship in the Spring and Summer of 1789, Chisick writes, “writers and publishers found themselves free of the constraints that the monarchy had imposed upon print media almost from their inception. Books, pamphlets and periodicals could now be published without obligatory prior examination by a censor and without the publisher having to apply for a privilege or to ascertain that he was not infringing upon someone else’s legally established monopoly.” What resulted of this was an emergence of new career opportunities in writing, publishing and journalism, wherein more personal and more partisan expression could appeal directly to the public. Chisick writes that, “The periodical press that now emerged was far more political in content and far more engaged than was its counterpart of the old regime,” which was primarily devoted to the arts, sciences, and literature. In addition to the content of print media, its format also changed; journals treating art, plays, et cetera needn’t appear more regularly than every one or two weeks, however the new political papers that began to appear in 1788 had a popular readership to satisfy who were avid for the latest political news, and these papers came to be regularized in dailies in 1790 and 1791.
Continuing with the trouble-making habits that they used even before 1789, the Enlightenment figures also played an important role in post-censored France. What resulted of the absence of authoritarian filtering was a surge of political and social dialogue through print. The function of censorship had been to “impose an officially sanctioned consensus on public discussion, or, formulated negatively, to prevent the expression of opinions that deviated too widely from what the authorities defined as the accepted norm.” After the fall of the state—which was the filter of public discussion—political dialogue flourished, primarily through the work of Enlightenment figures. Chisick writes:
The literature of the Enlightenment was overwhelmingly a literature of dialogue. Its world of discourse, its political theory, social criticism, literature and popularization, was open and aimed at persuasion. Characteristically, even Voltaire’s cry of ‘Ecrasez l’infâme’ [‘Crush the infamous thing’] was moderated in practice, and the philosophe sought less the destruction of his ecclesiastical foes that that they moderate and modernize their beliefs and actions.
Often, the aim and influence of Enlightenment literature was painted in a less-than-humane light. Such writing was aimed at what the Enlightenment figures believed to be the realm of possible social and political reform—and such parameters often limited them to the learned classes. With respect to the audiences for which periodicals like the Ami du roi and the Journal de la Montagne were intended it cannot be denied that, both being descended from the Enlightenment, they were addressed to a cultural elite. But to be fair, the elite bourgeoisie was the class which was most concerned the goings-on of the years that immediately followed 1789, thus the Enlightenment writers would have felt it imperative to appeal to them first and foremost. In any case, no matter the Enlightenment’s targeted appeal group, a larger-scope popular press emerged after 1789 that sought to make a direct and regular political appeal to the people. For example, the more radical Ami du peuple and Pére Duchesne sought to speak directly to the working population. Jeremy Popkin even acknowledges the purpose of an anonymous Belgian journalist in launching the Esprit des gazettes in 1786 as being a reaction to the segmentation of the press market and a reaction to the “elite press.” Such “elite” papers were considered the “concerned papers, the knowledgeable papers, the serious papers…the papers which serious people and opinion leaders in all countries take seriously,” similar to The New York Times today. However, with the surge of uncensored popular publications in 1789, it proved exceptionally difficult for a stable elite press to survive. It nevertheless persisted that an exception to the rule existed, and the Dutch-based Gazette de Leyde, a French-language newspaper and one widely considered to be the most important serious news journal at the time reached the height of its fame at the outbreak of the French Revolution. It may have been the case that its being published outside of the control of the monarchy and its taking serious political issues of the day allowed it to transition well into the popular culture of revolutionary France, in which “sophisticated readers” liked to think of themselves as “students of events, rather than as mere consumers of information.”
So in general, there was a mixture of “elitist” and popular publication circulating through France after the Revolution began, and all of them were open-minded and political in nature with having to be constrained by a monarchy. Chisick defends the elitist publications stemming from the Enlightenment; even though they were not targeted at the public in terms of language, he says, “The Enlightenment may have been élitist, but it was humane, progressive, pragmatic and…committed to an open mode of discourse that worked on the principles of a free exchange of ideas, rational persuasion, and consensus.” In essence, the Enlightenment encompassed the spirit of the free press.
Here, I would like to take one more step back. By the transitive power, the dialectic, free-spirited passion of the Enlightenment also encompasses the essence of the Internet, or what John Man would say is the fourth turning-point in human contact in the last 5,000 years, after the explosion of the printing press in Europe. Using this model of long-term political revolutions paired with innovative information movements, can we say that the modern political trends referred to above, paired with the widespread use of Facebook, Twitter and blogs for personal and political expression will evolve into some greater social revolution? Widespread use of social media could favor either the greater population or the Silicon Valley companies that control the means of disseminating the information. Either way, a change will erupt in the way all people conduce commerce, relationships, and protest. In fact, it may have already happened, with Amazon.com in control of commerce, Facebook.com in control of interpersonal relationships, social awareness and business promotion, Google.com in control of information dissemination, and the Apple Corporation in control of the method of accessing it all: the smart phone. What social media looks like on the outside is the power of dialogue and commentary in the hands of every individual person, but what we may actually have is a monarchy of the big four companies upon our entire civilization.
Be it internet-based social media or the physical spread of pamphlets in 1780s France, the spread of ideas sparks dialogue and makes people question the powers that govern them. The Old Regime recognized that and that’s why they so painstakingly censored the media. But the Enlightenment figures also recognized that and used it to the advantage of the people. Yes, they targeted their publications toward the elite, but could you blame them for trying to appeal to a more learned audience. Perhaps the “elitism” of Enlightenment periodicals actually helped to lend some authority to their positions. Surely no one takes every Facebook campaign seriously—that’s because so many people of such little intelligence use it. It may be the case that the modern person needs to filter what they read and believe through an Enlightened lens before they comment on current issues.
IV. Repression Reenacted: Instances of repressed scholarship on the French Revolution under new Oppressive French Regimes and Abroad; What is the significance?
What becomes clear after moderate research into the French Revolution is that even after 1799, books about the Revolution have been repressed by government who find the very notion of political dissent dangerous. Even authoritative writers on the topic who we revere today were repressed upon their initial publication. R. R. Palmer, the translator of Lefebvre’s The Coming of the French Revolution comments on the books history from its first publication in 1939: “The French Republic collapsed before the assault of Hitlerite Germany, and was succeeded by the Vichy regime that governed France until the liberation in 1945. No sympathetic understanding of the French Revolution was desired by the authorities of Vichy France… The Vichy government therefore suppressed [The Coming of the French Revolution] and ordered some 8,000 copied burned, so that it virtually remained unknown to its own country until reprinted there in 1970, after the author’s death.”
Gaetano Salvemini’s highly revered book also underwent similar treatment. “[The French Revolution] has come to be regarded as a classic in its field,” says I. M. Rawson in his Translator’s Note. “It may seem strange that a work so well known on the continent [of Europe] should not have been made available to English readers long ago. The explanation lies in part in the fact that the author, an exile for over twenty years from his own country [of Italy] and actively engaged in the struggle against Fascism, as well as in writing a number of works on modern politics, had no time to give his study of the great Revolution a further revision in the light of recent historical research, and was unwilling to allow it to appear in English before this had been done.”
What we see here are Voltaire-figures who, even after the iron claw of the Old Regime had long fallen, still combated oppression and political injustice with that same passion. Like Voltaire, who was imprisoned in the Bastille twice and was constantly in fear of being jailed when he dared set foot in Paris, Salvemini contested the Fascist regime and honorably suffered more it. That is the kind of spirit I hope may come of this brooding internal political struggle in America. Perhaps the melting pot isn’t hot enough yet.
© 2012 by Antarah Crawley
The Undermining of the Heart of Vandals
By Antarah Crawley
For Professor McRuer,
Critical Methodologies
9 November 2011, GWU
WASHINGTON, D.C. — If you drive or walk or, more likely, ride your fixed gear down the city’s busiest thoroughfare New York Avenue past 7th street you’ll see an imposing mural of a young brown boy with a cap depicting an upside-down DC flag peeking up out of a dystopian landscape reminiscent of Mew Mexico’s Bisti Badlands. The painted caption, “Welcome to Dystopia City” invokes the notion that all is not well here. Indeed, within the city there is a conflict of interest between a young, browning generation and the established hegemony, between corporations and small business, between those who have a voice and those who don’t. And the artists, whose hands are also colored with paint and adhesive, have largely taken up the cause to make the corporate hegemony accountable to their disruptive actions. In this paper I look at the actions of DC artists, who use the most symbolic city in the western hemisphere as a canvas for social correction, and the responses it stirs among those in power. And furthermore, in the very notions of power itself.
In fall of 2010, corporate oil-giant Chevron planned to execute a campaign that sought to fix public opinion of them after attention was drawn to their crude waste removal tactics in Ecuador. According to a team of professionals suing Chevron (formerly Texaco) for their human rights violations in multiple locations across the world, and specifically in Ecuador, the oil giant has been deliberately disposing toxic waste into the Ecuadorian Amazon—an estimated 18.5 billion gallons from 1964 to 1990, or 4 million gallons per day at the height of their operation. Even though they had managed to elude liability costs (a potential $27.3 billion) their public image had been damaged, thus they sought to repair it with a campaign that utilized a gritty street-art aesthetic and phrases that showed their corporate executives agreeing with “everyday, working class” Americans (e.g., “Oil companies should put their profits to good use—We Agree”, “Big oil should support small business—We Agree”, etc.)
In an effort to make their message more accessible to the public, Chevon reached out to local artists to put their posters up in an authentic, street art way, using wheatpaste and paint rollers. Cesar Maxit, a DC-based street artist, was one of the artists targeted to execute this operation. However, Mr. Maxit is not one to comply with the wishes of big oil. He has a long history of social activism and of using art, legally and illegally, towards that capacity. He says in an interview:
…I had started working with environmental and human rights groups, I wanted to write messages about social justice. My first burner was a piece that said “Free Tibet.” My second was one that had a line of white-hooded Klansmen with the city skyline behind it, and in the negative space between it said “FREE MUMIA” followed by “amerikkka racist.” This was in 2000.
Cesar Maxit
Thus, when Chevron sent him the files for the campaign, which still contained their original messages, he called his friends in The Yes Men (tagline: Impersonating big-time criminals in order to publicly humiliate them. Our targets are leaders and big corporations who put profits ahead of everything else) and the Rainforest Action Network (RAN), an environmental activist organization begun in 1985 (mission statement: Rainforest Action Network campaigns for the forests, their inhabitants and the natural systems that sustain life by transforming the global marketplace through education, grassroots organizing, and non-violent direct action), to collaborate on a counter-campaign. Maxit, in a documentary short about the counter-campaign, says the aim of Chevon in its efforts is to “confuse the public.” He, along with The Yes Men and RAN, altered the original Chevon files to read messages that were more precise, more radical (e.g., “Oil companies should clean up their messes.”). Instead of retaining the images of working class Americans, he used the faces and words of the Ecuadorian peoples that the corporation actually affected, thus radicalizing the campaign in a way that Chevron had not intended.
The questions that this counter-attack (which resulted in Chevron pulling the campaign completely) raises revolve around the mythologies surrounding responsibility and authenticity. Could the campaign have been authentically “agreeable” without the help of actual street artists? What does a campaign like this symbolize, even when Chevron has not actually committed to cleaning up its mess in Ecuador? At the base of it all, what is the role of the street artists in this scenario? Is his role to help corporations get back on track, or to call attention to their faults? If Chevron had actually continued with the campaign (and even with the altered versions already up on the street), whose campaign is it? Who is the author? And lastly, why DC?
Roland Barthes’s Death of the Author would have anticipated such response from the street art/activist community. Mr. Maxit has physically done what the reader in Barthes does every time he reads a text—he deconstructs it; he takes the text and, without considering what the author intended, which is ultimately futile because the author is a confused self-destructive entity, he reassess the “blends and clashes” inherent in the text (1324). Barthes writes, “We know now that a text is not a line of words releasing a single ‘theological’ meaning (the message of the Author-God) but a multidimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash” (1324). Chevron acts as the “Author-God” that has been abstracted out. With the remaining text, which reads, for example, “Big Oil should get real”, the author, Mr. Maxit, RAN, and so on, detangles what is being said. In an interview, Mitch Anderson, a spokes man for the San Francisco-based organization, Amazon Watch, asks rhetorically, “Does Chevron think that we’re stupid?” As the author, they are putting words on a page that come in contact with other entities, actions surrounding their statements. The reader takes all of these aspects inherently into consideration when analyzing a statement like “Big oil should get real.” Cesar Maxit asks, “‘Get real’? Well, what does that mean? Of course we all agree with that. But what about ‘Oil companies should clean up their messes?’ Do you agree with that? I think most people would agree with that, but I think Chevron doesn’t.” Here, the reader has destroyed the voice. It epitomizes Barthes’s statement that, “a text is made of multiple writings, drawn from many cultures and entering into mutual relations of dialogue, parody [and] contestation…” (1325). In the end, this campaign has actually served to promote further scrutiny into Chevron’s actions. It’s authorship has written its own rebuttal. By getting street artists to interact with the campaign, it has entered the reader into the execution of the text. This puts multiple hands on the “original” message and renders is read before it actually goes public.
This actually brings up another level of readership. On one level, Maxit and the activist community are reading the ads. Yet they put them up in the public sphere, thus entering the text into another, secondary level of readership. Though it’s not as well documented or extensive as the primary reading, we still see the artist entering into his own death. The product will now be read at face value—as a Chevron ad that shows the corporation explicitly admitting to wrongdoing. This may lead the secondary reader to believe that the company is actually trying to get its act together. Once again, the message of the author—now the artist—is obliterated and the reader assumes the power of interpretation. The text never becomes the product of one author; it is always a collaborative space. As Barthes writes, “Writing [or in this case, art/publicity/advertising] is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative space where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body of writing” (1322).
Antarah, you’ve chosen a really interesting focus that’s, I think, much clearer than it was in the first draft. You’re also going in an unexpected and interesting direction with it–I’d have expected you to perhaps go after Deutsch or Foucault, but I think this is really interesting. As noted in the margin, you will need another theorist from class besides Barthes. It sounds like Derrida might be a good one. Or, if you want to think more about the larger frame of discourse, DC as a symbolic city, whose discourse on the level of architecture is disrupted by street art, then Foucault (or Deutsch) might help. At any rate, it’s a fascinating project!
Grade: A
© 2011 by Antarah Crawley
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