Creating [in]Sincerity: A Study of Sincerity in

Contemporary Visual Art Practice.

Rebecca Daynes

Bachelor of Fine Arts (Honours)

Submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

Faculty of Creative Industries

Queensland University of Technology

2019

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Keywords

Affect; Art; Communication; Disclosure; Discomfort; Gaslighting; Insincerity; Irony;

#metoo; Post-truth; Practice-led Research; Reflexivity; Sincerity; Vulnerability.

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Abstract

Sincerity in its traditional sense is commonly understood as the confluence of truthful statement and genuine feeling, or to put it simply: meaning what you say. In recent theoretical discourses however, sincerity has been stripped of its grounding in ethical promises or commitment to factual accuracy. It is not necessarily considered to have an essential relationship to one’s inner truth, rather, sincerity has been reimagined as a media effect that can be employed and manipulated without regard for issues of truth or authenticity. As a media effect, sincerity acts as a conduit for the transmission of affect as the more sincerity we perceive, the more we can empathise and feel. In the context of today’s ‘post-truth’ and media-saturated sphere, sincerity is a key transaction in the currency of emotion that dominates our age.

This project aims to explore the nature of sincerity in visual arts practice. Given today’s digital-visual era, reframing sincerity as an artistic stratagem for affective exchange requires a detailed consideration of how sincerity functions across digital platforms, and as a form of visual communication. Although the recent view of sincerity as a media effect alludes to its creative potential, most analysis stops short of articulating sincerity’s capacity as a distinct artistic process. This practice-led art project considers the role of sincerity in ethical, communicative, phenomenological, and affective modes, and devises conceptual and mediated strategies of working with sincerity across visual platforms. It will also address sincerity’s inherent paradoxes in relation to the ironic, its inseparability from insincerity, and the difficulty of performing sincerity. I examine these contradictions and how they can be reconciled through visual art practice for the purpose of providing affective engagement with the question of sincerity for the viewer.

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Figure 3, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no.3 (detail), 2018.

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Statement of Original Authorship

The work contained in this thesis has not been previously submitted to meet requirements for an award at this or any other higher education institution. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made.

Signature:

QUT Verified Signature

Date: September 25, 2019

6 Acknowledgements

I give my most heartfelt gratitude and appreciation to my supervisors Dr Mark Pennings, Dr Rachael Haynes and Mark Webb. Thank you for your wisdom, patience and guidance. What I have learnt from you extends far beyond this project and I will be eternally grateful.

I’d also like to extend my thanks to all of the visual art department whom I have had the pleasure of learning from during my studies. Thank you for all your support, feedback and inspiration along the way.

I must also acknowledge the wider university community, especially the Learning Potential Fund support and the APA scholarship that made this project possible.

I need to thank my sisterhood of DONAM for their inspirational strength and generosity of spirit. Thank you for holding a space for the ugly truth to transform into a place of beautiful sincerity. In particular I would like to thank the team, a sisterhood in the truest sense. I am better for having you in my life.

To my friends that are family, thank you for your unwavering belief, support and encouragement.

To my husband, Steven. There are no words to encapsulate how significant your support has been. Thank you for walking this journey with me, it would not have been possible without you.

And finally, to my children, Alexandria, Dominick and Ezekiel, there is nothing more sincere and true than my love for you.

7 Table of Contents Keywords ...... 3 Abstract ...... 4 Statement of Original Authorship ...... 6 Acknowledgements ...... 7 Table of Contents ...... 8 Table of Figures ...... 10

1. Introduction ...... 12

2. Methodology ...... 22 2.1 Practice Led Research ...... 23 2.2 Bricolage ...... 24 2.3 Improvisation and Innovation ...... 28 2.4 Repetition and Reiteration ...... 29 2.5 The Reflective Exegesis: A Candid Reflection ...... 32 2.6 Disclosure and Discomfort ...... 37 2.7 Sincerity as Method ...... 40

3. Practice in Context ...... 44 3.1 The Changing Face of Sincerity ...... 45 3.2 Reframing Sincerity: Sincerity as a Media Effect ...... 50 3.3 Feeling Sincere: Affective Sincerity ...... 56 3.4 Insincerity, Irony and Performance: When Sincerity Becomes “Sincerity” ...... 60 3.5 Sincerely, Me Too ...... 69 3.6 Sincerity in an Era of Post-Truth ...... 82 3.7 The Role of Social Media ...... 87 3.8 The Art of Sincerity ...... 92 3.9 Damien Hirst ...... 93 3.10 Marina Abramovic ...... 97 3.11 Eroding Sincerity ...... 101

4. Sincerity in Practice ...... 108 4.1 The Ethical: Finding a Sincere Voice ...... 109

8 4.2 Phenomenological Approaches: Working Without Wax ...... 112 4.3 The Affective: A Yearning to Communicate ...... 116 4.4 The Reflective: Conversing With the Self ...... 123 4.5 Embellishing the Truth ...... 126 4.6 A Sincere Self ...... 131 4.7 The Uncanny Self / I Haven’t Felt Like Myself Lately ...... 139

5. Conclusion ...... 150

References ...... 156

9 Table of Figures

Figure 1, Feint Hearted (detail) ______2

Figure 2, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no.3 (detail), 2018. ______5

Figure 3, Journey, 2011. Animation still. ______16

Figure 4, The Age of Knowing (detail), 2017 - 2018. ______31

Figure 5, Simon Has a Feeling, 2016. ______51

Figure 6 Rebecca Daynes. After Christine, 2018. ______77

Figure 7, Michelle Hartney. Performance/Call to Action, 2018. Performance still. _ 80

Figure 8, Betty Tompkins, Apologia (Mary Shepard Greene Blumenstein), 2018. __ 81

Figure 9, Left Ivanka Trump, Right Richard Prince's tweet. ______91

Figure 10 Damien Hirst, The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone

Living, 1991. ______96

Figure 11 Marina Abramovic, The Artist is Present, 2010. ______98

Figure 12 Marina Abramovic, The Artist is Present, 2010. ______101

Figure 13 Tracey Emin, Everyone I have Ever Slept With 1963-1995, 1995. _____ 103

Figure 14 Ryan Trecartin, The Re‘Search Wait’S, 2009-2010. ______106

Figure 15, Ryan Trecartin Roamie View: History Enhancement (Re'Search

Wait'S). 2009–10. ______106

Figure 16, Sea is Lonely, 2015. Video still. ______115

Figure 17, Sea is Lonely, 2015. Video still. ______115

Figure 18 Rebecca Daynes, For Toots, 2016. ______117

Figure 19 Rebecca Daynes, 4 E ‘female emoji’ ‘horse emoji’, 2015. ______120

Figure 20, Rivane Neuenschwander. I Wish Your Wish, 2010. Installation view. _ 124

Figure 21, Untitled, 2017. ______127

Figure 22, Under the Gaslight (detail), 2107. ______129

10 Figure 23, Under the Gaslight (detail), 2017. ______130

Figure 24, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no.6 (detail), 2018. ______132

Figure 25, I Wish My mother Understood Me, no 6, 2018 ______134

Figure 26, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no, 2018. ______135

Figure 27, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no, 2018 ______136

Figure 28, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no, 2018. ______137

Figure 29, The Age of Knowing (detail), 2017 - 2018. ______138

Figure 30, Under the Gaslight. ______143

Figure 31, The Age of Knowing, Exhibition view. ______144

Figure 32, I Wish My Mother Understood Me (detail) ______145

Figure 33, Feint Hearted (Installation view) 2018-2019 ______147

Figure 34, I Haven't Felt Like Myself Lately, 2018. Video Still. ______148

11 Chapter 1: Introduction

Sincerity is a nebulous and elusive subject and is hard to define. While the term is often used and readily understood in everyday conversation, deeper analysis reveals obscure, nuanced and complex layers of meaning hidden within a tenuous cluster of ideas and ambiguities. It is key when reading this exegesis to differentiate sincerity from concepts regarding truth, honesty, candour, or authenticity. While it has a long-standing association with these notions, and can be used synonymously with them, recognising the ways in which it is distinct from these concepts is imperative when seeking to understand sincerity’s function in contemporary art practice.

Sincerity, as a phenomenon that occurs during communication, has the potential to lead to instances of affect, connection, belief, and comprehension. We routinely use judgements of sincerity to gauge the authenticity and credibility of others around us.

These judgments determine our willingness to subscribe to a belief, invest in a product, or put our trust in another. These affect us on both a private and public level, such as when deciding whether to forgive a slight, determining the severity of a criminal sentence, or in deciding whom to vote for.

In recent years contemporary theorists and philosophers have offered new insights into the phenomenon of sincerity, they have however also acknowledged the difficulties associated with mapping such a tenuous and paradoxical subject (Groys 2012, Young

2009, Ozar 2013). In today’s digital-visual era, reframing sincerity as an artistic stratagem for affective exchange requires a detailed consideration of how sincerity functions across digital platforms, and as a form of visual communication. Although

12 recent examinations of sincerity have alluded to its creative potential, most analysis stops short of articulating sincerity’s capacity as a distinct artistic process. Considering sincerity’s inherent paradoxes in relation to the ironic, its inseparability from insincerity, and the difficulty of performing sincerity, this project examines divergent conceptual and mediated strategies of working with sincerity across visual platforms in order to address the question: How can the difficulties and inherently paradoxical nature of sincerity be reconciled through visual art practice in order to provide affective and sincere engagement for the viewer?

Sincerity’s everyday interpretation as ‘meaning what you say’ is readily linked to ideas of truth and honesty. However, I have found that sincerity is not necessarily reliant upon them and can exist independently from them. Correspondingly, sincerity does not require the telling of everything that is demanded of expressions of candour. What is sincere is not necessarily true, and sincerity can emerge long before enough has been said for candour to have been conveyed.

With that said, while it is my intention to state that this doctoral account is sincere, it is also necessary that it be truthful. Therefore, I would like to take a moment to write with candour and honesty in order to provide the most truthful report into this research so that it can convey the significance of sincerity within my own creative practice.

Coming into this research I believed I understood when my personal interest in sincerity arose. I was so sure of this that I was able to pinpoint this notion to an exact date and time: the moment my hometown was destroyed by an earthquake. However, during this research process I have since discovered that my interest in sincerity long predated this

13 event, but I had not yet recognised or articulated it in those terms. The following excerpt is from my confirmation document, which was written a year into this research project.

I include this here because, although I no longer consider it to be true, I do consider it to be sincere. At the time it was the most honest account I could provide, and it indicates my concern about how to convey the authenticity or truth of an experience that pushed against the limits of my understanding of sincerity, and shaped the way my research would progress.

Beginning with an earth-shattering rumble, my interest in sincerity was aroused on a Tuesday afternoon in February 2011, on what scientists and politicians would thereafter refer to as New Zealand’s darkest day. During the exact moment that an earthquake was devastating my hometown of Christchurch, I was browsing Facebook from the stable and safe terrain of Brisbane, Australia. I was struck with fear prior to comprehending an influx of desperate and terrifyingly sincere status updates that entered my Facebook feed. Despite my immediate physical security, my world was, metaphorically at least, pulled out from under me. In just over a minute, every place from my childhood had been annihilated, and every person I knew was suddenly a potential casualty who might be lost, hurt, or in danger.

As images and information began to flood in, I became fixated on the screen. I searched for faces I might recognise, and places I knew. Instead of being greeted by familiar memories of home however, I was confronted with terrifying images of a devastated landscape. What I saw seemed to be simultaneously completely alien and horrifyingly familiar. I was struck by the expressions on people’s faces: shock, disbelief, confusion, and fear. While I will never know what it felt like to actually be there, when I caught my own reflection in the screen, I noticed that my expression mirrored those of the people I was looking at. I then became fuelled by feelings of guilt and helplessness, and developed an insatiable, all- consuming hunger for information and vicarious experience. Needless to say, all other projects in my life came to a grinding halt, for they seemed petty and irrelevant in light of the tragedy at home.

Here in Brisbane, life went on, which generated a strange and unsettling disconnection between the physical reality of my own ‘ordinary’ and secure existence, and the inexplicable montage of dramatic images unfolding on the screen in front of me. My emotionally-charged reaction to what happened in Christchurch was in no way unique. The friends, family, and other expats I

14 spoke to related similar responses and fixations. There also seemed to be a kind of survivor’s syndrome that was characterised by simultaneous feelings of guilt, helplessness, and a vicarious desire for information that was enabled by screen culture. It was at this complex and complicated conjunction of mediated experiences that I began to explore the idea of sincerity in my art practice.

While creative practice involves research methodologies and formal enquiries, I also use it as a space for catharsis, in which thinking, processing, and moving through my own experiences is enabled. I see art and art-making as a principal means by which to understand and communicate with the world. The earthquakes however posed a problem that left me briefly immobilised: this poignant experience wasn’t mine, because I wasn’t there. The earthquakes were not my story to tell, and it felt disrespectful to those who had been there, to try to speak about something I had not directly experienced. Comparatively, I felt dwarfed by my fellow Canterburian’s pain, and embarrassed by the intensity of my own reactions. I knew I had not been physically present, but the emotional experience was real, and consumed me. Amid the confusion and upheaval, before these emotions, reasons, and ramifications could be named or articulated, my own sincerity, marked by an intensity of feeling, was one thing of which I could be sure. This moment of recognition about my ‘feelings’ and affective state, re-mobilised my practice, enabling me to shift my emphasis away from trying to convey the authenticity or truth of an experience, towards an acceptance of the value of my emotional intensity. Even though I could not draw on first hand involvement or speak on the experienced truth, my distanced response was the only experience I could faithfully speak about: this was sincere.

What I understand now is that how I felt about making art in the wake of the destruction of my hometown was merely a concrete analogy for other feelings I had in response to trauma: guilt, embarrassment, and confusion. On reflection I can see that my artwork had been indirectly concerned with struggling to find a sincere expression to many traumatic events. However, I wasn’t consciously aware of the fact, so, I possessed neither the understanding nor the ability to articulate it previously.

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Figure 4, Journey, 2011. Animation still.1

Like many artists, I have come to realise that my creative work is often fueled by trauma. For me, the particular traumas I refer to are linked to childhood emotional abuse and child trafficking. Although I am aware that these experiences shape and infiltrate much of my creative practice at both conscious and subconscious levels, I have rarely addressed these traumas overtly. On the contrary, I often go to great lengths to conceal or deflect the traumatic underpinnings of my subject matter by the use of humour, absurdity, embellishment and exaggeration. The reasons for this are complicated, but on a rudimentary level, I believe it to be partly a defense mechanism, and an intentional form of emotional distancing. I have also learnt that experiencing difficulty in giving clear expression to my experiences is a symptomatic consequence of the traumas themselves. Studies of trauma have shown that survivors of child trafficking typically

1 Journey, 2011. Video Animation. This work travels through a digital animation of Christchurch. Physical memory has been displaced by the visual imagery of ruins shared via digital technologies. Exchanging physicality for vicarious visual experience, the video work Journey frees memory from its corporeal dimensions to travel unfettered over unshaken digital terrain.

16 experience pernicious silence, disassociation, and feelings of inauthenticity (Cecchet and Thoburn, 2014) . I have come to realize that these are reoccurring themes in my art practice. In the methodology section of this exegesis I will elucidate my struggles with disclosure and feelings of vulnerability, and how this has translated into difficulties with the written component of my research. This difficulty with the translation of feelings into text however is also where I see sincerity’s principal significance and function in my art practice. Consequently, working through ideas that focus on conceptions of sincerity that are distinct from notions of candour, and issues of authenticity, has been the way to address the matter of silencing.

Through the research undertaken over the course of my undergraduate degree and

Honours project, I discovered that while sincerity can certainly be thought of as a moral construct or ethical demand, working with sincerity in a contemporary art practice also requires critical consideration of the way sincerity functions on affective and phenomenological levels. As time passed, I developed a more intellectually focused consideration of questions about the exact nature and function of sincerity in my creative practice. Could my feelings of sincerity be illustrated in my creative outcomes?

Could sincerity be consciously harnessed, conveyed and manifested in artistic terms, or was it only a fleeting emotional expression? Were some artistic genres, processes, or materials more inherently imbued with sincerity than others? Furthermore, what criteria could I employ to assess the sincerity of my own work, or that of another? What had at first seemed like a decidedly straightforward exercise soon revealed itself to be an enigma.

17 Over the course of the last decade, theorists and philosophers have offered new insights into the phenomenon known as sincerity, including disassociating it from morality and ethics (which have traditionally dominated the discussion of sincerity). The current post-humanist belief, informed by preceding postmodern and post-structural ideas, is that sincerity is not a transcendent principle of human behaviour, but rather a social practice that is defined and understood according to its contrasting relations with other social practices (Groys, 2012). As such, the re-framing of sincerity requires an understanding of it as a social phenomenon rather than as an essentialist expression of some kind of inner emotional ‘truth’. This conception of sincerity makes it entirely amenable to social discourses and cultural practices, and in the era of globalisation, it has in many respects become a media effect.

Understanding sincerity as a media effect rather than as a subjectivity-bound experience allows for the exploration of sincerity’s communicative impact, without undue attention on ethical parameters. However, this research project and the art that emerges from it also explores the emotive and phenomenological dimensions of sincerity, and posits a crucial relationship between sincerity, affect, and empathy. I propose that many artworks that use sincerity recognise its affinity with empathy and “affective human connectedness” (Ozar, 2013). Explicitly, this involves the desire to be moved, to feel, and to be intimately connected with others. The human need for connectedness, and our responsiveness to affect are intrinsic to human biology and are embedded in the body itself (Gauld 2014, 390). The emotional valences of empathy and affect also indicate how complex the condition of sincerity is and add further layers to our understanding of its phenomenological aspects, and in turn the role it plays as an inter-subjective media effect.

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For my purposes, sincerity can be understood within four distinct frameworks: the ethical, the communicative, the affective, and the reflexive. My art practice proposes that while one can explore these facets of sincerity in isolation, this does little to explain how sincerity functions in interactive, affective, and dynamic social spheres, and more importantly, in creative practice and visual culture. With particular focus given to the communicative and the affective, this practice-led research project will endeavour to explore divergent elements of sincerity in order to explore the nature of sincerity in contemporary art and visual culture.

In Chapter Two ‘Methodology’, I address my methodological and creative research practices. After a brief introduction to practice-led research I discuss my key methodologies, beginning with the methodological umbrella of bricolage: a multifaceted methodology aimed at building connections and embracing contradictions. Delving into some of the strategies and studio methods that fall under that term, I discuss appropriation and the use of creative commons in my practice, and explore the strategies of improvisation and repetition. I then examine the notion of reflexivity and the different forms this has taken in my research. In my discussion of reflexivity, I address the relationship between my studio practice and written exegesis, and describe the significant tension I experience in relation to acts of disclosure.

Finally, I outline how these strategies work together to constitute sincerity as a creative method.

Chapter Three is titled ‘Sincerity in Context’. In order to frame how I see sincerity functioning in visual arts practices, this chapter begins by tracing the evolving notion

19 of sincerity through history and outlining its interpretative framework in the contemporary, media saturated era. While looking at sincerity as a media effect, and its relationship with affect, I address expressions of sincerity in contemporary culture and explore how sincerity can be used as a strategy for manipulation and/or interpersonal connection. This leads into a discussion on the relationship between sincerity and cultural phenomena such as the #MeToo movement and the rise of post-truth. In the second half of this chapter I examine how sincerity has been articulated by artists such as Damien Hirst, Marina Abramovic, Tracey Emin and Ryan Trecartin, and reflect on how their work has informed my own practice.

In the fourth chapter ‘Sincerity in Practice’, I discuss the pivotal explorations and developments of my research enquiries through an examination of a selection of my key works (rather than my entire body of work). I first address my understanding of sincerity as an ethical consideration. The second line of inquiry discussed is the phenomenological phase, in which I begin to explore the manifestations of sincerity, and how they can be strategically employed in artworks. I follow this section by reflecting on sincerity’s relationship with affect, specifically affective communication.

In the second half of this chapter I turn my focus inwards, and address sincerity as a state of self-reflection. I also explain how the process of creating my artworks led to a transformation in my understanding of sincerity.

Sincerity was often associated with the disaffected artist who, standing outside of society’s conventions, honestly and directly communicated their most private, even primal truths (Huxley, 1960). Now however that role is liberally performed in the populist spheres of social media and reality TV. To that end, I have examined the

20 techniques used to engender a sense of sincerity in the media and considered the significance of these stratagems for contemporary art practice. The world of social media seems to have created a populist ‘share culture’ where emotion has become a form of currency. Websites such as Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram provide the forums through which we can communicate our sincere feelings and share our emotions. This can generate a powerful sense of affect when we are overwhelmed with images and statements that express sincerity – both real and feigned. In relation to this phenomenon, I explore how ideas of sincerity in art can be communicated across digital platforms while maintaining creative and expressive autonomy from some popular tropes that may be viewed as eroding sincerity.

21 Chapter 2: Methodology

In this chapter I will address my methodological and creative research practices. Due to the complicated and paradoxical nature of sincerity and its complex verbal and visual dimensions, I believe it is a topic best explored through practice-led research. This is because traditional research methods grounded in written expression are limited in ways that practice-led research is not. Given that sincerity has a demonstrable function in visual communication, it is an appropriate topic area for visual art research. My studio research takes a fluid, post-medium approach to art making. This means that my studio processes include, but are not limited to: cutting, editing, filming, photographing, performing, drawing, writing, sculpting, and painting. In practice-led research artistic experimentation is the principal process of exploration and communication of results.

Therefore, a body of creative works form the foundation and outcomes of my research.

My creative practice is supported by a written exegetical component that enriches understanding of the phenomenology of sincerity in today’s art and culture.

My research methodologies apply conceptual and mediated strategies that engage with sincerity. In my creative practice, sincerity exists as catalyst, subject, material, and effect. I have explored sincerity as a methodological process for art making, and as an aesthetic strategy. Over the course of this research, I have also examined how sincerity has been articulated by artists and by those in broader visual culture, and have reflected on how these have informed my own practice.

In the scheme of academic inquiry, practice-led research is considered to be a form of research that deviates from traditional methodologies. It also challenges the idea of

22 what can be considered a certifiable outcome, so there is a pressure to explain and assert its validity. For the most part I have resisted this pressure to attempt to justify practice- led research and have instead focused on describing my methods. In this chapter, I give a brief introduction to practice-led research before discussing my key methodologies, beginning with the methodological umbrella of bricolage: a multifaceted approach aimed at building connections and embracing contradictions. Addressing some of the strategies and studio methods that fall under that term I discuss appropriation and the use of creative commons in my practice, and explore the strategies of improvisation and repetition. I then discuss the notion of reflexivity and the different forms this has taken in my research. In my discussion on reflexivity, I address the relationship between my studio practice and written exegesis, and the discomfort associated with disclosure.

Finally, I outline how these strategies work together to constitute a methodology of sincerity.

2.1 Practice-Led Research

The methodologies in my project, while autobiographical and highly subjective, conform to typical frameworks for practice-led research in the visual arts. Carol Gray describes these methodologies as “research, which is initiated in practice, where questions, problems, and challenges are identified and formed by the need of practice and practitioners” (1996, 3).

One of the strengths of practice-led research is that there is no prescribed set of methods for enquiry. The potential modes of creative research are infinite and each researcher will undoubtedly develop their own unique approach. The fluidity, openness, and

23 experimental nature of practice-led research as articulated in the Visual Arts can lead to amazing discoveries and innovations, but can also be daunting. The lack of a prescribed methodological structure can be a challenge, as the openness of the research offers no limitation to the scope of possibilities. Furthermore, conventional academic written discourse must be balanced against labor-intensive practice, but there is also a lack of definitive conventions about how to conduct practice-led inquiry. Working within this space of limitless possibilities, I have had to learn to trust my instincts as an arts practitioner. In my research process creative expressions are often a step ahead of my cognitive awareness, and I must allow a messy unfolding of approach and intuition, rather than following a linear path.

2.2 Bricolage

How to work with sincerity has become a defining issue of this enquiry. Sincerity can be frustratingly fleeting, intangible, and contradictory. It is something that is difficult to point to, impossible to clutch, and is rarely definitively known. In my effort to understand the intricacies of sincerity I have purposefully approached it from multiple angles. Incorporating a range of research methods and approaches, I draw upon diverse sources: including philosophers, cultural theorists, and other artists. I am of course also driven by my subjective experience, observation, and cultural engagements with social media, literature, music, television, and film. Looking for recognisable expressions of sincerity, I trawl social media, read open letters and blog posts. I watch vlogs, videos and movies, and listen to music. In combination with my creative experimentation, these expressions become the fabric of my understanding of how sincerity is expressed.

As stated, my creative practice utilises a wide range of media and processes that

24 combine image, sound, video, object, and gesture to engage with the complexities of sincerity. These diverse research paths form a web of intersecting enquiries, linking together artistic, cultural, and scholarly experiences. As such, I recognize my primary research methodology as being based in bricolage: a multi-faceted approach to art making and research. Bricolage selects from various methodologies in accordance with the needs of the research, and weaves together cultural understandings and experiences to form new interpretations and insights (Stewart, 2007).

My understanding of practice-led research is largely shaped by Robin Stewart’s 2007 paper, Creating New Stories for Praxis. Stewart explains that through a process of bricolage, the practice-led researcher is able to “collage experience, to involve issues of knowledge and understanding, technology, concept, percept, skill, and cultural and discipline experience” (2007, 128). In Stewart’s account of bricolage, the researcher travels between research disciplines in order to “build the most appropriate bridge between aesthetics and experience, through processes of production, documentation and interpretation” (2006, 5). Stewart’s description of bricolage represents the broad use of this methodology in my creative practice and the critical dialogue it creates between theory and practice. It is in essence, a continually involving process of discovery, contradiction, serendipity, and adaption.

Within studio practice, Daniel McKewen has refined the idea of bricolage to describe a specific methodology called ‘digital bricolage’. McKewen focuses his use of bricolage on the way that artists navigate and co-opt screen culture. This is also a useful framework for describing my studio practice. McKewen (2015, 3) describes this methodology as

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… the exploratory act of piecing together pre-existing and varied elements from

one’s immediate culture rather than engineering new forms from the ground up.

The resulting bricolage constructs new meanings and forms disparate symbolic

meanings to generate new or novel juxtapositions.

This description lends itself to a more literal or material view of bricolage which is relevant to the way digital material is handled in my creative practice. In my studio explorations, bricolage becomes a readily perceptible creative device, which can be seen when appropriated imagery is brought together. In pursuit of this methodology, I trawl digital creative commons libraries and collect images as they instinctively appeal to me, I then recontextualise this range of images in my own creative work.

Appropriation is a well-acknowledged method in visual art. Certainly the history of postmodernism is a story of recontextualization as it involved plundering, splicing, and reproducing in order to challenge notions of originality. However, rather than adopting this almost aggressive form of postmodern ‘taking’, I see appropriation, in my practice, as creating a form of what R. Lyle Skains has referred to as “implicit collaboration”

(2016, 1). In this digital era images taken from creative commons have been gifted rather than plundered. As Skains notes, the plethora of images and other resources available within the commons have been placed there for the express purpose of appropriation and “denotes an attitude of sharing and co-creation” (2016, 1). The use of commons images is therefore an important way of connecting and collaborating with digital visual culture.

26 In searching for images, I have limited myself to works in the commons with open licenses, namely works that do not call for attribution. There are two reasons for this decision. Firstly, it solves a practical issue: given the vast number of images I have sourced, erasing the need to create detailed records of authorship has allowed me to work at a greater speed. This is an important factor when considering the way I employ creative strategies in relation to improvisation and “working without wax”, which I discuss in detail in my chapter on creative practice.

Secondly, I feel a sentimental connection between these altruistically shared images, and the idea of sincere expression. The works shared without license, metaphorically speaking, float in the digital ether as if existing only in the hope of being uttered at some point. There is no further intent or ego behind them, and without claim to authorship they are unfettered by legal or ethical restraint. In this sense, I see them as disembodied and ethereal forms of ‘pure' communication, or perhaps more specifically, the ingredients of communication. In this somewhat poetic notion, it could be argued that there is a feeling or implication of ‘sincerity’ in them. This type of sincerity is a more romanticized conception than the sincerity I speak of in other parts of my exegesis where I disregard sentimental notions of sincerity and define sincerity in terms of media effect. My practice acknowledges these contradictions and embraces sincerity in its many different forms and understandings. I consider the act of collecting and quoting others’ visual phrases as creating for myself a symbolic lexicon of sincerity. The collected idioms, such as a butterfly, a flower, a bug, an emoji, would not necessarily be said to be overtly sincere in and of themselves, but they can be woven together into my process of working ‘sincerely’.

27 2.3 Improvisation and Innovation

Contemporary cultural theorists have acknowledged the difficulties associated with mapping sincerity (Groys 2012, Young 2009, Ozar 2013). This is in part because sincerity is in a constant state of flux. Groys argues that the moment something becomes commonly accepted as a signifier of sincerity, its ability to control the signification of sincerity begins to wane (2012, 54). This is because repetition turns what was once

‘alien’, into something that becomes ‘proper’, and thus there is an essential connection between sincerity and innovation.

The improvisatory aspects of my methodology carry a degree of uncertainty and risk that would be unacceptable in traditional research models. I believe however that embracing ‘the uncertain’ leads to a greater receptivity of the unexpected, and can be understood as a kind of emergent knowledge that enriches research. Through its emphasis on responsiveness and innovation, improvisation has often been the catalyst for valuable creativity, and is a vital method of enquiry in my project. The strength of improvisation in practice-led research lies in its openness to the unknown. It requires a willingness to venture beyond certainty and known experience and can lead to creative breakthroughs based on unanticipated, or previously inconceivable outcomes. As

Stephen Levine explains, “by casting ourselves into an uncertain future, we can go beyond the expectations with which we have begun” (2013, 27).

Improvisation is not only a vital method for artistic enquiry; I consider it to be of critical importance for the study of sincerity because it relies on a type of empathy. Like sincerity, improvisation has a type of presence: a ‘being in the moment’, an openness

28 or receptivity to the immediate stimuli on offer. Improvisation also pushes against the boundaries of knowledge, and draws on instinct, intuition, and acute perception. As

Nisha Sajnani has described, “When situated as research, improvisation functions as a kind of ‘disciplined empathy’” (2012, 83) through which researchers engage and respond to emergent concerns. The relationship between temporality and empathy in relation to sincerity and improvisation creates a synthesis between subject and methodology that can offer insights that are inaccessible in other forms of research.

This complementary relationship is enhanced by the connection between improvisation and innovation. A study about improvisation as a methodology in arts research, undertaken by Anne Douglas and Melehat Gulari (2015), found that improvisation allows the artist to find “ways of not only avoiding chaos and the arbitrary but also being trapped by what is already known (392)”. This demonstrates its effectiveness as a conduit for innovation. As has been argued by Groys, there is another essential and valuable relationship between sincerity and innovation: sincerity requires new and unexpected experiences for the greatest impact, as it is weakened through each reiteration (2012, 80). From this perspective, improvisation is the very antithesis of the repetition that is so detrimental to sincere expression. Therefore, improvisation as a practice-led research methodology creates a constructive framework for approaching the topic of sincerity.

2.4 Repetition and Reiteration

When examining the relationship between improvisation, innovation and sincerity,

Groys maintains that repetition and reiteration is inherently detrimental to sincerity.

29 However, I have found that the relationship between repetition and sincerity works differently in art than it does in other forms of communication and is not inherently destructive to sincere expression. I have demonstrated this in my creative practice as I have successfully used repetition as a methodology to engage with and to express sincerity.

Repetition is implicit in fundamental artistic processes. From Monet’s repeated studies of light, to the Warholian repeated image, it has been widely used by artists as a way of analyzing, understanding, and emphasizing material and subject. Practice through repetition is also how creative skills are typically learnt and refined. Repetition is more than a visual device or a process that is simply a means to a practical end; it is an integral process of learning and reflection that occurs in the making of art. Where improvisation requires an element of speed and immediate responsiveness, repetition calls for a different form of responsiveness, one that has the benefits of experience, hindsight, and anticipation. Although these two methodologies may seem dialectically opposed, repetition, like improvisation, can be used as a path through which the new and unexpected can emerge.

Gilles Deleuze described repetition as a path to reinvention, an active force capable of producing difference (1994). Repetition is a way of putting one thing after another, but it is also a way of taking the first thing to the nth degree. As Deleuze explains in

Difference and Repetition (1968), in this form repetition creates a mode of temporality where properties of the past are retained, and from within the present, properties of the future are anticipated (1994, 70-128). I understand this temporal shift as a single

30 moment trembling in time, and I see connections between the processes of repetition, trauma, and sincerity.

Figure 5, The Age of Knowing (detail), 2017 - 2018.

As stated, sincerity and trauma are closely linked in my creative practice. Traumatic thoughts are prone to rumination and repetition. It is the spontaneous, repetitious, and intrusive nature of ruminations that distinguishes them from ordinary memories (Gold and Wegner 1995, 1246) because of this repetitive nature in order to engage with those thoughts in an earnest manner, repetition becomes somewhat inevitable. The individual compulsion to repeat, according to Freud, can be seen as an attempt to develop

“mastery” over the object of trauma, and this “mastery of an object coincides with the object’s destruction” (Freud 1920 quoted in Seligman, 2008, 120). After the object has been destroyed, each subsequent reiteration of the object must be imagined anew, and in each reimagining resides the potential for evolution. This is in accordance with

31 Deleuze’s summation of David Hume’s thesis on repetition - it is not necessarily the object that changes but “the mind that contemplates it” (1994, 70). Repetition’s characteristics and potential is eloquently explained in Ritual and its Consequences: An

Essay on the Limits of Sincerity (Seligman et al, 120)

Repetition circumscribes the future in and by the past. It limits an otherwise

infinite and uncontrolled set of all possible future events within the frame of a

known, specific, particular, and felt (past) experience. Repetition creates

through constraining. It opens repetition to change. Repetition embraces both

past and future, ritual and sincerity, the mediated and the unmediated.

Repetition has many manifestations in my practice. It can be seen in digital loops, repeated words, forms, arrangements, and images. It is also a significant methodology in the process of making. The production of creative works often requires repetitive physical action and simple actions repeated over and over again can become places of meditative, mindful ritual. The brushstroke, the clicking of the mouse, the formation of a word, these small physical gestures create muscle memory and bring knowledge to the body. Therefore, allowing for somatic thought is a significant way I engage with sincerity in my creative practice. I use the meditative qualities of repetition as a way to engage with the subject or impetus of a creative work through the body. In other words,

I use repetition as a way of sitting with an idea and allowing myself to really feel it.

2.5 The Reflexive Exegesis: A Candid Reflection

My research on sincerity is situated within and across the intersecting fields of subjective experience and inter-subjective communication. Within my creative practice

32 this place of intersection is often explored through a resigned acceptance that straightforward language cannot adequately convey the complexities of subjective experience. Acknowledging the futility of this endeavour, I turn to image making in an attempt to connect to some of sincerity’s complexities. It is my contention that the ability to conduct enquiries beyond that which can be described by language and written discourse is where the strength of practice-led research lies. Despite the difficulties of translating experience into text, the exegesis states the objectives and outcomes of the research as it developed alongside the creative practice, and plays a fundamental role in the formation of praxical knowledge.

In her paper The Magic is in the Handling, Barbara Bolt states, “The task of the creative exegesis is to extend on existing domains of knowledge through its reflection on those shocking realisations that occur in practice” (2014, 34). Bolt refers to the textual process that moves beyond simply contextualising or explaining one’s creative practice.

The exegesis reflects on the experience of handling materials; both mental and physical.

In doing so it becomes part of the creative process itself and enables the entire practice to move into an area of praxical knowledge. This is in keeping with Bolt’s contention that “it is art as a mode of revealing and as a material productivity, not just the artwork that constitutes creative arts research” (2014, 34). In this respect, both the creative production of artwork, and the writing of the exegesis are two halves of the same practice. The relationship between the exegesis and the artwork is therefore both critical and complementary as it opens a reflexive space for new insights.

Reflexivity in my creative practice can be understood in two distinct ways. Firstly, as a form of creative process; and secondly, as an ethical concern relating to accountability

33 and transparency that offers an awareness and account of the lens through which all my research has been undertaken. The creative process of reflexivity in my art practice is generally an automatic and intuitive process, however, reflexivity as an issue of candid transparency within my exegesis has been considerably more difficult and laboured as it has raised a whole new set of issues surrounding reflexivity, sincerity, and disclosure.

Reflexivity as creative process

There is an innate and unique process of reflexivity in my creative process. It has been argued that reflexivity is a defining feature of all practice-led research. Discussing the reflexive properties of practice-led research, Haseman and Mafe (2009) describe reflexivity as, “one of those ‘artist-like processes’ which occurs when a creative practitioner acts upon the requisite material to generate new material which immediately acts back upon the practitioner who is in turn stimulated to make a subsequent response” (2009, 219). Indeed, reflexivity is present at every level of creative research. It exists within my creative practice as part of a spontaneous, inevitable and recurrent process. Reflexivity is also turbulent in nature, as explained by

Haseman and Mafe:

Practice-led research, particularly for the creative practice-led researcher, is

unruly, ambiguous and marked by extremes of interpretive anxiety for the

reflexive researcher. It is this way because it is deeply emergent in nature and

the need to tolerate the ambiguity and make it sensible through heightened

reflexivity is a part of what it is to be a successful practice-led researcher in the

creative arts (Haseman and Mafe 2009, 220).

34

Reflexivity operates slightly differently in each stage of creative development, from the initial formulation of an idea through to an artwork’s final display. Throughout the entire process of creating art, reflexivity also creates a level of self-consciousness and self-scrutiny that is at times quite cathartic, and at others times, confronting.

Reflexivity and an awareness of self

Reflexivity can be utilised for an explicit and self-aware meta-analytical approach to the research process, and has become a principal methodology in many areas of study

(Finlay 2002, 209-230). As post-structuralist and feminist theorists have undermined faith in notions of neutrality and objectivity, it has become increasingly necessary for researchers to question their own subjectivity and how this could potentially colour their interpretations and constructions of knowledge. Reflexivity requires recognition of the fact that the researcher is an active participant in shaping and influencing the course of the research and the interpretation of data.

Comprehension is always negotiated through lived experience, social and cultural constructs, and historical contexts. This means that the same study in another researcher’s hand will undoubtedly reveal a different path (Finlay 2002, 209-230).

Researchers position themselves within their research using many different reflexive techniques: ranging from deep introspection and self-analysis, through to examination of inter-subjective dynamics and social critiques. In Practice as Research, 2010, Estelle

Barrett explains that the relationship between the researcher and their material or mental object of study is of primary interest in practice-based methodologies, as such,

35 “reflexivity demands that both the researcher and her/his methods be submitted to the same questions that are asked of the object of the enquiry” (2010, 6). There are various manifestations of reflexivity in research studies, but all modes seek to enrich the research through reflection, accountability, and transparency. Moreover, all call for acts of sincerity.

I see sincerity within art, visual culture, and creative practice as being a mode of communication that facilitates affective connection between people without resorting to claims of didactic truth or unabashed candour. Through this affective connection, we speak to the body where ideas are known as feelings rather than being rationalised or translated into language. In visual culture, sincerity is an ambiguous code that is articulated through the interplay and nuances of visual elements such as tone, gesture, and expression. However, sincerity works differently in academic written expression that calls for lucid clarity, truthfulness, and transparency. The clear distinctions that I am able to make between sincerity, truth, and candour within my art practice become blurred and problematized while negotiating the exegesis that calls for the translation of complex feelings into clearly articulated text.

I understand my practice as autobiographical, however, I am aware that my practice does not present a narrative about my autobiographical experience. This lack of exposition is a measured and deliberate choice, as it is designed to avoid exposing explicit details about subject matter that is too complex or painful. As I discussed in the introduction, I have a vested interest in obscuring autobiographical details, and I use my understanding of sincerity as a way of personally reconciling the tension inherent in creating artworks that speak directly to issues that I am uncomfortable or unwilling

36 to discuss publicly in any other way. I use art as a way to think and to speak but also as a way to hide. The level of candour that the written component of this project requires necessitates a certain element of disclosure and vulnerability. The gravity of this issue was not something that I had fully appreciated coming into the project. It was an ironic revelation to realise that not only do I need to translate experience into written discourse, a mode of communication that I have already established is inadequate for the job, I need to do so with a level of truth and candour that my art practice is built around avoiding.

2.6 Disclosure and discomfort

When embarking on practice-led research that uses the self as subject, a certain degree of disclosure is inevitable. In fact, even without a focus on self-portraiture and autobiographical practice, it can be said that written discourse will unavoidably disclose something of the author, whether the author intends it or not. Nietzsche spoke directly to this idea in Beyond Good and Evil, (1886), stating,

It has gradually become clear to me what every great philosophy up till now has

consisted of – namely, the confession of its originator and a species of

involuntary and unconscious auto-biography (Nietzsche 1966, 13).

Due to the nature of reflexivity and of creative practice itself, certain issues that have emerged during the research have caused me to realise that my work is indeed thoroughly shaped by my personal experience. Having established that reflexivity is necessary and valuable, and that as a result disclosure becomes inevitable, the question

37 is not about whether to disclose or not, but rather how much to disclose, and what form it should take? This question has been difficult for me to answer. It is a question that moves from my head into my body and causes waves of discomfort and acute feelings of vulnerability. These uncomfortable feelings highlight for me the unique workings of sincerity and the significance of defining and providing a particular manifestation of sincerity that exists outside of candour or truth in my own creative process. To put it simply, being immersed in feelings of discomfort for extended periods caused me to focus on sincerity in ways beyond art.

To speak about this revelatory process in my practice is to acknowledge a level of personal pain that I have brought to my artistic practice in this research project, and requires a certain level of disclosure. This process of disclosure is also painful in its own right. Speaking of his own experience undertaking a practice-led doctorate,

Stephen Goddard (2003), reflected on the pain caused through self-disclosure:

presenting myself as if on the operating table, in the witness box and in the

confessional, produced a further dose of pain and discomfort. Initially there was

the pain associated with the scar; now there was the supplementary pain of

confessional disclosure. The pain of the scar was momentary; the pain of

disclosure continuous.

Despite the discomfort associated with disclosing personal trauma, the knowledge that some level of unintentional disclosure is inescapable, and the belief that the art should be able to communicate it, explains how important the role of sincerity is to me in my creative practice. These ideas are not abstract, but are rather strategic techniques

38 designed to resolve problems that may be experienced by survivors of trauma; such as struggling to balance the compulsion to express against the weight of shame, confusion, and pernicious silencing. I make art as a way to process, to think and to understand.

Despite many ardent attempts to the contrary, I tend to think about prior trauma – to not make art about my trauma would be to resign myself to never understanding. The ambiguous nature of art creates a safe space to think and to speak about difficult subjects. However, art, unless made as a solely personal private endeavour, is inherently communicative. Much of the impetus or issues that drive my art practice are painful, traumatic, easily misunderstood, or feel exceedingly private. Yet, often when I reflect on my art I find that I have compulsively made art that references or draws from these very things, as if my hand is sharing knowledge that my mind has not yet processed or is ready to publicly share. In this way my own accidental self-exposure becomes one of the overriding issues I struggle with in my practice. Developing a clear understanding about sincerity, where the concepts, responsibilities, and boundaries begin and end, has been a central strategy for working through it.

Throughout this exegesis I have shared personal anecdotes. This has been necessary because they are strongly connected to my understanding of sincerity. The anecdotal disclosures have however been strategically selected to offer enough information to make sense of my practice and process without falling into an endless loop of concentrated self-analysis and reflective narration. This can be a tenuous balance and the weight, or balance in this project has shifted at times. Having pondered many of these ideas for a while, and having processed them through creative expression, I am willing to discuss more issues with candour than I was when I began the research process.

39 2.7 Sincerity as Method

Throughout the course of this exegesis I discuss sincerity in different ways. This section focuses on sincerity’s function as a creative process and how I maintain a feeling of sincerity as I am creating, in order to satisfy my personal desire to share something sincere of myself.

It has always been very important to me to create artwork sincerely. I recognize great sincerity in the artists I most admire. Their vulnerability, bravery, and openness inspires and provokes me. Perceiving sincerity in their work makes me feel more connected with the human condition. Through this sense of connection I am able to process and understand innate human feelings and experiences, such as pain, loneliness, confusion, grief, or love. Connection develops a sense of empathy which influences not only the way I think and feel about others, but also how I understand my own experiences. The perception of sincerity is powerful and transformative, through practice however, I have discovered that there is a sharp distinction between working towards the perception of sincerity and a sincere process.

The process of working sincerely can present difficulties, contradictions and pain. It is also difficult to pinpoint exactly how this is done. My practice asserts that creative production exists beyond the confines of language, as such I find that many of my accompanying processes, reflections, and realisations are irreducible to written expression. It therefore feels like an impossible task to explain fully how I achieve sincerity in the studio. The feeling of sincerity is something very personal and intimate, as such there are some processes that I find crucial for creating a personal feeling of

40 sincerity that are completely idiosyncratic or context-dependent. For example, I will watch certain videos or listen to particular music in order to create a sense of mental preparedness. While approaches such as improvisation, repetition, reflection, reflexivity, vulnerability, and discomfort define significant aspects of my methodology for exploring sincerity, I have found that the core of the sincere creative process resides in the intersection of such strategies. Sincerity as a method requires a reflexive, adaptive, vigilant attitude where I am constantly state-checking and alternating between strategy, technique, and emotional valence. It is a process of push-and-pull, of advance and retreat. While vulnerability and discomfort are crucial in the process of sincerity, a sense of restraint and self-preservation is also important. As such, a key aspect of feeling that I am working sincerely is an awareness of a measured withdrawal from feelings of intense vulnerability. I understand this retreat as a form of self-care, and believe it is a very significant part of my process.

The process of self-preservation can be seen in my work in acts of concealment, redaction, and sometimes dark humour. For example, in my video work 4 E “horse- emoji” “female-emoji”, my vulnerable and candid discussion is edited in post- production to deliberately make my candour and speech indecipherable as the sound of my distress is replaced with a laugh track. This may seem contradictory to the traditional idea that sincerity is candid, open, and completely vulnerable. In this instance, it could be argued that I instituted a form of self-censorship and a deliberate blocking of empathy, and thus of sincerity. However, my research into sincerity as a media effect, and how the perception of sincerity can be enhanced has shown that this is not always the case. In the next chapter, I discuss this in more detail, and explore

41 some of the specific ways sincerity is used as an effect and the complimentary relationship between sincerity and insincerity.

The desire to retreat feels very genuine and is undoubtedly a flight response to feelings of emotional exposure, and so it is both comforting and convenient to know that such retreats also function as a strategy for enhancing the perception of sincerity. Herein lies the problem, once you’re aware of being sincere, and become too conscious of its strategic advantage, it instantly begins to feel disingenuous. It then becomes evident that sincerity by its very nature is slippery, fleeting, and incredibly difficult to maintain, and this is never more apparent to me than when I’m looking at sincerity as a process rather than as a perception.

Returning to my research question of how the difficulties and inherently paradoxical nature of sincerity be reconciled through visual art practice in order to provide affective and sincere engagement for the viewer, I have found that the perception of sincerity can, to a certain extent, be calculated and controlled. However, the process of working sincerely is a much more nebulous and paradoxical beast. An overt awareness of sincerity during the making process can easily start to make the process feel innately insincere. Likewise, the more concerted the effort, the more insincere it can seem to become. Ultimately, the tension created through not being able to focus on sincerity and feel sincere at the same time forms a creative aporia: a creative and philosophical impasse that can only be transcended by an embrace of contradiction and change.

In this section I have defined my method of sincerity, however it’s important to note that in order to remain sincere, this methodology must constantly change and adapt.

42 The willingness to change while also developing and maintaining trust in the contradiction and the mess of creative instinct, is at the heart of my creative practice.

43 Chapter 3. Practice in Context

To properly define sincerity is a challenging task. Sincerity seems readily understood when used during everyday conversations, but deeper analysis reveals a more obscure concept that is buried within a tenuous cluster of ideas and equivocations.

Before settling on a particular definition of sincerity, it would be advantageous to briefly consider what sincerity is not. Sincerity is not the same as truth, honesty, candour, or authenticity. While it has a long-standing association with these notions, and can at times be used synonymously with them, recognising the ways in which it is distinct from these concepts is imperative when seeking to understand sincerity’s function in contemporary art practice.

Sincerity’s differentiation from authenticity represents a more complex issue. When sincerity is considered as a moral ideal: a principle that calls for outward expression of inner truth in order to achieve an ethical and fulfilling life, it can appear almost indistinguishable from philosophical treatments of authenticity (Magill 2012, 22).

However, where authenticity calls for deep inward reflection and personal analysis, sincerity actually faces outwards, and has important interpersonal communicative aspects. These distinctions will be further examined over the coming sections.

In order to frame how I see sincerity functioning in visual arts practices, this chapter begins by tracing evolving notions of sincerity, and outlining its interpretative framework in the contemporary, post-truth, media saturated era. While considering sincerity as a media effect, and its relationship with affect, I address expressions of sincerity in contemporary culture and explore how sincerity can be used as a strategy to manipulate interpersonal connections. These ideas will then be kept in mind when

44 discussing the art practices of Damien Hirst, Marina Abramovic, Tracey Emin and

Ryan Trecartin - artists whose work has strongly informed my studio research. I examine how the paradoxical nature of sincerity has been utilised in their visual art practice in order to create affect and sincerity.

3.1 The Changing Face of Sincerity

The concept of sincerity emerged during the Enlightenment, and its meaning and representations have been evolving ever since. R. J. Magill Jr, author of Sincerity: How a Moral Ideal Born Five Hundred Years Ago Inspired Religious Wars, Modern Art,

Hipster Chic, and the Curious Notion that We All Have Something to say (No Matter

How Dull) (2012), describes a condition in which “sophisticated thinkers have long vacillated between ridiculing sincerity when it appears … and complaining that others don’t take the virtue quite seriously enough” (2012, 16). In Western culture, sincerity has been characterised as a state of internal, individualistic truth, and was thought of as vital for a beneficial relationship between society and God. The influential sixteenth century Augustinian monk, Martin Luther, saw sincerity as the only true way to salvation, and his tireless effort to promote the idea helped motivate the Protestant

Reformation. By the middle of the sixteenth century, the idea that spiritual impunity was only available to those who were pure and sincere of heart became part of a prevailing protestant ethos (Magill 2012, 31-35).

Alternatively, sincerity has also been equated with weakness, stupidity, and ignorance.

In 1513, just prior to Luther’s proclamations on the necessity of sincerity, Niccolo

Machiavelli advised his imaginary prince to resolutely avoid sincerity, stating that

45 princes who have achieved greatness “are those who have thought little about keeping faith and who have known how cunningly to manipulate men’s minds”. These men, he asserted, “have surpassed those who have laid their foundations upon sincerity” [2005,

60].

Conflicting opinions about sincerity have persisted. In the 1700s, French philosopher

Jean-Jacques Rousseau averred sincerity as a way of freeing oneself from the oppressive protocols of social life (Trilling 1972, 58-67). In Letter to M. d’Alembert on the Theater (1758), Rousseau declared, “the plain and noble effusions of an honest soul speak a language far different from the insincere demonstrations of politeness (and the false appearances) which the customs of the great world demand” (2004, 272).

Rousseau’s notion of sincerity was closely related to ideas of candour and authenticity.

He saw excessive discretion as an iniquitous threat to sincerity’s ideals (Dhondt 2009,

268), and considered the task of reconciling oneself with oneself to be the definitive undertaking of sincerity. Rousseau’s thoughts helped motivate the French Revolution, and influenced Romanticism, a movement that urged individuals to see themselves as sincere social outsiders (Magill 2012, 85).

Despite Rousseau’s open distain for the arts, his notion of a sincere existence flourished in the hands of poets and painters. For Romantic artists and critics, sincerity was a

“primary criterion of excellence” (Barasch 1998, 48). Disillusioned with the standards of reason and the Enlightenment order, the Romantic artists turned to more impassioned subjects: subjectivity, heroic individualism, emotion, and the formidable power of nature. These artists also sought to find and convey a sincere “natural innocence”

46 (Magill 2012, 95) that could be free from the arbitrary rationalisations and constraints of civilised society.

Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the idea of sincerity as an expression of inner truth prevailed, and was explored in various artistic forms and movements (Barasch 1998, 48). This notion of artistic sincerity was reliant on the belief that there was an inner self that was separate from an outer self, and the idea that artistic expression “emerges from some intense inner experience which cannot be manufactured or simulated and is the unique property of the individual” (Ball 1964, 2).

Sincerity of expression was hailed as the hallmark for all great art, and was judged by the extent to which the artist was moved by the subject that he was portraying (Barash

1998, 48). Capturing the sentiment of the time, John Keble instructed students attending his Oxford lectures on poetry (1832-41) that,

The central point of our theory is that the essence of all poetry is to be found,

not in the high-wrought subtlety of thought, nor in the pointed cleverness of

phrase, but in the depths of the heart and the most sacred feelings of men who

write (201).

Just as Martin Luther had once proclaimed sincerity to be crucial in one’s relationship with God, sincerity was seen as essential to having a productive relationship with creativity. Leo Tolstoy wrote in 1894 that to make a true work of art an artist must possess three qualities: morality, clarity of expression, “and, thirdly, sincerity – unfeigned love or unfeigned hatred for what he depicts” (1963, 416). Sincerity was therefore seen as a promise of truth and a benchmark for creative excellence. In some

47 cases, it was seen as the only pathway to ensure creative quality, as if excellence would automatically ensue from sincerity. This assumption was reiterated by Keble who stated that, when an author is “writing from the inmost sincerity of his heart”, his words “do, somehow or other, for the most part, flow and fall more happily and with richer rhythm”

(quoted in Ball 1964, 5).

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Romantic notion of an authentic self was a central avant-garde tenet that was used by artists in opposition to what was believed to be an inauthentic mass consumer society (Magill 2012, 21). However, by mid-century, sincerity lost its critical and artistic reverence and began to fall out of favour. As Patricia M. Ball asserted in her influential 1964 essay, Sincerity: The Rise and Fall of a Critical Term, “sincerity as an artistic standard had its time of glorious supremacy” but is “now in its sadder days of exile” (1). The rejection of sincerity as a valued condition in intellectual discourse was linked to the decline of Victorian era emotionalism, and an increased focus on intellectualism and reason. By the post-war period, sincerity was no longer seen as an adequate justification for artistic and creative endeavours.

Critics of sincerity complained that it was a vague, naïve, and predominately emotional concern, and was therefore untenable in academic discourse (Ball 1964, Trilling 1972).

New approaches to sincerity were announced by theorists such as Lionel Trilling who called for a distinction to be made between sincerity and authenticity. For Trilling, sincerity was an outdated concept that needed to be superseded by the “more strenuous moral experience” of authenticity (1972, 11). In his view, sincerity only required “the avoidance of being false to any man” (5), while authenticity required a deeper

48 contemplation of what it is to be “true to one’s own self” (5). He also asserted, “To praise a work of literature by calling it sincere is now at best a way of saying that although it need be given no aesthetic or intellectual admiration, it was at least conceived in innocence of heart” (6). A fatal blow to older notions of sincerity was delivered by the post-Enlightenment and post-humanist ideas offered by post- structuralist and postmodern theorists who claim “a new epistemology that is not anthropocentric and therefore not centered in Cartesian dualism” (Bolter 2016, 1). They could argue that if there was no inner self from whom sincerity could emerge, then sincerity was merely a social convention or effect with no transcendental truth or value.

Contemporary thinkers have re-engaged with the concept of sincerity, showing that it is far more complex than simply being a “congruence between avowal and actual feeling” (Trilling 1972, 2). The previous subjectivity-bound conception of sincerity relied on the idea of an ‘inner self’, and is tightly woven into an assumed dichotomy between body and mind. The theories of postmodernism and post-structuralism refuted this dualistic notion of self, and in the wake of such dialogues, the dissipation of the

‘inner self’ has led to a contemporary re-framing of sincerity as a purely social phenomenon rather than as an essentialist expression of some kind of inner emotional

‘truth’ (Lyotard 1984, Barthes 1967, Deleuze 1994).

The evolution of sincerity reveals that it has been neither a stable nor consistent concept. Traditionally, sincerity has been understood as a moral ideal or an ethical demand. In its conventional understanding, it has been considered “a natural enactment of authenticity anchored in, and yielding, truth” (van Alphen and Bal 2009, 1). Despite different emphases, many interpretations of sincerity are bound to traditional views of

49 subjectivity founded on a dualistic notion of self. Traditional notions of sincerity no longer hold sway in contemporary academic discourse, but in broader public forums, specifically as communicated in media forms, the idea of sincerity as being a window to our ‘inner truth’ persists. Moreover, this notion of sincerity is often accompanied by an ethical expectation of a free and public expression of “what one ‘really’ thinks internally” (Groys 2012, 50). Examples of this can be seen in reality TV, celebrity interviews, and politician’s twitter accounts. As van Alphen and Bal note in their introduction to The Rhetoric of Sincerity, “Though many no longer believe in the traditional notion of subjectivity, sincerity, it appears, has been more difficult to relinquish, and thus remains unreflectively present in many social discourses” (2009,

3). In today’s culture, those social discourses are primarily communicated in the media, so understanding sincerity as a ‘media’ rather than ‘subjectivity’ effect offers up a new and fascinating conception of sincerity’s place in personal and social life. In recognition of this fact, contemporary theorists have reimagined the idea of sincerity as a product of mediated effects.

3.2 Reframing Sincerity: Sincerity as a Media Effect

The truly sincere person ends up understanding that he is always lying.

- Friedrich Nietzsch2

Enlightenment notions of sincerity continue to play an influential role in our everyday

2 The Will to Power, begun in 1883 but unfinished at this death. Published posthumously and first translated into English in 1910.

50 lives. However, while sincerity in its traditional, ethical mode has considerable currency in contemporary life, expressions of sincerity are now increasingly communicated and transmitted through mediated forms in social media, advertising, etc. These technological forms have altered our conception of sincerity to that of a

“media effect”. Looking at sincerity as a media effect has important ramifications for negotiating sincerity, because it changes the question from asking what sincerity is, to asking: what does sincerity do?

Figure 6, Simon Has a Feeling, 2016.3

3 Simon Cowell is an interesting example of sincerity in the media. He has made performing sincerity a business with his string of televised talent shows. His mediated persona as a judge in those shows, is stern, stoic and unemotional. As a result, when Simon Cowell has an emotion, when his cool exterior seems to crack, revealing a glimpse of someone decidedly human underneath, it literally makes the news.

51 Boris Groys is a contemporary philosopher who dismisses ethical arguments about authenticity and sincerity, and instead conceives of it as part of a media effect that quells suspicion. Groys’ conception of sincerity emerges from his understanding of subjectivity, which he claims cannot exist other than in suspicion. Subjectivity, he explains

is nothing else but the pure, paranoid, yet at the same time inevitable projection

[Unterstellung] of the suspicion that something invisible must be hidden behind

the visible in the space beneath the medial surface (2012, 19).

Subjectivity therefore, is not founded on Cartesian self-consciousness, but on the suspicion by others that you are a subject. “Becoming human” Groys asserts, does not occur within an individual, but within a context: the comparison between you and another (xvi). This is in keeping with the post-humanist perspective that there is no

‘true’ subjective self, only a projection of an imagined self that is reflected in the gaze of others, or an interrogatory and suspicious gaze that attempts to detect deceptive behaviour. Despite the ‘loss of self’ that has been accepted in postmodern and post- humanist frameworks, Groys claims, “as long as this suspicion survives, the notion of subjectivity survives as well” (viii).

This suspicion can extend beyond the human subject to the mediated sphere as a whole.

Groys stresses that humans are suspicious by nature, and that we innately suspect that there is something hidden and lurking beneath the observable (medial) surface. This may be a mysterious force, an enigmatic power operating from behind the scenes, hidden emotions or motives, a soul, a divine entity, the illuminati, or even the one per

52 cent. As Groys points out, the debate surrounding the existence of hidden powers has been around for as long as humanity itself. Just as we are suspicious of others, media images also arouse suspicions through their transmission via medial surfaces that there is a layer of additional meaning existing deeply within its “submedial space” where ‘the real truth’ resides (2012 17-91). For Groys, the submedial is understood as “the dark space of suspicion, speculations, and apprehensions – but also that of sudden epiphanies and cogent insights” (13). The submedial is the space of an unseen, unarticulated interior, which he believes, can only be manifested through the phenomenon of sincerity (49).

Sincerity itself does not inhabit the submedial; rather, it is the “phenomenon that presents itself only to the observer” (51). That is to say, that in order for us to recognise something as sincere, we need to believe that we are seeing through a public mask or surface into a kind of hidden internal truth (41-61). Groys asserts that this ‘internal truth’ does not actually exist. Instead, there is just an “illusion of an interior” that is received by the observer through a “play of signs”. On recognising something as sincere, we confirm our suspicions that the interior of things differs from that which appears on the surface. Sincerity can therefore serve to neutralise the suspicious gaze of the other (60-61). Observing sincerity confirms for us that there was indeed a submedial space, and that as the observer, we were right to be suspicious of what was being presented to us on the surface, and because we believe we have insight into the interior of things, sincerity engenders a feeling of trust (50).

After establishing what sincerity does, Groys explores how, why, and under what conditions does the effect of sincerity emerge (14). He proposes that sincerity is

53 manifested in mistakes, interruptions, and glitches, which appear to the viewer as

“windows into the interior of submedial space” (2012, 54). He claims, “sincerity is the alien amid the proper”, and that it emerges in unexpected breaks and failures (2012, 54) in relationships between signs and context (2012, 60). He explains:

… the effect of sincerity is produced by displacing certain signs from one

context to another, an operation that lies in the realm of the technical

possibilities of every advanced media carrier (61).

Theorists such as Jill Bennett share the view that sincerity can be understood as a media effect. In her investigations of sincerity in the mass media, Bennett connects it to the transmission of content containing emotional appeals, and argues that the media functions as “vectors” for the “migration of affect” (2009, 206). Sincerity becomes a crucial tool in such transmissions of affect as shared emotive expression is often subject to presumptions of believability (Bennett 2012, 116).

Because we know that expressions of emotion or conviction can be faked, we must think of sincerity (as it is framed and displayed by the media), as performative rather than something that is inhabited in a more essentialist or ethical sense (Bennett 2009,

195-213). She states that one way that sincerity and insincerity is enacted in the media is through the transmission of physical gestures (Bennett 2009, 195-213). Echoing the relationship between sincerity and failure proposed by Groys; the gesture, Bennett reminds us, is not necessarily a supplement to speech, but a signal of a struggle with language and the failure to capture something completely through words (2012, 116-

120).

54 Examining the gestures and “linguistic ineptitude” of the Australian right-wing populist politician Pauline Hanson in the 1990s, Bennett concludes that Hanson’s “stumbles, malapropisms, and misadventures with language” increased her popularity because these were viewed as moments of sincere expression (2009, 200). One often-parodied example came from Hanson’s now famous catch phrase “please explain”. This was coined during an interview on TV news program 60 Minutes in response to an accusation that she was xenophobic. Hanson was visibly confused, became slightly pained, and offered a kneejerk response that was characterised by resentment, bewilderment, and distrust. While this response may have revealed “her incapacity to either speak or comprehend the language of policy, politics, and economics” (201) to some, it also served as a signifier of her sincerity.

Analysing the Hanson phenomenon, Anna Gibbs (2001) reflected on the media’s amplification of Hanson’s ‘sincerity’. Televised close-ups captured the details of her affected state, which was testified to by her rapid eye movements, furrowed brow, and trembling, pursed lips. Hanson’s distinct voice and emotive rhetoric was broadcast in television and radio via short, repeated sound bites. Gibbs describes Hanson’s voice as conveying a sense of acute distress, as if she were on the verge of tears. She spoke like a woman, as Gibbs puts it, who had “had enough”. Through the combination of this attitude, her tone of voice, and the close-ups showing her visible distress, her affective state was projected through the media and subsequently elicited an affective response from the viewing public.

Affect, as Gibbs reminds us, is contagious. It moves from body to body, and carries ideas along with it. In the case of Hanson, her affective responses echoed the distrust

55 and suspicion of the political Establishment that already existed in the public’s mind.

Rather than undermining her agenda, Hanson’s linguistic clumsiness and unsophisticated behaviour largely worked to her advantage. Hanson was undoubtedly shamelessly xenophobic, but she was also categorically sincere, and demonstrated how powerful sincerity is as a means by which to communicate affective states in the public sphere. The aesthetic dimensions of sincerity in this context are contained in the media spectacle.

In relation to such contexts, Bennett views sincerity as a catalyst for affect, while Groys sees the sincerity effect as serving to quell our suspicions. While the importance of communicating sincerity can be readily understood in the actions of a vote-seeking politician, the communicative aspects of sincerity are also significant in my art practice, as art is of course, a communicative system. Moreover, focusing on sincerity in relation to physical gestures returns us to the possibility that sincerity also has the capacity to exceed or transcend linguistic realms of symbolic communication. While gesture is clearly a symbolic act of communication, it is intrinsically connected to the body, visceral affect, and emotion. This suggests that a thorough conception of sincerity must include a consideration of sincerity’s ‘felt’, haptic, and phenomenological aspects.

3.3 Feeling Sincere: Affective Sincerity

Sincerity’s relation to affective experience becomes particularly useful in contemporary art and visual culture. This is because the critical function of both art and media develops not only from their facility to capture and convey gesture, but also from their

56 ability to use images to elicit feeling and affect. Affect can perhaps be most simply understood as emotion that is felt through the body. It takes root below the threshold of conscious awareness, and is believed to be independent of intention, reason, overt meaning, and belief. Affect is also considered to be highly contagious in collective situations. As Anna Gibbs states,

Bodies can catch feelings as easily as catch fire: affect leaps from one body to

another, evoking tenderness, inciting shame, igniting rage, exciting fear –in

short, communicable affect can inflame nerves and muscles in a conflagration

of every conceivable kind of passion (2001)

Psychologist Silvan Tomkins thinks of affect as a subjectively originating energy that attaches itself to objects (Tomkins 2008), whereas Deleuze and Guattari consider affect to be a trans-subjective force within the media apparatus itself (Deleuze and Guattari

1987, 232-350). Whatever their specific philosophical orientation, theorists who have investigated affect share the belief that it occurs prior to, and independently of,

“signification and meaning” (Leys 2011, 443). That is to say, affect does not begin in, nor is it reliant on, the kind of linear or conceptual organisation of meaning seen in cultural forms like narrative.

As with sincerity, to research affect is to analyse something that cannot be easily described by language. While the recent turn to affect has been well documented across a broad range of fields, many thinkers have noted the difficulty of ‘taming’ affect through discursive means (Leys 2011, 434; Best 2011, 4). Art, in contrast, has the capacity to manifest and communicate the normally less visible realms of affect. As

57 Simon O’Sullivan explains: “this is what art is: a bundle of affects” (2001, 126). Jill

Bennett has also stated that in regards to affect, “Any shared expression is always subject to judgments of sincerity” (2012, 116). Art, as a fundamentally human form of expression, is no exception. Art creates a platform from which sincerity can arise, and encourages the migration of affect. Indeed, sincerity’s value to art resides in its ability to generate a space for openness, receptivity, vulnerability, and affect.

There is a wide range of artists who have used sincerity as an affective device in their work, and these have been influential on my practice. In the work of Tracey Emin,

Pipilotti Rist, and Louise Bourgeois, I find an elegant and often brave creative relationship with ideas of sincerity. The recognition of sincerity in an artwork typically means that I have been ‘moved’, and believe I have felt a sense of connection and understanding with the artist. That is to say, I believe I ‘feel’ their sincerity. This condition is described by Ozar as “Affective human connectedness” (2013, 343-357), which “is realized first and foremost, in the mutual recognition of a shared desire and willingness to be intimately present to each other” (348). The experience of affective human connectedness, she argues, “requires a space for the vulnerability of self- exposure” (347-348), and this space is created through the perception of sincerity in the other. Groys has asserted, “sincerity is a phenomenon that presents itself only to the observer - as evidence of the sudden self-revelation of the other” (2012, 51). Having contemplated my own experiences of sincerity, and reflected on the ways that it is manifested within my art practice and creative processes, I believe that we must consider how sincerity can be subjectively engaged or felt.

58 I recognise that the feeling of sincerity is a driving force in my practice. Earlier I referred to my sincere feelings in the wake of the Christchurch earthquakes, and how focusing on the intensity of my embodied emotional state remobilised my practice.

Sincerity, in this regard, was not observer-orientated like Groys’ conception of sincerity, but was rather a specific subjective feeling. For me, sincerity in the felt sense is a particular kind of intensity that is attached to certain feelings, emotions, and thoughts. This intensity is best described as a deep yearning for expression; thus the feeling of sincerity is inherently communicative as it evokes the desire to share. A feeling without this yearning for articulation cannot be considered sincere as such. Take for example the feeling of guilt: I can feel guilty, or I can feel sincerely guilty. If I feel sincerely guilty, I feel guilt in combination with a desire to express this feeling: perhaps through direct apology, anonymous confession, or diary entry. Sincere guilt wants to be publicly perceived and understood, whereas guilt alone, without the addition of sincerity, is a more private affair. It is tempting in this example to infer a moral judgment: that sincere guilt, in its yearning for expression and understanding, and in its potential for eliciting forgiveness, is a deeper and more moralistic phenomenon. In this case however, sincerity should not be mistaken as a qualification for greater depth of feeling. It is entirely possible to feel a profound and severe guilt, without the craving to reveal it. As my own experience has shown me, sincerity can be associated with trivial and substantial events.

Understanding sincerity as a feeling that elicits a communicative desire could lead to the conclusion that all instances of deliberate expression have an element of sincerity.

Perhaps this is true; the subjective desire to communicate however does not automatically equate to sincere expression in the receiver’s or observer’s perception.

59 There are also unwitting displays of sincerity. For example, there are instances where we communicate our feelings, despite our intentions. Through body language, gestures, expressions, and verbal cues, a person can reveal feelings of guilt despite having absolutely no intention of confessing to an offence. This is because discernible mistakes and glitches in someone’s façade, as Groys has suggested, “offer themselves to the observer as windows into the interior of submedial space” (54), and create the impression that we are gaining “insight into the interior of the other” (53). In the case of unwitting expression however, I propose that rather than revealing the subject’s sincerity, what the viewer is actually discerning is the subject’s insincerity; with an incongruence between speech and feeling. Although sincerity and insincerity are typically posited as binary notions, the next section will explore how these two seemingly contradictory states are intrinsically linked.

3.4 Insincerity, Irony and Performance: When sincerity becomes

“sincerity”.

I am not sincere, even when I say I am not.

–Jules Renard4

In this section, I will address insincerity, irony and the act of performance. Like sincerity, insincerity and irony are contingent on particular relationships between surface expression and underlying meaning. My research will show that although

4 Jules Renard Quotes. (n.d.). BrainyQuote.com. https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/jules_renard_102236

60 insincerity and irony are often assumed to be in opposition to sincerity, their relationship in fact offers a rather complex interaction. In my exploration of performance, I will not refer to performance in the dramaturgical sense, as in how we can act sincerely to convince, but rather address why, in light of sincerity’s aporetic nature, we choose to perform sincerity in the first place.

Insincerity

When sincerity is conflated with truth, insincerity is understood as falseness. However, my research has found that sincerity and insincerity are not necessarily in binary opposition, but are in fact implicated by, and reliant upon, one another. Examining the relationship between sincerity and insincerity, Alison Young proposes that “each is immanent in the other, their oppositional construction necessitating that their meanings must be interdependent and inextricable” (2009, 230). Young looked at forms of expression, namely government reports and film documentaries that attempted to convey sincerity in the wake of 9/11. She found that in the case of trauma the task of sincerity is not to convince the audience that a tragedy has happened, but rather that it exposes the incomprehensibility of what has occurred. Here in the legacy of trauma,

Young claims, “we have reached the aporia of sincerity” (246). Insincerity is inevitable, as trauma traps us in our own inarticulacy and we are therefore unable to express the full extent of our feelings (the ‘truth’ of the experience). A sincere representation of trauma can, paradoxically, only convey the impossibility of its own representation, for it must show that the full weight of grief and trauma cannot be adequately spoken, contained, or demonstrated.

61

Jill Bennett (2009, 198-213) states that sincerity is conveyed through affective gestures that signify the struggle to embody language and put meaning into words. Bennett’s conception of sincerity is implicated in insincerity, and thus draws a parallel with

Young’s analysis. The gesture, Bennett assures us, is “essentially always a gesture of not being able to figure something out in language” (2012, 120). Rather than aligning with language, gesture highlights the disjunction between what is said and what is felt or thought: in other words, our insincerity. This re-conceptualisation of sincerity not only dismantles the distinction between seemingly contradictory states, but also designates the body as an agent of sincerity, asking it to reveal something that language cannot.

This relationship between sincerity and insincerity emphasises the necessity of conceiving of sincerity as existing beyond traditional moral constructs. When sincerity is considered to be a moral good, insincerity is seen as its antithetical other. As a result, insincerity is unfairly derided, and is closely associated with malicious intent, lies and deception. Neither Bennett nor Young’s analysis of sincerity refute the idea that insincerity can be used to produce negative effects, but they do highlight how insincerity can facilitate the recognition of sincerity (positive or negative). Their analysis shows that both sincerity and insincerity are better understood as modalities of expression within ‘systems’ of communication, which remain morally neutral unless otherwise utilised. Considered outside the bounds of traditional or moral constructs, sincerity and insincerity are not necessarily dialectically opposed, but are rather analogous modalities with clear similarities. Both can create an impression of truth, as

62 in Groys’ assertion that judgments of sincerity seek to identify discernable ruptures in the surface (medial) that offer a glimpse into the interior (submedial), as can insincerity.

Irony

As with insincerity, irony is often incorrectly posited as sincerity’s dark other. David

Foster Wallace, a major proponent of the New Sincerity movement in American literature in the 1990s, saw irony, exacerbated by television and an increasingly media- driven culture, as the dominant problem of the age. Irony he states, “serves an exclusively negative function. It’s critical and destructive … But irony’s singularly unuseful when it comes to constructing anything to replace the hypocrisies it debunks”

(Wallace 1993,183). Two decades later, Christy Wampole, writing for the New York

Times, declared that the 1990’s by comparison “now seem relatively irony free” and lamented that irony had pervasively and indeed perniciously become “the primary mode with which daily life is dealt” (2012).

Wallace and Wampole failed to recognise that irony is not a new, or age-specific concern, for as Magill reminds us: “we’ve been arguing about irony vs. sincerity for millennia” (2012). Magill traces the irony-sincerity debate back to the fourth century

BCE when Diogenes the Cynic, who lived in a barrel and masturbated in public, attempted to “cast ironic askance upon the seriousness with which his fellow Athenians took their social roles”. Unsurprisingly, his ironic tactics were not well received. This has been an enduring debate involving figures such as Socrates and Aristotle,

Machiavelli and Luther, Rousseau and Schlegel, and so on, until the present time.

63 Addressing Wampole’s article directly, Magill argues that Wampole failed to recognise that this irony-is-bad debate has been around for centuries. He concludes, “Irony and sincerity have both been long with us, and neither of them are going anywhere; it's just a matter of where you decide to look to find them” (2012).

To speak ironically is to say the opposite of what you mean, but irony creates rather than negates meaning. Like sincerity and insincerity, irony creates an impression of truth, albeit from a slightly different angle. Irony can be playful, humorous, sarcastic, and deliberately absurd, but it can also be a form of engaged social critique, and an effective weapon against seriousness, fundamentalism, and fanaticism (Magill 2012).

In the period of German Romanticism for example, Magill states,

to be ironic, was, paradoxically, to be sincere and to stand for the value of real

human connectedness in the face of encroaching industrialization,

commercialism, and science upon the deepest mysteries of human existence

(2012, 111).

Associated with esotericism and hermeticism, irony has long been used to subvert dominant ideologies and political regimes, and has concealed potentially dangerous opinions behind socially acceptable language. The subversive power of irony is famously demonstrated in Act III of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (1623). Eulogising

Caesar, Marc Antony repeats the phrase, “Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And

Brutus is an honourable man” (1958, 733). This ironic statement alerts us to Antony’s real feelings, and by the end of his speech, he has swayed the crowd and implicated

64 Brutus in Caesar’s murder. In such cases, irony acts as a complex enactment of sincerity and truthfulness. Jonathan Lear, author of A Case of Irony (2011), explains,

When an experience of irony is being deployed well, I want to say not merely

that it serves truthfulness and humility, but that it itself is a manifestation of

truthfulness and humility. This is the form truthfulness takes on this occasion;

and thus a “world without irony” would be a world without this form of

truthfulness as a human possibility (Lear and MacIntyre, n.d.).

In line with Lear’s assessment, my project proposes that not only is it possible to be ironically sincere and sincerely ironic, but that conjoined notions of irony and sincerity are significant aspects in human experience and expression. Therefore, the demonisation, negation or avoidance of either serves to limit human experience, or to oversimplify its complexity. Jerry Saltz, in his article Sincerity and Irony Hug It Out

(2010) has remarked on the approach of artists who explore the complex interplay between irony and sincerity:

It’s an attitude that says, I know that the art I’m creating may seem silly, even

stupid, or that it might have been done before, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t

serious. At once knowingly self-conscious about art, unafraid, and unashamed,

these young artists not only see the distinction between earnestness and

detachment as artificial; they grasp that they can be ironic and sincere at the

same time, and they are making art from this compound-complex state of mind

(Saltz, 2010).

65 The Dutch cultural theorists Timotheus Vermeulen and Robin van der Akker have proposed the unification of sincerity and irony as a central premise in their paradigm of metamodernism (2014). The term Metamodernism has gained in popularity over recent years and describes contemporary cultural developments that move beyond the postmodern paradigm. Vermeulen and van der Akker describe metamodernism not as a philosophy, movement, or strategy per se, but rather a “structure of feeling” (2015).

For the generations of artists raised in the 80s and 90s, in the time of Seinfeld, South

Park and The Simpsons, cynicism and irony have become ingrained in our understanding of the world, yet this has not necessarily annulled our capacity for earnestness or sentimentality (Turner, 2015). While my own project adheres with metamodernism’s stance that sincerity and irony are not mutually exclusive, it differs in its interpretation of sincerity, as many advocates of metamodernism promote a return to a romanticised notion of sincerity, where it is understood as an act of existential authenticity (see Dempsey, 2015; Gleisner, 2015; Turner, 2015). For me, separating ideas of sincerity from authenticity and exploring sincerity as a pragmatic media effect has been key to my understanding of sincerity.

Performing the Impossible

Given the communicative and interpersonal nature of sincerity, the context of performance is unavoidable. We perform our sincerity for others, but the issue of how sincerity can be performed sincerely has long been a concern of art and philosophy. For example, Sartre rejected the idea of sincerity entirely, positing instead that a person's awareness of their sincerity instantly compels them towards disingenuousness. As a result, sincerity is merely a form of self-deception, conforming to what Sartre referred

66 to as “bad faith” (In Casey 2014). When considered in the traditional sense, the term sincerity suggests the absence of an act of performance, rather than the presence of it.

This creates an innate contradiction for an authentic act or performance of sincerity must show that it is not a performance at all.

In a contemporary framework, when the very idea of sincere self-expression has become an outdated and embarrassing cliché, the notion of conveying any kind of inner truth has been ultimately rejected. It appears that now, without an ‘inner self’ to reveal or to be true to, sincerity can only ever be a performance. This is because ‘real’ sincerity simply doesn’t exist; it is merely a social and gestural code. If an awareness of the ‘self’ instantly eradicates the possibility of sincerity, or if a sincere self does not exist, the question remains as to why we still desire it? I believe that the answer as to why we desire to produce, perform, and witness sincerity, lies in a need for connection with others. The deliberate performance or production of sincerity is always an emotional appeal. It is a plea for belief and empathy: a call to feeling, motivated by a desire for connection and understanding.

As has been discussed, despite the lessons of postmodernism and challenges to binary distinctions between public and private spheres, we cannot avoid the personal experience of having two sides - one that can be witnessed: our appearance, actions, and statements; and one that exists beyond the scope of others: our thoughts, feelings, and emotions. Our awareness of our private selves makes us aware that others also possess private selves. Given that we are social creatures, we wish to connect and to know others, and we wish for others to know us. However, because some experiences and feelings cannot be readily represented, we are aware that we can never completely

67 express ourselves; therefore, we can also assume that we can never fully understand another’s experience. Ultimately, we are all trapped inside ourselves, despite our desire to know and to connect.

For Groys this phenomenon creates a suspicion about what we can’t see, and the performance of sincerity in and by the media has the power to imply a sense of veracity and truthfulness that serves to allay our suspicions. I would add that our inability to completely connect with others also contributes to a sense of loneliness and isolation. I also believe that art is still perceived as containing sincerity both for the maker and the receiver, and by expressing openness and vulnerability it can quell this loneliness.

To perform sincerity through art is to perform aspects of ourselves that might otherwise remain hidden. For the artist, sincerity emerges as a yearning to express, the desire to share something of ourselves in the hopes it might be recognised, and be considered of value. For the viewer, the sincerity effect of art manifests itself as something that can be related to and felt. It is a form of connectedness that requests a willingness to engage and to listen. Of course, the sincerity the artist projects, and the sincerity the viewer receives, is not necessarily related. I do not propose that this sense of connection is anything more than a fleeting impression, but for a moment we might recognise our hidden, unarticulated selves by glimpsing it in another, and in that moment, we feel a sense of connection with another person, and thus we feel less alone.

68 3.5 Sincerely, Me Too.

In recognition of the importance of human connection and in order to place my project in an accurate context, I need to address a cultural phenomenon that has propelled ideas of sincerity through social media and mass media alike: the #MeToo movement. This movement has been instrumental when processing my notions of sincerity and also touches on the subject matter or impetus of many of my artworks.

The phrase ‘me too’ was coined in 1996 by sexual assault, abuse, and exploitation activist, Tarana Burke (North, 2018). This term however gained considerable momentum in October 2017, following a tweet from actress Alyssa Milano that read

“If you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted write ‘me too’ as a reply to this tweet”

(Milano, 2017). Thereafter, the phrase flooded social media like a tsunami. Within 24 hours, the hashtag “MeToo” received more than 500,000 mentions on Twitter, and a further 12 million on Facebook (Pirani, 2018). #MeToo became a rupturing of systemic silence, and a rallying cry for people who have been victimised through sexual harassment or assault.

Sincerity is a fundamental feature of the #MeToo movement. Firstly, in order to work, the movement required an act of vulnerable sincerity from participants. For many people sharing the phrase ‘me too’, this was the first time they had given voice to their experiences. Secondly, the movement demanded that voices of survivors be accepted as truthful on the basis of their expression alone. The call to say ‘me too’ did not ask for details, stories, or proof. The expression required no qualification, its sincerity resided in the sheer magnitude of shared experience – ‘could this many people really

69 be lying?’ It also shone a light on the fact that women’s expressions of sincerity have long gone unrecognized, and there is a gender bias regarding ‘truth’ (Crockett, 2017).

Critics of #MeToo have argued that it is a movement based purely on emotion, and that the ‘facts’ of the matter are too easily disregarded (Roiphe, 2018). Indeed, there is a strong appeal to pathos in many of the stories that are shared. However, it also brought to light that the perception of sincerity is entirely subjective, and sometimes inconsequential when discerning truth, as was evidenced by the media spectacle of

Brett Kavanaugh’s judiciary hearing regarding his nomination to the American

Supreme Court. As Ryu Spaeth (2018), speaking about the hearing contends, “This spectacle was, in many ways, the ultimate test of the #MeToo movement and its exhortation to believe women”. The coverage of the hearing also showed that the perception of sincerity can be manipulated by the media.

In the Brett Kavanaugh case, the media frenzy ensued after he was accused of sexually assaulting women during his youth. One of these women, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford gave testimony during Kavanaugh’s congressional hearing. Her testimony and

Kavanaugh’s response to the accusation were broadcast live over numerous networks and platforms, including YouTube. Viewers from all over the globe and from all political camps tuned in (O’Connell, 2018). This was not a criminal hearing;

Kavanaugh did not risk a criminal conviction or prison sentence. This was not a hearing about legal justice or retribution; it was barely about substantiation. This was a tribunal on the perception of sincerity and belief. As Senator Gillibrand asked her follow senators prior to the testimonies, “Is he an honest person, is he trustworthy?” (in Reader,

2018). The hearing and its related coverage incited an impassioned debate in social and

70 media circles over which party was lying. The right-wing commentator Mike Cernovich tweeted “This will boil down to the sincere credibility of someone with nothing to gain versus the sincere credibility of someone with everything to lose” (News Corp

Australia, 2018). It became the ultimate dispute of he said/she said.

I watched the live-streamed testimony of Kavanaugh and Ford in its entirety. I found

Ford’s testimony compelling and confronting; that is to say, I believed her. I felt she was honest, I respected her bravery, and I was moved by her visible signs of fear and vulnerability. Ford displayed what I recognised as sincerity. Describing Ford’s appearance at the hearing, Spaeth (2018) writes,

She is raising her hand as the oath is administered. Her eyes are closed and she

is taking a deep breath, as if bracing herself not only for the pain of reliving a

horrible personal trauma on national television, but also for the possibility that,

no matter what she says and no matter how convincingly she says it, she will

not be believed, that it is all for naught, that Kavanaugh will be confirmed

anyway. In that moment, she has so little to gain, so much to lose.

Ford’s display of sincerity was so compelling that the vast majority of commentators across both sides of the partisan divide conceded that Ford was “honest and brave”

(Gibson and Harte, 2018). Alice Stewart, a conservative strategist for several

Republican presidential campaigns, acknowledged that “Dr. Ford comes across as a credible person who has suffered the serious emotional impact of a disturbing incident in her teens” (in Gibson and Harte, 2018). While the Fox News commentator, Chris

Wallace, referred to Ford’s testimony as “extremely credible”, and a “disaster for the

71 Republicans” (in Gibson and Harte, 2018). Even Donald Trump said that he had found

Ford’s testimony “very compelling” (in Becker 2018).

In contrast to Ford’s emotional, yet considered, collegial, and restrained testimony,

Kavanaugh expressed a sense of outrage and launched an explosive and scathing attack on the Democratic members of the committee (CBS News, 2018). He repeatedly broke down in tears, yelled, and refused to answer certain questions. He also sniped at questioning senators, including Senator Klobuchar. For example, in response to her question about whether he had ever blacked out from drinking, he replied by asking: “I don’t know. Have you?” (in Cillizza, 2018). Ford’s retrained testimony was widely received as a signifier of sincerity, however, Kavanaugh’s rage and loss of control was also recognised by many viewers as an expression of sincerity. Kavanaugh was praised for bravely showing his raw emotions, especially by the conservative press that “went into rhapsodies over his wild, angry, tearful testimony, which they took as compelling evidence of his sincerity, even as liberals dismissed it as surreal Trumpian bombast”

(Spaeth 2018).

The day following the testimonies, the Senate Judiciary Committee gathered in anticipation of conducting the vote. Like the testimonies, this was also live-streamed by numerous networks, and again I watched with fascination. This time however I watched two different live-streams simultaneously: CBSN and Fox, which demonstrated the way that the media manipulates sincerity. In this instance, it was not the production of sincerity as a media effect, but rather sincerity’s eradication.

72 I watched the Senate Judiciary meeting with online friends. We rallied in a Messenger group chat, and from our respective locations around the world, we tuned into the live stream that was being broadcast over YouTube. We responded to and discussed events in real time, and through a series of awkward conversational non-sequiturs, around the time the cameras had followed Senator Jeff Flake being confronted in an elevator, we discovered that we were watching different networks. While I was watching the CBSN live coverage, my friends were watching Fox, a network with an acknowledged allegiance to conservatism and the Republican Party. Given that both television networks were live-streaming the same event, it would be natural to assume that they would be showing the same thing. However, that was not the case, and so in order to be able to follow the conversation with my friends, I opened the Fox live stream on a second device.

The Fox coverage differed significantly from CBSN. While there are media analyses of the hearing, they have focused primarily on the coverage of the testimonies. The testimonies were undoubtedly the main attraction of the media circus, but the audience was still tuned in while it awaited the conclusions of the committee. The way that information is presented over visual media impacts the way the viewer receives and interprets it. Furthermore, the collective response to the media’s message shapes our expectations of society (McCombs 2014). In this case, Fox appeared to be deliberately avoiding or sabotaging ‘left-leaning’ emotive content and transmissions of affect.

At the time I tuned into the Fox live stream, CBSN was showing the Republican Senator

Jeff Flake being confronted by two distraught survivors of sexual abuse. As they desperately pleaded with Flake to ask for a FBI investigation, their pained voices were

73 heard live by CBSN viewers. The Fox Network chose not to show this incident in their live coverage. The confrontation of Senator Flake was dramatic and emotionally charged; it made for engaging viewing and created a sense of anticipation over whether this confrontation would have an effect on the outcome.

In visual media, every detail of what you see matters. Editing, panning, and framing can change how and what we see. The disparity in the coverage between CBSN and

Fox provided a lesson in how the selection of coverage either creates or destroys the reception of affect (and thus the perception of sincerity). This became most apparent when the female democrat Senator Klobuchar was speaking. While Klobuchar’s sincerity was not on trial in the same way that Ford’s and Kavanaugh’s was, she was still speaking sincerely about the sincerity of others. The fact that it was Klobuchars’s time to speak is particularly significant as she was one of only four female senators on the committee, a supporter of victim’s rights, and one of the key opponents of

Kavanaugh’s nomination (On the Issues, 2018; Persons, 2018).

In CBSN’s coverage, with the exception of a couple of brief long shots, the camera remained tightly fixed on Klobuchar for her entire speech, and her face and voice were expressive and clear (CBS News, 2018). On Fox however, it was a very different case

(Fox News, 2018). In Fox’s coverage Klobuchar was shown on screen for less than 50 per cent of her speech. There were also moments of audio loss during her speech, and an inexplicable two-minute cut away to footage of the Malaysian Prime Minster entering the United Nations General Assembly. This is a timeline of this particular section of the coverage:

74  1:48:45 - Senator Klobuchar begins her speech.

 1:52:20 - Less than 4 minutes into her speech, the live stream experiences a loss

of sound.

 1:52:29 - Sound returns but now the camera is focused on Senator Grassley’s

empty chair.

 1:52:35 - 6 seconds later, the camera returns to Senator Klobuchar but again the

sound has been lost.

 1:52:39 - 4 seconds later sound returns but again the camera cuts away and for

the next full minute shows Grassley’s empty chair and the man seated behind it

drinking coffee.

 1:53:22 - Grassley returns to his chair. The camera remains on him and we see

him snacking.

 1:54:06 - the camera returns to Klobuchar, but repeatedly shifts up and down as

though the cameraman is struggling to keep her in frame.

 1:54:34 - less than 30 seconds later, the camera changes to a long shot of the

room, and a few seconds later it pans away from Klobuchar to put her out of

view. For the next almost three minutes, the camera shows members on the

Republican side of the committee, nonchalantly shuffling papers, talking

amongst themselves, eating, drinking, and checking their phones.

 1:57:24 - the camera returns to Klobuchar.

 2:00:53 - without warning the live stream suddenly changes to show footage of

the Malaysian Prime Minster giving a speech. We do not see Senator Kobuchar

again for the remainder of her speech.

 2:02:11 - the footage returns to the hearing but remains fixed on Senator

Grassley for the remaining duration.

75  2:04:02 - Klobuchar finishes her speech.

As I earlier explained in my discussion on affect, the media transmits affects through processes of mimicry and empathy. Through the constant interruptions and the manipulation of the viewer’s gaze, the nuances in Klobuchar’s tone, gesture, and expressions were lost. For the Fox viewer, if there was a process of mimicry at play, it was focused on the boredom, disinterest, and hunger displayed by Klobuchar’s associates on the other side of the room. This apathy was similar to that which #MeToo instigator Alyssa Milano had noted the previous day, when she tweeted out a video of the proceedings from her vantage point with the caption, “The Democrats looking Dr.

Ford in the eye. The Republicans looking at their phones” (Milano, 2018). The hearing eventually concluded with Kavanaugh’s nomination to the Supreme Court being confirmed.5

Although I watched this play out over the media from half a world away, these events felt exceedingly personal. Just as #MeToo served as a collective voice for survivors, the media coverage and public debate over the proceedings served as a collective re- traumatization, or triggering of survivors watching who found the subsequent debate often dismissive or even contemptuous of their lived experiences. For many survivors it also unearthed long suppressed feelings and traumatic memories that had never been given name or voice. This was reflected in a marked increase in activity for sexual assault help-lines. The American service The National Sexual Assault Hotline reported an increase of 147 per cent (Abrams, 2018). In the aftermath of the hearing, as I watched

5 Christine Blasey Ford retreated into hiding following a multitude of death threats against her and her family (Baker, 2018)

76 Donald Trump mock and ridicule Dr. Ford for not remembering details, I felt that I, and all other survivors of sexual trauma who couldn’t remember transport details, addresses, and exact names, were being mocked. For myself, and for many others, watching this unfold was profoundly painful. It was, as Karestan Koenen, a leading trauma researcher and professor of psychiatric epidemiology at Harvard called it, “one of the largest public ‘triggerings’ in modern times” (in Treiman, 2018).

Figure 7 Rebecca Daynes. After Christine, 2018.

Despite the outcome of the vote, Ford’s testimony gave rise to a momentous outpouring of support. The rise of the #MeToo movement broke the pervasive silence that often surrounds experience of sexual assault and trauma. It also brought to light many issues of sincerity surrounding gender, politics, and belief, such as,

77  Why are expressions of anger often labeled hysteria when coming from a

woman but considered sincere when expressed by a man?

 Why is women’s sincerity so readily dismissed?

 Where do we go as a society when sincerity isn’t enough?

 Why is the perception of sincerity, as evidenced by Kavanaugh vs Ford, so often

divided along partisan lines?

These questions are all deserving of deeper analysis, unfortunately however they remain just outside the scope of this project.

While the example of Blasey-Ford and Kavanaugh played out across mainstream media, the art world has also been facing its own #metoo allegations. A number of legal cases concerning sexual harassment have recently been brought forward and many artists and art institutions are responding to the changing climate (Sayej, 2018). The influential power of the movement is undeniable. In November 2018 the #metoo movement was ranked third on Art Review’s Power 100 list, an annual ranking of the contemporary art world’s most influential artists, curators and collectors. This marked the first time that an entire movement has made it onto the list. As the Art Review

(2018) explained,

Many of the year’s most dramatic shifts in power within the artworld can be

traced to a popular protest against its abuse…#MeToo changed the prevailing

climate in which curators are appointed, prizes awarded and exhibitions

framed. While much more remains to be done, #MeToo’s most significant

legacy may be to have pioneered a model by which power is made accountable

78 to those excluded from it, whether by virtue of gender identity, ability, race,

class or any number of other intersecting factors.

In addition to changing the way we celebrate artists and frame art, the #metoo movement is being expressed in numerous ways within artworks and creative practice.

For example, the American artist Michelle Hartney has created a performance artwork in which she places didactic labels next to famous artworks created by artists who have a history of misogynistic and abusive behaviour. Using the appropriated words of

Roxane Gay’s essay About the Need to Separate the Art From The Artist and Hannah

Gadsby’s comedy special Nanette, Hartney has recontextualised works by Picasso and

Gauguin. In her label for Balthus, Girl with Cat 1937, she took a more direct approach.

Headed by the words ‘Correcting Art History: How Many Crotch Shots of a Little Girl

Does it Take to Make a Painting?’ the label outlines the artist’s history of photographing an eight-year-old child in highly sexualised positions and the Gagosian

Gallery’s 2013 exhibition and profit from these works.

Harntey’s work directly addresses a pertinent ethical question that has arisen in the wake of the #metoo movement: What should we do in regard to the creative work made by such controversial figures? There has been a call to de-platform, and remove many of these works, however Hartney does not feel that removing the controversial artworks is the answer, rather that that these artworks should remain but the conversation around them needs to change (Cascone, 2018). As Hartney’s Balthus label (2018) plainly states,

79 Men like Balthus, Picasso, Gauguin, Woody Allen, and Roman Polanski, to name a few, have been granted immunity, cloaking them with protection from criticism over their actions, in spite of the number of women and girls they have objectified, mistreated, raped, or molested,. [sic]

Censoring artists is out of the question, but what is the responsibility of the art institutionto [sic] educate viewers and turn the presentation of an artist’s work into a teaching moment?

Figure 8, Michelle Hartney. Performance/Call to Action, 2018. Performance still.

It is a common practice in art museums to include biographical facts about the artists on didactic labels, however problematic histories are often eliminated from the information. By inserting this information, we give a more sincere view of the context that the work was created in and through this sincerity we create a powerful educational moment.

80 Another artist responding to the #metoo movement is Betty Tompkins. In her recent series, entitled “Apologia”, makes a clear statement about the culture that has made the

#metoo movement necessary. In these works, pink text is painted upon reproductions of old paintings ripped from art history books. The words, painted over the figures, are taken form the public apologies of prominent public figures in response to recent sexual abuse accusations (Cohen, 2018). Obscuring the bodies with these carefully scripted

Figure 9, Betty Tompkins, Apologia (Mary Shepard Greene Blumenstein), 2018.

81 statements draws attention to the absurdity and construction of the words, and in so doing, brings the sincerity of these apologies into question.

The #metoo movement has shown how deep the systems of abuse run but it has also revealed to us the pervasive culture of silence that surrounds it. The #metoo movement is increasing the visibility of the issue across all fields, breaking the silence and bringing issues of sincerity and truth into the forefront of public consciousness. One of the most important aspects of the #metoo movement is that it has given a framework in which sincerity is possible.

In my methodology, I wrote about discomfort and disclosure and stated that I am more willing to discuss some things with candour than I was when I began the project. This is largely due to processing experiences through creative exploration, but also due to the rise of the #MeToo movement. Just as I am moved by expressions of sincerity in art, I am moved by expressions of sincerity in the public arena. To be sincere is to be vulnerable, but there is a comfort in numbers. “The #MeToo movement … is more than an appeal for justice: it is a combining of individual voices into an ethos expressive of the victim who will remain silent no more” (Baumlin and Meyer, 2018, 21).

Expressions of sincerity in visual culture inform my creative practice and my understanding of sincerity’s ethical and social potential.

3.6 Sincerity in an Era of Post-Truth

Since the beginning of this research project there has been a cultural shift that some theorists have referred to as a post-truth era. Post-truth has been brought to the forefront

82 of our collective consciousness due largely in part to changes in the political climate and the rise of alternative facts and fake news. In response, many have lamented the loss of truth and sincerity. While sincerity would seem to be the antithesis of post-truth, my research has shown that this is not necessarily the case. Sincerity, particularly in its role as a media effect, can be argued to be post-truth’s most significant feature.

The Oxford dictionary’s definition of post-truth is: “Relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief” (Oxford Dictionary, 2018). What strikes me about this definition is that it is remarkably similar to how I have come to think of sincerity’s function in art. In emphasizing the distinction between sincerity, truth, and candour, and in highlighting the connection between sincerity, irony, and insincerity, I have shown that sincerity is indeed an effective device for appealing to emotions over objective facts. By these definitions sincerity and post-truth can both be understood as creating connections in which objective facts are less influential in shaping viewer responses than appeals to emotion. The appeal and accessibility of expressions of sincerity through social and mass media can be argued as a driving force of a post-truth society

The idea that we have reached a point in our society where the notion of truth has become a shamelessly exploitable commodity is potentially chilling to anyone that values honesty. In 2016 the Oxford dictionary named ‘post-truth’ as their word of the year (Oxford Dictionary, 2016). While the term may have acquired a new-found popularity in the wake of 2016’s turbulent political climate, the concept of ‘post-truth’ is not entirely new, and it is certainly not the first time commentators have lamented

83 the decline of the value of truth in society. Ralph Keyes’ 2004 book The Post Truth

Era: Dishonesty and Deception in contemporary Life outlined the societal turn from truth, and questioned if social evolution had reached a stage beyond honesty where deception is institutionalised and “commonplace at all levels of contemporary life”

(2004, 5). A decade earlier in 1994, Baudrillard asserted that “we live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning” (1994, 79), and conjectured that “information is directly destructive of meaning and signification, or that it neutralizes them. The loss of meaning is directly linked to the dissolving, dissuasive action of information, the media, and the mass media” (1994, 79). Truth has always been a central tenet of philosophy, and history is full of great minds questioning the nature of truth, but in this post-truth, media saturated, digital age, ‘truth’ is more obscure than ever.

Friedrich Nietzsche’s philosophy of Relativism is often invoked to rationalize post- truth (Higgins, 2016.). Nietzsche acknowledged that deception is ubiquitous and cannot always be emphatically rejected. He acknowledged the complexity of human nature, and objected to moral certainties that encourage black-and-white judgments and proscribed notions of good or evil. Nietzsche challenged the view that moral assertions are unconditionally true. For him, there are no moral facts, only moral interpretations

(Higgins, 2016).

However, in our post-truth era we have progressed beyond epistemic relativism: the philosophical view that truth itself is subjective and dependent on context. In a contemporary context, post-truth refers to an epidemic of the blatant rejection and manipulation of facts becoming commonplace across society. In its current description,

84 the term is most commonly articulated in conjunction with ‘politics’. Post-truth political discourse, often associated with and evidenced by the Brexit referendum campaign, and the 2016 US presidential election, is “characterized by a willful blindness to evidence, a mistrust of authority, and an appeal to emotionally based arguments often rooted in fears or anxieties” (Laybats and Tredinnick, 2016).

Looking at the relationship between sincerity and post-truth through the lens of U.S. politics, Faisal Deviji argues in his article The Age of Sincerity (2017) that ‘post-truth’ is misleading phrasing, because the drive behind post–truth politics is not necessarily to lie or falsify, but rather to construct compelling displays of sincerity. As he stresses,

It’s not, as some commentators have claimed, a ‘post-truth’ politics. It’s rather

the politics of sincerity. The truth, or falsehood, of a claim is less important than

the sincerity with which a claim is made. That’s what counts.

Politicians of all persuasions have long used emotive rhetoric to promote their political agendas, and certainly politicians from any affiliation may lie when it is to their advantage. The current American President Donald Trump however, is undoubtedly the textbook exemplar of this phenomenon. Prioritizing his personal agenda over the objective truth, Trump's political method relies on appeals to emotive sentiments such as fear, anxiety, and prejudice, and he appears to be wrapped up in shameless pomposity, self-praise, big noting and name-dropping. From an Aristotelian perspective, Trump’s discourse disregards logos – the appeal to argument and evidence, to situate itself firmly in the realms of pathos – the appeal to emotion; and ethos – an appeal based on the character of the speaker.

85 Despite numerous fact-finding campaigns, investigations, and exposés proving his deceptions, ardent Trump supporters continue to accept his words as truthful (Kay,

2017; Azarian, 2016). Even if they don’t believe his words as facts as such, they believe him to still be sincere. In an article for the Washington Post titled Politics has always been post-truth. Trump’s just honest about it, Barton Swaim (2017) highlights the oxymoron at play: Trump is honest about the fact he is lying, and herein lies his appeal.

For his supporters, it’s not that Trump’s Administration presents mis-truths, it is as

Trump’s senior adviser Kellyanne Conway infamously put it during an interview on

NBC's Meet The Press, rather they offer "alternative facts" - the conclusions that he would like the audience to reach rather than the conclusions merited by the evidence or facts available (McIntyre, 2018). Researching notions of sincerity during a time when traditional notions of truth and sincerity are being replaced with notions of ‘truthiness’6 in social and mass media has highlighted the importance and impact of sincerity on society and culture.

Exploring the connection between post-truth and Donald Trump’s received perception of sincerity, Martin Montgomery (2017, 18) explains that,

It is as if Trump’s exaggerated and inappropriate claims about himself carried a

strong appeal for his core constituency on the grounds that they come across as

an authentic form of self-expression: Trump speaks how he feels and says what

he means. Although liberal America may find many of his remarks offensive,

this does not invalidate them for his core-supporters - indeed that very fact may

6 ‘Truthiness’ was first coined by comedian Stephan Colbert on the debut episode of his political satire television show, The Colbert Report in October 2005. It was later named 2005’s word of the year by the American Dialect Society and in 2006 by Merriam-Webster.

86 re-validate them. Even those utterances that founder as claims to truth on careful

fact-checking do have, as satirists have remarked, a certain ‘truthiness’: if

nothing else they feel right to his supporters and most likely chime with a sense

of ‘what everyone (like us) knows to be the case’.

Donald Trump has been referred to as the first post-truth president (Tsipursky, 2017).

Furthermore, his “Twitter-based presidency” (Hollinger, 2017) has used the internet as a political tool in unprecedented ways. Through his relentless social media presence,

Trump has sold the presentation of an authentic self (Shane, 2018).

3.7 The role of Social media

While this is not the first time that the quality of a politician’s truthfulness has been brought into question, it is the first time that it has played out so rapidly across digital platforms. Social media is often credited as being a significant factor that has led to the turn towards emotive political discourse (Laybats and Tredinnick, 2016). Content that entices an emotional response is more likely to be clicked on, opened, and shared. As social media runs on a currency of likes, comments, and shares, ‘sincere’ emotionally- charged content is simply good business.

Social media has given contemporary society unprecedented access to an abundance of information and misinformation. Moreover, it has created the conditions in which any opinion, regardless of its rationality, veracity, and integrity, can find validation from external sources (Laybats and Tredinnick, 2016). As Laybats and Tredinnick note,

87 “Everyone can find their personal truths reflected in the iridescent[sic] patina of the

Web” (2016, 204)

This trend has been linked to the personalisation algorithms governing what appears in individual social media feeds. As these algorithms sort and prioritise social media content in order to directly appeal to individual users, the user becomes cut off from alternative perspectives, and is instead fed a stream of information that aligns with preexisting ideas. Inevitably, this creates an echo chamber of infinite validation, like

Narcissus finding himself reflected between two parallel mirrors.

These algorithms have the potential to create perfect conditions in which propagated and manipulated 'facts' are able to flourish. Writing on the rise of post truth and the role of multiplicity in new relativism Shawn Wilson (2016), points out that digital modalities can frame history and truth as disposable. In quoting the French philosopher

Teilhard de Chardin (in Wilson, 2016, 2), “truth becomes a function of time ... Fidelity to yesterday’s truth consists precisely in abandoning it in assuming it into today’s truth”. Wilson explains that a new relativism is being driven by social media where truth must be understood as a multiplicity.

Although the impact of social media in the construction of a post-truth society is significant and must be considered, it is important to recognize that the turn towards emotive expression is part of a larger societal shift. Social media is a mere platform on which such discourse is often expressed.

88 Post-truth is a social phenomenon, not simply an issue of technology or media. The tendency to favour emotion over reason is played out across all forms of communication. The filter bubble or echo chamber that social media creates is simply a technological manifestation of the confirmation bias that we have always been subject to: the tendency of individuals to only believe or consume information that reinforces existing beliefs.

Although the function of sincerity in politics for the most part is outside of the scope of this project the relationship between sincerity and post-truth, the way it is conveyed in mass and social media, the rise of fake news, and the unashamedly ‘sincere’ rhetoric of our current global leaders, are all factors that greatly influence my understanding of sincerity’s nature and function.

I find the similarity between the workings of post-truth and my understanding of sincerity slightly disturbing. While I can theoretically differentiate sincerity from issues of morality, and acknowledge that sincerity cannot be reduced to binary notions such as good and bad, I am still emotionally invested in romantic notions of sincerity, and thus personally find the ‘sincerity’ of post-truth politics both abject and concerning. It is incongruent with my idealistic notion that while sincerity is not inherently ‘good’ as traditionally believed, it should ideally still be used for good; for genuine connection rather than strategic manipulation.

In the context of politics, it is easy to see sincerity (appeals to emotion rather than fact), as the problem rather than the solution. This view of course would be vehemently disputed by critics of liberalism, for whom sincerity is the counterpoint to political

89 correctness, which they see as repressing authenticity and free speech (Deviji, 2017).

Nonetheless, when free speech becomes contemptuous and purposefully misleading, and ‘sincerity’ becomes the vehicle for concealment of truth, expressions of bigotry, and civic manipulation, sincerity divides rather than connects. Sincerity can be dangerous, as Tsipursky (2017) affirms, “indeed, rhetoric that appeals to emotions and popular beliefs is a foundational feature of authoritarianism”. This is not the sincerity that I seek in my art practice, and is certainly not the sincerity I hope to promote

As I stated in the previous chapter, I believe sincerity is powerful and transformative.

When starting this project, I could not have anticipated the role that sincerity would play in the cultural turn to post-truth, nor did I suspect that the use of sincerity and truth within the political sphere can be adapted to bleak and potentially dangerous ends.

However, there are fundamental differences between the way sincerity functions in art than it does in the realm of politics. In politics, the distinction between sincerity and truth is concerned with the integrity of factualness. In art, the distinction is more a matter of separating sincerity from the boundaries of hard objective fact.

Resolving the political crisis of post-truth is certainly outside of the scope of this project, however it does raise some questions that will be pertinent to sincerity’s future expression in art: What does sincerity’s entanglement with political rhetoric mean for art. Does the rise of post-truth in politics correlate with a turn to less emotive art? Will rising mistrust in emotional rhetoric lead us into a neo-enlightenment? Megan Bolar

(2017) has hypothesised that this may be the case,

Ironically, for those who have joined the affect theory bandwagon, excited to

see emotion and affect finally given a place on the Enlightenment stage: hold

90 your seat. Already we are seeing invocations of “reason,” “Enlightenment,” etc.

as ways to bring back Truth.

Boler contends that while a return to truth is an understandable response in “an era of

Trumpiness”, the progress of scholars working to illuminate how truths function and are produced is at risk as it “will now face a backlash not only from committed positivists, but from liberal and even potentially radical left sources seeking to reinstitute common truths to shore up against Trump and company” (Bolar, 2017).

Vivian Rehberg (2011) has suggested that resurgence in interest from artists in documentary, archival practices, realistic modes of representation, and the reparation of historical narratives over the past decade is already a response to the public waning of truth. The American artist Richard Prince has gone a different way in addressing the era of post-truth. In 2017 he denounced the originality of a work he had sold to Ivanka

Figure 10, Left Ivanka Trump, Right Richard Prince's tweet.

91 Trump, tweeting out a photo of the artwork with the caption, “This is not my work. I did not make it. I deny. I denounce. This fake art” (Prince, 2017). Prince has openly stated this was an act of protest against the Trump family, it was a performative gesture that highlights the power of personal proclamations and the capriciousness of truth.

The dispute between emotional appeals, personal opinions and facts may well devastate some political systems. But art has long worked this way. For example, the centuries of art commissioned by the Catholic Church sought to present the truth as prescribed by religious authority or the artists of the early twentieth century that sought to give a truthful impression of life’s transient nature rather than the ‘truth’ the camera would later offer. In postmodernism, historical recontextualizations, aesthetic appropriations, identity politics and institutional critique have all worked to challenge notions of truth

(Magill 2012, 118-167). Art has always looked at ideas of truth, from truthful representations to alternative visions and subjectivities of truth.

3.8 The Art of Sincerity

To understand the workings of sincerity in contemporary art, we must think of sincerity as a phenomenon that can be perceived through the senses; and as a matter of affect, which is entirely subjective in its valences. As a means of showing how sincerity functions in art, I will analyse artworks that have been instrumental in informing my understanding of sincerity. These include Damien Hirst’s 1991 sculpture The Physical

Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, and Marina Abramovic’s 2010 performance artwork The Artist is Present. My analysis of Hirst’s work offers a

92 personal and reflective account of my perception of sincerity. I will then address

Abramovic’s work with specific reference to the alien, the gesture, and affective impact, so as to offer a more objective analysis of an aesthetic sincerity effect. Before moving on to discuss my own creative practice, I will consider sincerity’s evolution, tracing the sincerity effect of candour through the works of Tracey Emin and Ryan

Trecartin.

3.9 Damien Hirst

Damien Hirst, the YBA enfant terrible and controversial celebrity-artist may seem to be a contentious choice for analysis of sincerity as he has been widely accused of disingenuousness in his art practice (Galenson 2006, 27-28). There is little middle ground in the critical response to Hirst’s work: he is seen as either a contemporary genius or a cunning trickster committed to conning the public. Hirst is readily recognisable as an exemplification of the calculating artist that Groys (2009) describes as “explicitly cynical—greedy, manipulative, business-oriented, seeking only material profit, and implementing art as a machine for deceiving the audience”. Hirst’s fame and success has been undeniably enhanced through ingenious self-branding, marketing and skilful manipulation of both the media and the audience. His works, which are largely produced by assistants, speak to commercialism and blatant appeals to populism over emotional engagement, causing some critics and commentators to question his sincerity and ask if he is only it in for the money and the fame. (Rutten 2017, 71)

The idea that celebrity should only be granted or ‘achieved’ through mastery and talent is challenged by the rise of the seemingly vapid and artificial media-generated fame

93 that is associated with the nature of contemporary celebrity. For those that value the more traditional high-minded notions of the talented genius or wounded artist that infuses their art with profundity drawn from the depth of their anguished soul, the celebrity-artist or business-artist is met with instant suspicion, scepticism, and in some cases even contempt (Le Blanc 2004). The critic Jonathan Jones (2012) called Hirst “a national disgrace, a living example that talent is nothing and money is king”, while

Julian Spaulding (2012), comparing Hirst to old masters such as Michelangelo and

Rembrandt, maintains that “Damien Hirst isn’t an artist. His works…have no artistic content and are worthless as works of art”. However, it is through this suspicion that the effect of sincerity can emerge and Hirst’s pragmatic manoeuvring of the mechanisms of art, and his drive to money and celebrity can be interpreted as an act of sincere self-revelation. Speaking on the courting and control of fame, Damien Hirst has himself stated that, “What I hate is a hell of a lot of artists who I know, who are alive, have done that and won’t admit it.” (Burn and Hirst 2002, 60) Acknowledging Hirst’s

“attention seeking behaviour” Julian Stallabrass (2001, 36) has argued that,

This courting of publicity was cloaked with an all-knowing irony... A facile

postmodernism, the basis for a ubiquitous irony, was the foundation of this new

art, one which took no principle terribly seriously. The new art would be quite

as dreadful as the philistines said it was... but this time deliberately so: it would

use the philistines’ energy and power in the mass media against them.

As Groys has observed, the creation of the effect of sincerity occurs not through negating the initial suspicion but through confirming it. In our contemporary world, he argues, we are always suspicious that artists have a certain level of pragmatism. As he

94 explains, “artists who adopt the traditional image of lonely genius have a problem: today, it is outright pragmatism that is read as the most sincere pose” (2009).

His controversial work The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone

Living was denounced by critics and was met with accusations of plagiarism (Lydiate

2010, 41). It also caused many in the general public and mainstream media to ask: Is this even art? My understanding of this work was solely through its representation in the media and the public commotion it generated. While it was reported by all accounts that the general public was horrified, I on the other hand, as an undeveloped, untrained and uneducated teenager, felt I was in on a secret. The secret was that this work was not meant to be silly or preposterous, but was rather deeply serious, and profoundly sad. Reflecting on the disparity between my personal response to the art piece and that of the media emphasises the idiosyncratic and arbitrary nature of sincerity. My interest here is not to make assertions about Hirst’s sincerity or intentions, but rather, to explore my own feelings and perceptions of sincerity and how this was affected by the skeptical media representation of this artwork.

The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living was one of the first contemporary artworks I encountered. When I was growing up, death was a common topic in my house, because my mother was a pediatric nurse who specialised in the care of terminally ill children. I remember countless conversations concerning the process of dying and the stages of grief; both for the ones leaving, and for those left behind.

Perhaps more so than my peers at the time, I understood that people die. Yet … regardless of this understanding, I must confess that it still seems unfathomable to me that someone can be here one moment, and not the next. This incomprehension goes

95 beyond a childlike refusal to accept the reality of death. It is rather a feeling of disbelief that cannot be shaken, despite all logical knowledge and proof that death is irrefutable.

For example, this feeling can manifest itself with a momentary glimpse of somebody in a crowd who resembles someone you have lost. It is at such moments that the flicker of recognition is replaced with the sudden and devastating awareness of mortality. This feeling seems perfectly analogous with finding yourself face to face with a formidable and merciless predator. Hirst’s shark, inserted into a gallery setting, was a pure embodiment of danger and indiscriminate cruelty that lurks in unexpected places. I found this work eloquently conveyed something about death that I understood. It articulated something that, certainly at the time, I could not have. If a shark in a tank seemed ridiculous to some people, then surely they had missed the point. Of course, it was ridiculous - death is completely absurd.

Figure 11 Damien Hirst, The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, 1991.

96 On reflection, I believe that the debate regarding Hirst’s integrity intensified my personal understanding of sincerity. Given my mediated exposure to this work, and the surrounding debate, public opinion effectively became an additional surface. Indeed, it became a layer of signs that were inseparable from the artwork. Adhering to Groys’ belief that humans are innately suspicious of surfaces, I began to suspect that this surface of public opinion was obscuring a hidden meaning. In my teenage naivety, I believed that the shock and contemptuousness people displayed simply expressed the

fact that they did not ‘get it’. I felt that my response to the work represented a glitch, or rupture in the surface through which I could see the ‘truth within’. Rather than recalling feelings of isolation associated with this contrary position, I nostalgically recall this experience as a moment of epiphanic connectedness. By communicating something that

I could not yet have articulated for myself, this artwork introduced to me the idea that art was a language in and of itself. For its native speakers (and I began to suspect I was one), this language is freed from the confines of geography and heritage. Like any communication system, it could be arbitrary, obscure, and complex, and was certainly not a language that everyone could speak, but I knew it was one that spoke to me.

3.10 Marina Abramovic

Anne Ozar has postulated that affective connectedness is a human desire that is created through the mutual perception of sincerity. It is the “shared desire and willingness to

97 be intimately present to each other” (348). This idea of sincerity drove the operation of

Marina Abramovic’s 2010 performance artwork The Artist is Present. The Artist is

Present took place at MOMA with renowned performance artist Abramovic, who sat for over 730 hours in direct visual interaction with visitors, amid lights, cameras, and attentive spectators.

Figure 12 Marina Abramovic, The Artist is Present, 2010.

During this performance, members of the audience were invited to sit opposite the artist. The rules for both the artist and the viewer/participant were as follows: to remain silent, still, and to meet the other’s gaze. This work promised to provide a rewarding opportunity for human-to-human connection (Hengel 2012, 10-16). The intensity of these silent and intimate exchanges is clearly conveyed in the work’s documentation

(MOMA 2010), which shows the tear-stained faces of participants, and testifies to the work’s affective power. First-hand accounts have referred to the experience as spiritual, powerful, and meditative.

98 Despite creating a platform for sincere exchange, not all participants felt an affective connection. Speaking about her personal experience of being seated across from

Abramovic, Amelia Jones (2011) recalls her feelings of objectification, and awareness of the gaze directed towards her by the waiting audience, gallery staff, media, photographic equipment and Abramovic herself:

I can say personally I found the exchange to be anything but energizing,

personal, or transformative … the experience overall was very strongly one of

participating in a spectacle—not an emotionally or energetically charged

interpersonal relation, but a simulation of relational exchange with others (not

just the artist, but the other spectators, the guards, the "managers" of the event).

For me this felt like an inadvertent parody of the structure of authentic

expression and reception of "true" emotional resonance.

Jones’ account reminds us of the differences in subjective judgments of sincerity, and thus of sincerity’s elusive nature. Jones’ experience is a reminder that we cannot always control sincerity. In this case, sincerity’s existence is ultimately reliant on its reception by the receiver.

For those of us whose experience of the work is via our computer screens, we are only offered a voyeuristic perspective that influences the way we gauge sincerity. On the screen, tightly framed portraits invite us to scrutinise the affected faces of the viewers/participants. Despite the cameras, harsh lights, and competing gazes, most participants seem lost in their own private experience. Their vulnerability is compelling. Facial expressions present themselves as clues that entice us into believing

99 that something of their inner selves has been revealed: she is kind, she is sad, he is angry. A sense of sincerity is created through their emotional rawness.

The Artist is Present is finished, but its imagery continues to be circulated via social and mass media. A documentary of the same title, released in 2012, gave insight into

Abramovic’s preparation, process, and experience of the work. Additionally, thousands of YouTube videos contain excerpts of Abramovic’s performance. My search on

YouTube for “The Artist is Present Marina Abramovic” returned over 12,000 results.

Out of all those hours of performance and documentation, however, there is a short 3- minute exchange that appears to have particular resonance, and has attracted more

YouTube views (currently over thirteen million) than any other part. This exchange has been referred to as “the most touching moment”, and I would suggest that it is because it is recognised as the most sincere action (Jacques 2012).

In this particular exchange Abramovic waits with her eyes closed while readying herself for the next encounter. Her long-estranged lover and former artistic collaborator Ulay sits down opposite her. Upon opening her eyes, she smiles. As they sit looking into each other’s eyes, however, the emotional intensity builds, and Abramovic begins to cry. Finally, as though she can resist no longer, she reaches across the table to clasp his hands. She never speaks, but for a moment they sit: holding, laughing, and smiling. The audience erupts into applause. What makes this interaction so popular, I believe, is that in this moment the rules of the artwork are broken. There is a failure - a glitch, caused by Abramovic collapsing into gesture and succumbing to a desire for physical contact.

As we have witnessed an emotional connection, we feel convinced that something sincere has taken place. In this moment, Abramovic is “starkly humanized” (Beesley

100 2012), as her poised and controlled stage persona slips away, leaving just a woman who has loved and let go. Describing this moment, Akers (in Beesley 2012) has said,

It makes you as the audience recognise that she’s not [just] this great artist, this

person that’s able to do these superhuman feats of endurance; she’s also human

and she’s flawed and she’s emotional and has feelings that we can all relate to.

Figure 13 Marina Abramovic, The Artist is Present, 2010.

3.11 Eroding Sincerity

A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.

– Oscar Wilde7

7 1891. The Critic as Artist pt. 2, Intentions . https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780191826719.001.0001/q-oro-ed4- 00011525

101

There is a myriad of ways that sincerity has been expressed in art. Sincerity’s credibility and its power to influence is in part due to novelty, as repetition erodes a sign’s ability to convey sincerity. Consequently, the tactics of sincere expression in art need to continually evolve. Groys (2012, 53) has explained,

The common, traditional, and repetitive covers up submedial space like a

nontransparent protective shield and thus creates the impression of insincerity

… The waiting for the moment of sincerity is thus the waiting for the appearance

of the alien, the uncommon, the deviant amid the familiar and the well-known.

Looking at the work of Tracey Emin and Ryan Trecartin, we can trace the decline of candour’s capacity to generate the sincerity effect in art. Tracey Emin’s artwork is characterized by a confessional voice. Emin’s autobiographical and confessional practice focuses on her humiliations, fears, and failures, and gives the impression of full disclosure. Miguel Ángel Medina (2014) describes her as;

aggressive, intuitive, and passionate, and she makes use of her most traumatic,

painful life experiences and her own obsessions, as sources to reinterpret them

into extremely personal creative experiences with an ostensible appearance of

sincerity that, in some instances, can hurt some sensibilities.

Emin’s self-referential candour, specifically about conventionally taboo subjects, such as promiscuity, abortion, or sexual abuse has been effective as a strategy to construct sincerity in her work and public image (Fanthome 2008, 229). This can be seen in her work Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995 (1995), which was a tent

102 embroidered with the names of everyone who had shared her bed. while there was a common misconception that the title referred to sexual partners, the work was about intimacy not sex (Remes 2009). It also included the names of various family members

Figure 14 Tracey Emin, Everyone I have Ever Slept With 1963-1995, 1995.

and the words “foetus I” and “foetus II” in reference to her two abortions. Amplifying the sense of authenticity, the irregular and jagged hand-sewn stitches revealed the physically intimate and laborious act of sewing each name. The sign of the artist’s hand

“lay bare the processes of fabrication as gestures of sincerity” (Hung and Magliaro

2007, 12). The confessional nature of Emin’s practice raises expectations of truth, sincerity, and authenticity, however her confessions are also innately performative.

Rosemary Betterton observed that there is a sense of “ambiguity to be found in much of Emin’s work, oscillating between truth and disclosure on the one hand, and

103 performance and artifice on the other” (2002, 23). Emin’s candid honesty and self- exposure is her trademark, however her work is still a carefully constructed and mediated reflection of her experiences (Fanthome 2008, 229). Reflecting on both the performativity of, and the excess of candour in Emin’s 20-year retrospective, Laura

Cummings (2008) questioned Emin’s intent;

Tracey Emin: 20 Years is an assault of a show. There is no escape from the

agony. The corridors are lined with images of abuse, betrayal, sickness and

abortion, tales from hell retold in embroidered banners and neon. The galleries

are crammed with martyr's relics: hospital tags, bloody plasters, painkillers,

failed contraceptives, the famous bed with its stained knickers and stubbed fags

- supporting evidence to further jeremiads in prose and video…

Emin couldn't possibly expect us to take this absurd literalism seriously - or

could she? This is a question for any visitor to her retrospective. Go round it

solemnly by all means… but every now and again ask yourself whether Emin

mightn't actually be sending herself up.”

In the 1990s, Emin’s say-everything, show-everything tactics were shocking in their candour, and successfully conveyed a sense of sincerity. This was prior to the proliferation of the Internet and the rise of social media. In today’s age of status updates, live-streaming, Tumblr, and Instagram, people are encouraged to share everything, from banal thoughts to photos of meals. This means that candour is less likely to generate an unexpected rupture of our expectations. Indeed, excessive candour in this context can have a contrary effect, because it makes us aware of the way that we are constructing and performing our identities online.

104 Unlike Emin’s hand-crafted work, Ryan Trecartin’s work draws on the prevalence of social media and the “YouTubeification” of culture (Ward in Kholeif 2011, 10-11) to create a digitalized mise-en-scène of over-sharing. In doing so, Trecartin uses the performance of ‘sincerity’ ironically: he turns sincerity on itself to show that too much sincerity through incessant over-sharing eventually fails to be recognised as sincerity at all.

In Trecartin’s films, the artist and a cast of amateur actors portray stories of life in the digital age. His 2004 work for example, A Family Finds Entertainment, features the story of a trouble teenager called Skippy in a bizarre and unconventional ‘coming out’ narrative. Trecartin’s film is a pastiche of ‘bad tv’ and tacky internet tropes. Glitchy video, cheesy special effects, disparate scripts and distorted sound overlap into a phantasmagoria of interpersonal drama and existential angst. The dialogue is too disjointed and chaotic to really process. Grotesque and surreal characters with makeup- smeared faces talk at each other rather than conversing, and the natter is regularly interrupted with outbursts of stream-of-consciousness confessionals that are directed at the viewer. The sensory overload he creates reflects a society both impaired and affirmed by rampant media consumption in the information-saturated world of the

Internet Age.

Through this ironic extravaganza of unabashed candour, Trecartin explores the complexity of sincerity and authenticity in the digital sphere. Quoted in W magazine he says, “things like high-low, in-out, even irony and sincerity, they all inhabit the same space. They don’t exist in different logics” (Lubow 2010). Although Trecartin’s

105 characters are insincere and artificial, they express their desires and innermost thoughts, both deep and superficial, with forthright overwhelming candour.

Figure 15 Ryan Trecartin, The Re‘Search Wait’S, 2009-2010.

Figure 16, Ryan Trecartin Roamie View: History Enhancement (Re'Search Wait'S). 2009–10. The evolution of candour from that of Tracey Emin’s work in the 1990s to Ryan

Trecartin’s work in the 2000s, shows its development from unironic expression and

106 pained performative gesture, through to a parody of oversharing, as an angst-fueled absurdist melodrama. The intimacy of Emin’s text confessions are practically lampooned in the backgrounds of Trecartin’s videos, in which confessional text is scrawled on bathroom mirrors and bedroom walls. What the expressions of candour have in common is that they are delivered with utter impudence and shamelessness.

This is where, in my work, sincerity diverges. Earnest yet painfully self-aware, my confessions are redacted or deliberately vague in an effort to avoid candour entirely.

My explorations of sincerity circumnavigate mediated and digitised landscapes where privacy is eroding, and sincerity and irony are already fused. It shows the struggle, pain, and awkwardness of disclosure when sincerity is no longer shocking, but rather is expected.

107 Chapter 4; Sincerity in Practice

All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies.

Kurt Vonnegut8

My practice-led research explores and highlights the complex and paradoxical nature of sincerity and how it can be reconciled through visual art practice. As my understanding of sincerity has deepened, the way I have utilised sincerity in my practice has evolved. This evolution consists of four key phases of expression and understanding that align with my theoretical research: the ethical, the phenomenological, the affective and the reflective. Although my understanding of these phases has unfolded chronologically, one phase has not superseded another; rather the four phases have represented an accumulative and cyclical process of revelations.

In line with the methodology of bricolage throughout the progression of this research I have created a body of work that employs diverse materials, processes, and approaches in an effort to catch and explore sincerity. The phases are also imbricated in my studio creative practice that seeks to produce a body of work whose subject matter evolves as a dialogue with sincerity that is continually being challenged and transformed in the interplay between making and reflecting. As such, some conversations focus on sincerity’s decline, absence or impossibility.

Through my explorations I have tried to capture and reenact the sincerity I perceive in others, and I have also tried to capture and represent my own. The process of exploring

8 1963. The Cats Cradle. Great Britain: Penguin. p.4 .

108 my own sincerity during the research project has revealed unexpected insights while struggling with feelings of vulnerability, overexposure and insincerity. My relationship with sincerity has revealed itself to be turbulent and challenging, existing as a continuous momentum that has challenged my artistic vision and the manner in which

I can use creativity to communicate.

In this chapter I discuss the pivotal explorations and developments of my research enquiries through an examination of a selection of key works rather than my body of work in its entirety. I will first address my understanding of sincerity as an ethical consideration. The second line of inquiry that will be discussed involves the phenomenological phase in which I explore the potential appearance of sincerity and how it can be employed strategically in artworks. I follow this section by reflecting on sincerity’s relationship with affect, specifically affective communication. In the second half of this chapter I turn my focus inwards to the final phase by addressing sincerity as a state of self-reflection. I also discuss how the process of creating my artworks led to a transformation in my understanding of sincerity.

4.1 The Ethical: Finding a Sincere Voice

“This above all: To thine own self be true”

William Shakespeare9

The ethics of sincerity has been a cyclical concern in my practice. Although I have

9 (Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3)

109 found that it is possible to think about sincerity without a consideration for ethics, certain ethical concerns surrounding sincerity continue to shape my practice.

Entering into this research, my understanding of sincerity was as an ethical demand in which I only speak for what I experience myself. Prior to undertaking the PhD, I had been exploring the relationship between affect and narrative through the lens of the

Christchurch earthquakes, and exploring the ways that I could speak sincerely of my experience, such as it was, disconnected from the authenticity of the actual event. When reflecting upon my experience, I thought about the ethics of sincerity in relation to the articulation of authentic and honest accounts of events. While I understand that this is a self-imposed ethical parameter, it has important political dimensions and has guided central parts of my creative development. As my practice has evolved, I have also found that this belief generated a highly charged and emotional atmosphere characterised by tension and anxiety.

There are a number of ethical factors concerning sincerity that I have considered over the course of this project. That I only speak for myself, is a consideration informed by current feminist thought that recognises that the position and lived experience of the speaker will always affect the ‘truth’ of what was said. From this position it is considered important that the speaker does not “assume an ability to transcend one’s location” (Alcoff 2009, 118). As Alcoff explains, “There is a strong, albeit contested, vein current within feminism which holds that speaking for others - even for other women - is arrogant, vain, unethical, and politically illegitimate” (Alcoff 2009, 117).

As such, people who speak from a position of privilege on behalf of, or regarding the experiences of the less privileged are increasingly being criticised for doing so.

110 Therefore, in order to speak sincerely and ethically, I endeavour only to speak on behalf of myself. However, the ethical parameter of speaking for yourself can also be extended to encompass certain groups to which we identify, such as gender, race, ethnicity, or social standing or experience. In this permutation, the ethical imperative is closer to,

‘don’t speak on something you can’t speak on sincerely’ rather than ‘only speak for yourself’.

While the demarcations of groups can be blurry, and certainly no single personal experience can encapsulate the experiences of the whole, it is becoming increasingly recognised that analysis from a privileged outsider can be “discursively dangerous”. In line with this idea is the belief that “advocacy for the oppressed must come to be done principally by the oppressed” (Alcoff 2009, 118). This has raised an ethical query for me; as a survivor of child-trafficking, I belong to a group in which many members often struggle to voice and articulate their experiences or to advocate for themselves

(especially during childhood). My artwork often draws from these experiences, my practice is indeed autobiographical and often personal but it also conceals, redirects, and obscures any candid exposition or overt narrativisation. My primary motive for this level of obscuration is simply, perhaps selfishly, to maintain a level of self-protection from uncomfortable feelings. My personal conception of sincerity requires an acceptance of my felt experience in the moment and recognises those feelings of wanting to hide and redact that often arise as sincere. My concern is, now as an adult who has had the privilege of having received a formal education, am I abandoning a moral or ethical responsibility to speak out against oppression by only speaking for myself, ambiguously and not on behalf of a community of fellow survivors? Ultimately

111 it is an ethical question that I need only find an answer to that satiates me personally, however it is a heavily weighted question to which I still have no definitive answer.

While I acknowledge that not all conceptions of sincerity are concerned with ethics, the ethics of sincerity continues to be a recurring and persistent concern to me personally.

On reflection, I suspect that I may have created an ethical conundrum for myself deliberately, albeit subconsciously. Whereby, through undertaking this practice led research project, with its focus on articulating the relationship between sincerity, trauma and the difficulties of clear expression, I have forced myself to take a significant step toward open and transparent communication.

4.2 Phenomenological: Working without wax

Latin: Sine = without, cera = wax

(an incorrect etymology)

As my research progressed, I discovered, through the theories of Groys and Bennett, that there are conceptions of sincerity that are not bound by ethical constructs, such as understanding it as a phenomenon that is perceived solely through the senses. In the early stages of my research I began to explore ways of translating the idea of sincerity into aesthetic terms, and into something tangible in studio practice. I pondered what sincerity might look like, and thought about how a ‘sincere’ practice would function.

During this time I devised an aesthetic strategy that I referred to as ‘working without wax’. This term comes from a now discredited but commonly referenced etymology of

112 sincerity that suggests that the word ‘sincere’ is derived from the latin sine cerâ, directly translated as without wax. According to the myth, the term was first used in relation to dishonest artists who used wax to hide cracks, imperfections, and mistakes in marble sculptures. When a sculpture was described as being ‘without wax’, this meant that it was authentic and unblemished. Although this etymology is now dismissed as a fallacy,

I have found it to be useful as an analogy. For me, the idea of working without wax means letting my mistakes and limitations show through.

This process begins with a self-reflective observation of my thoughts and feelings. In this early stage I try not to contextualise, or to rationalise these thoughts and feelings, but rather to accept them without judgment. When explaining the potential of self- referential art-based research, Michael Franklin has noted that, “By giving inner feelings outer aesthetic form, the artist can oscillate attention between subjectification of objective experience and objectification of subjective experience” (2013, 86). During this stage, I focus on putting aside feelings of doubt and self-consciousness, and let myself trust in the potential of art to make explicit that which cannot be spoken, or is yet to be understood.

As I begin to translate my feelings and thoughts into artistic form, I work quickly in an effort to remain close to the moment, or to capture myself while still experiencing the feeling. During the making process I will experiment with new digital techniques and processes without stopping to master the technique. No preliminary or trial works are made; rather I allow my technical clumsiness to remain evident in the final work. In keeping with Groys’ assertion that sincerity is made visible through glitches and mistakes, when ‘working without wax’ I privilege impulse, spontaneity, intuition, and

113 reaction, over refinement, narrative, and lucidity. This allows for ‘mistakes’, inconsistencies, and imperfections to remain visible in the artwork. Focusing on a more

‘haphazard’ approach allows me to balance my natural inclination to refine and perfect.

An example of this strategy can be seen in my video performance work Sea is Lonely

2015.

Intermingling the earnest with the ironic, the work Sea is Lonely begins as a home-style video showing me standing in the garden using a hose to fill a soon-to-be-overflowing watering can. I remain frozen in this gesture throughout the video until I begin to cry.

At this point the tone dims, and the dramatic and sombre resonance of a gothic opera soundtrack introduce a deluge of kitsch and gaudy digital imagery. In front of my stilted self-conscious pose, clichéd, trite and humorously absurd digital images move across the screen. These embellishments make no attempt to suggest realism or diegetic authenticity, the crude images appear on the screen with all the technical showmanship of a poorly placed emoticon. They are perhaps best described as sincerely insincere.

Sea Is Lonely presents the almost impossible task of grasping sincerity. The ebb and flow of sincerity’s tenuous existence is paralleled through the rise and fall of a virtual ocean. As I stand, alone and crying in the garden, cheerful dolphins leap and dance across the screen, and the words ‘Subscribe More Videos’ appear. This is an obvious reference to the current state of connection via social media, which hinges on the accrual of “likes” or “subscribers” that quantify the number of people who feel a connection to you or your work. Ultimately, “subscribe more videos” is a petition for acknowledgement, a blatant and perhaps pathetic plea for approval, and a transparent yearning for the validation of one’s thoughts and feelings by peers.

114

Figure 17, Rebecca Daynes, Sea is Lonely, 2015. Video still.

Figure 18, Rebecca Daynes, Sea is Lonely, 2015. Video still.

115 4.3 The Affective: A yearning to communicate.

Hello? Hello? Hello?

Is there anybody in there?

Just nod if you can hear me.

-Pink Floyd10

Thus far my studio research had revealed how sincerity is fleeting and fragile. It is also greatly affected by time, mood, and atmosphere. In my own experience, these factors can render it so transient and ambiguous that I sometimes struggle to hold on to and feel confident in my capacity to own and express sincere feelings. What was absolutely heartfelt and desperately sincere in one moment can suddenly appear as trite sentimentality conveyed by loosely constructed clichés and platitudes in the next. In the same way that sending a slightly inebriated late-night text message seems like a good idea at the time, sincere expression can be interpreted very differently in the sober light of day.

Using my own sincerity as the impetus for expression and as subject matter, I am sometimes surprised by feelings that tend to rise to the surface and call for an engagement and expression of sincerity through art. I have found that sincerity can be attached to both significant and trivial experiences as an intense yearning. As such, expressing this through my practice often involves focusing on a ‘micro-drama’, the turning of molehills into mountains through sustained attention to, or reenactment of, what might be otherwise considered a trivial or fleeting moment. Sometimes however,

10 1979. Comfortably Numb. The Wall.

116

Figure 19 Rebecca Daynes, For Toots, 2016.

I find myself confronted with an insurmountable metaphorical mountain of such magnitude, that any form of expression will frustratingly fail to hold and encapsulate the intensity of feeling that I want to express. Sometimes, the molehill is the best that can be done, and in these times, sincere expression can seem impossible.

As I have suggested, it is very important for me to know that sincerity drives my creative practice, but it can be difficult to determine the aesthetic and artistic

117 means/modes that will convey this imperative. However, I appreciate that art is the best method of communication through which I feel I can speak most sincerely. This insight has propelled a number of works that were made, first and foremost, for specific individuals so these particular artworks are very much about a personal endeavour. The works carry messages that I sincerely yearn to express, and in translating my message into artistic form, I hope to convey this intensity to the intended recipient, so that they will know I am trying my hardest to communicate and connect with them. My artworks

For Toots and 4 E ‘female emoji’ ‘horse emoji’ both use this approach. They do so however in starkly different ways, and the sincere expression of each required a deliberate, distinctive and considered approach.

For Toots was a spontaneous and playful public performance that was conceived in response to forgetting my best friend’s birthday. I wanted to prove to her that I was genuinely and sincerely sorry. I believe that sincerity is more effectively shown than said, and so, hanging a hastily painted sign around my neck that announced my infraction, I stood next to the on-ramp of the local ferry, thereby making my shame visible to all passing traffic. I then sent a photo of my punitive performance to my friend over social media. Although this work was lighthearted in its delivery and intent, I believe that my sincerity was successfully conveyed, as evidenced in the words of the recipient herself, “Totes forgiven. 10 fold xxx” (Lillytootin Tania 2016, Facebook comment).

There was also a broad response from the public to this work, which confirms my belief that it was successful in its creation of what I refer to as a ‘sincerity effect’. It received an unprecedented number of ‘likes’ in the local community Facebook group, prompted

118 an article in the local newspaper, and led to an interview with me on talkback radio. I believe it was successful because it was relatable. As Jasmin Lill reported, “we’ve all done it” (Lill 2016). In an art context, different inflections on the validity of the sincerity effect might arise. For example, I suspect that the vast majority of the public would not have recognised this as art. Had the work first been encountered in a gallery setting, I believe it would have doubtless met with greater suspicion about the sincere intent of this action. This leads me to believe that part of this work’s success at creating a sincerity effect was dependent on a social media context, and the belief that a semi- private moment and connection between friends had been witnessed.

For Toots was lighthearted and playful in its message of sincerity. 4 E ‘female emoji’

‘horse emoji’ (2015) however responds to a tragedy as it addresses a friend after the murder of her child. Despite sincerity’s long-standing association with acts of avowal, the experience of grief or trauma challenges its connection with speech. In the face of tragedy and the grief it produces, there is often nothing that can be said to make things better. If you have ever tried to comfort someone after the loss of a loved one, you will know that words can seem hollow, and if you have ever tried to express your own grief, you will know that the weight of grief and trauma cannot be adequately articulated.

There are no words that can encapsulates feelings that are amorphous, complex and overwhelming.

Addressing the limitations of sincerity, my video work 4 E ‘female emoji’ ‘horse emoji’, explores the frustration of falling prey to inarticulacy. Although the artwork attempts to express my sincere feelings, ultimately it only served to highlight my own linguistic struggles, and to signal the inevitable failure of trying to articulate feelings

119 that defy articulation. With the air of a candid testimonial, this work began as a private performance between the camera and myself. Affording myself privacy and time in an effort to create the conditions in which sincerity might be possible I address an old

Figure 20 Rebecca Daynes, 4 E ‘female emoji’ ‘horse emoji’, 2015. Video Still

friend who is suffering an unbearable loss due to incomprehensible and heinous circumstances. Although I choose my words carefully and deliberately, it seems that despite my heartfelt yearning for sincere expression, and hence, sincere connection, I find myself trapped in my inability to articulate these feelings, so I am unable to rise above the level of offering hollow platitudes.

The use of digital postproduction generates a flurry of animated imagery that tumbles from my mouth while my voice is replaced by the sounds of escalating laughter. The canned laughter and fluster of cheesy and kitsch images adorn each utterance, and distract one from the increasingly emotional nature of the address. Flowers spill out

120 over the top of circling butterflies; a fish emerges from my mouth and swims across the screen; a pickle tumbles past a pair of scissors and a unicorn. As the video progresses, each phrase becomes a reluctant punchline, as more voices are added to the laughter.

What begins as a lone giggle develops into a chorus of laughter from a taunting crowd that finds hilarity in each attempt to sincerely communicate. Through the swarms of symbols and ciphers that cover the screen, the earnest confession is swamped and transformed into an indecipherable allegory, and in the process becomes completely devoid of candour. The laughter and onslaught of imagery recedes in the moments in between the words. This leaves an uneasy silence that highlights the struggle of putting thoughts into language. As the images that adorn and obscure my speech begin to dissipate, my affected, emotional state is returned to the foreground of attention. If there is a sincerity to be found here, it is in the struggle to express myself, and my visible frustration at finding that I am unable to adequately do so.

When analysing my own sincerity I must rely on introspective self-examination that can leave me questioning just how authentic my own assertions of sincerity really are.

Given my subjective position, I am acutely aware of my feelings, thoughts and intentions. I know what is truth or fact, but I am also aware of my internal monologue and innate contradictions. For example, while I know that my speech was unscripted, free, and completely honest, I also know that I never lost awareness of the camera’s influence on my own performance. So while I can state with a clear conscience that at the time of filming 4 E ‘female emoji’ ‘horse emoji’, my distress was completely heartfelt and real, I also know that at the same time, I was deeply concerned about my hair. To what extent that trivial concerns such as these negate my sincere intentions is difficult to reconcile on a personal level. I may ask myself: am I really feeling sincere

121 if I am preoccupied with such superficial concerns? Ultimately, sincerity is about the desire to connect, but in this case, rather than feeling connected, I feel hollow, self- conscious and shallow. I am left to hope that for my friend, the addressee of this work, sincerity will be found in the fact that I tried to convey it, despite knowing I was destined to fail. I know nothing could ever speak to her pain, but the attempt, like a tacky but well-intended Hallmark card, is sometimes all one can offer.

The redaction of speech not only highlights the difficulties of sincerity and the inefficacy of language, it also resolved an important ethical issue regarding referencing someone else’s traumatic circumstances. The tragic event had already been widely discussed in the media. Interest and speculation on social and news media felt exceedingly brutal and exploitative, and it was important to me that I not exploit or appropriate her story by claiming the narrative. Despite my work being a direct and ultimately a public response to what had become an exposed situation through media coverage, it felt imperative for me as her friend to respect her privacy and the sanctity of intimate interpersonal communication. This tension between disclosure and exposure has been present in so much of my practice and has been difficult to articulate in words and images.

Sincerity, in its separation from narrative, truth, and candour, never felt more valuable to me than in the instance of responding to a moment of such sheer unspeakable horror.

It was not my narrative to tell, the ‘truth’ of the matter can never really be known, and my own unedited candid response felt inappropriate. It had enabled a response that was sincere in that it encapsulated the struggle to express or convey or what I felt. The creation of 4 E ‘female emoji’ ‘horse emoji’, undoubtedly conveyed a sincere

122 expression, but also it left me with residual feelings of over-exposure and vulnerability, as well as raising ethical concerns about conversing with a singular other so publicly.

As discussed in my methodology, the feeling of sincerity is difficult maintain, and in the aftermath of this expression I felt sincerity was slipping away from me.

4.4 The Reflective: Conversing with the self

The works For Toots and 4 E ‘female emoji’ ‘horse emoji’ were overt expressions of sincerity that were directed at individuals. They were spontaneous in that they responded to a current situation. While this was an effective way to engage with sincerity, producing one-sided conversations felt increasingly disingenuous. Therefore,

I believed that in order to proceed I needed to turn my sincerity further inwards. This led to a difficult question: if I am using my voice for self-reflective sincerity, what do

I want to say? As I asked myself what it was that I sincerely needed to say; not conversationally to another but to myself, I was reminded of an encounter with an artwork which had evoked a particularly sincere response.

In 2010 I visited an interactive installation by Rivane Neuenschwander called I Wish

Your Wish. The work was comprised of thousands of silk ribbons hanging from the walls. Each ribbon was printed with a wish written by previous visitors. Participants were invited to take a wish, and tie it around their wrist and in return, leave a wish.

Neuenschwander then printed the new wishes onto ribbons for the next installation of the work thereby creating an enduring collective sharing of hopes and dreams. The act of tying the wish round the wrist draws from religious practices from

123 Neuenschwander’s cultural background. Where visitors of a church in São Salvador are encouraged to select a ribbon, and then knot it three times around the left wrist while repeating a wish three times. According to the tradition, when the ribbon falls off, the wish will come true (Periz 2010).

Figure 21, Rivane Neuenschwander. I Wish Your Wish, 2010. Installation view.

I remember the wish I took, “I wish I had a turtle and that there were no more wars”, and I also clearly remember the wish I made. Perhaps I was disarmed by the childlike whimsy and sincerity of wishing for a turtle in conjunction with world peace, but without much thought or consideration, I wrote ‘I wish my mother understood me’. I thought about that wish a lot afterwards. I was struck by the rawness of my wish and deeply pained by its childlike simplicity. I envisioned my wish being printed onto silk hanging from a different gallery wall and I imagined it being selected from the multitude of wishes and tied around another’s wrist. My wish becoming another’s

124 stirred feelings of connection, but also brought up deep and complicated feelings of sorrow and longing because of the estrangement between my mother and I. My engagement with this artwork revealed something unexpected. It had drawn a sincere expression from me that was unsettling, and as I reflected upon that in the context of my research, I realised that the maternal understanding I yearned for in that wish, and the impossibility of its fulfillment, shaped my obsession with trying to understand and to communicate sincerity.

Our childhood experiences provide the foundation for our deepest, most personal recollections, and serve as a basis for our psychological understanding of the world and of ourselves. I am reminded here of an old pun about Freudian theories: ‘if it’s not one thing, it’s your mother’. This felt embarrassingly true, and I needed to acknowledge that my early experiences of communication with my mother had been dysfunctional, and had precluded sincerity. This was a painful revelation and I found it difficult to reflect upon it, however, I also felt that unless I could process my deeply personal and conflicting relationship with sincerity, I could not understand sincerity at all. While the first portion of my research focused on the sincerity and spontaneity, in this next stage

I moved into a period of private contemplation. While this inward focus could be framed in terms of retreating from the communicative aspects of sincerity and moving towards a focus on personal authenticity, I feel it could more accurately be seen as a sincere conversation turned inwards.

125 4.5 Embellishing the truth

My negotiation with communication is at the forefront of my practice. It is explored explicitly and overtly in my art practice. Interpersonal communication always comes with difficulties and lapses in understanding, but I also found that conversing with myself was equally prone to misunderstanding. In reflecting on my past I was confronted by my own cognitive dissonance – a simultaneous belief in two contradictory views: I am telling the truth/I am lying. Cognitive dissonance appears in many forms, for me this was a direct result of gaslighting. The term gaslighting refers to someone who manipulates people until they question their own reality and sanity.

Through calculated lies and pretexts, these people seek to override your perceptions of reality. The abuse of truth can create an insidious and distressing form of mental confusion as one struggles to reconcile memories that one is being encouraged to refute as fictions.

Serendipitously, as I struggled to unpack the lingering effects of gaslighting, the term was exploding in popular culture. In a time of ‘fake news’ and ‘alternative facts’, gaslighting became a buzzword. Its sudden prevalence exacerbated the conflict I felt and it seemed easier for me to look at gaslighting as a cultural phenomenon rather than in relation to my own experience. In order not to remain distracted like this, I felt I needed to retreat from art based on digital means, and turn to something more physically grounded and tactile, and so I turned to embellishment. The physicality of adhering tiny glittering rhinestones with its minute and repetitive hand gestures enabled me to embody thought processes in a meditative and tangible way. Fuelled by emotional

126 angst and enhanced by laborious repetitive art processes, I used making as a way to think and to process, and to force myself to stay in the place of reflexive discomfort.

Figure 22, Untitled, 2017.

127 The first of these explorations began with a small series of works in which garish imitation gemstones were fixed over the top of digitally distorted images of traditional religious paintings of Madonna and Child.

The images were first altered in photoshop by overlapping the image with itself and slightly changing the scale and position which resulted in anomalies such as realignment of facial features and extra set of hands. This created an uncanny reproduction of an otherwise familiar composition, however as gemstones covered the surface, the distortion of the image underneath recedes, and without closer inspection our minds subconsciously ‘fill in the blanks’ with what we assume is there. The imperfect truth is concealed by the glitz and the gaud.

Moving on I turned to artistic vocabulary borrowed from Louise Bourgeois, and made a sculptural series of spiders from clay. Louise Bourgeois, the grand matriarch of the modern art world, used the spider in reference to her own mother, an association with which I always related. For Bourgeois, the spider was a symbol of maternal protection, being delicate yet fierce. For me however, the spider tends to elicit feelings of fear and anxiety. Despite their small size and relative fragility, they are an archetype of the cunning predator: they are a nightmare presence that lurk in shadows and recesses weaving their traps and lying in wait to mercilessly attack their prey.

As my hands smoothed clay around spindly wire forms, I caressed my fears. I also reflected on my relationship with sincerity and its implication in dysfunctional communication. I considered its contradictions, complexities, and its impossibilities. I encrusted the spiders’ grotesque gangly forms with glitter and jewels. Unlike

128

Figure 23, Under the Gaslight (detail), 2017.

Bourgeois’ stark and elegant metallic sculptures, mine became a swarm of rhinestone- encrusted arachnids that were garish and kitschy as their glittery surfaces masked the monstrous. Embellishing the spiders felt like the physical manifestation of gaslighting

– a distortion and masking of truth. With each tiny rhinestone I felt a growing sense of liberation for I felt that I was highlighting layers of deception and was taking back control over the representation of truth. This reality, once lost to cognitive dissonance, was now immortalized in artistic form. These spiders were a covert threat masked under a layer of beautiful but garish glitz, but the process of beautification also left me with a

129 lingering sadness. In looking for my own sincerity I found its history of absence and I realized how little of it I had felt throughout my life.

Figure 24, Under the Gaslight (detail), 2017.

I left this stage of reflection with a much clearer understanding of why sincerity was so important to me, and why I often find it difficult or confronting. Having reflected on my childhood experiences of communication and processing it through creative art making, I felt emboldened to speak more directly. However bravery, like sincerity, is also hard to hold on to.

130 4.6 A Sincere Self

Artists are people driven by the tension between the desire to communicate and

the desire to hide. D.W. Winnicott

This tension between yearning to speak while maintaining the desire to hide was explored in a series of self-portraits titled I wish My Mother Understood Me. In naming the series, I re-claimed that once repressed and anonymous wish as my own, metaphorically tying it back around my own wrist. Although one can feel vulnerable when making public disclosures, I recognise that my art practice and engagement with art is the place where I can challenge my own bravery and sincerity. Revelations are often spoken there first. The process of making art is my own public confessional where sometimes I don’t even know what will be revealed.

I Wish My Mother Understood Me draws from the social media trope of the cue card confessional and Baroque flower garland paintings. The cue card confessional has become a well-established trope on social media as a useful way to share difficult experiences. There are thousands of videos on YouTube that relate painful and emotional stories in this format. Many of these expressions are formulaic: the use of self-produced digital video or photography where an autobiographical narrative is conveyed though handwritten text on sheets of paper or card. Inserting their body into frame, the subject/author holds their handwritten cue cards in front of them to reveal something of a deeply personal nature. In most of these videos there is no dialogue, as removing a voice emphasizes the display of emotions that are shown on the face.

Typically, emotive music is added by the author to create a certain mood. These works

131 are often filmed on webcams with low production values that emphasise a DIY aesthetic and create a sense of intimacy and authenticity.

Figure 25, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no.6 (detail), 2018.

In social media the cue card confessional is both a controlled autobiographical narrative and an act of embodied social communication. The final confession is released to the public, but the initial articulation (the writing of the cards) happens in private, beyond the audience’s purview. As Kimberly Hall explains, it is “a space of self-writing through the structure of correspondence, rather than its actuality” (cite). Although the format creates a sense of authentic vulnerable rawness, spontaneity, and sincerity, such

132 revelations are highly mediated and controlled. The handwritten text, while indexical of an author’s physical presence, also serves as a means of protecting and distancing from emotional intensity during the performance. Words that might be too hard to voice with composure are packaged as prepared text and have already been edited into calculated expression. In these forms of communication, the viewer is required to bear silent witness to what is a private yet calculated confession.

My photographic series I wish My Mother Understood Me utilises and expands on the contradictory nature of the cue card confessional. It emphasises the desire to be witnessed while simultaneously wishing to hide. Although these self-portraits use tropes from the digital sphere, they also counter much of the insincere exhibitionism that underpins the contemporary selfie. In my artwork, a cornucopia of densely layered flowers proliferate across the image to both subjugate and frame the confessional mode.

The flowers encroach across the surface leaving only slivers of the background image.

The flowers disrupt the balance between foreground and background. Behind the decorative opulence of the floral arrangement the confessional portrait retreats; dwarfed in scale, it is muffled rather than enhanced under the superfluous and whimsical floral display.

The theatrical display I compose for this work consists of an intermingling of vectors, photographs, and vintage paintings that were sourced from creative commons databases. The opulent floral frames, filled with birds, animals, and insects; both predator and prey, beckon the viewer closer for further exploration. The wealth of tiny details tempt the eye away from focusing on the central image. This embellishment acts

133

Figure 26, I Wish My mother Understood Me, no 6, 2018

134

Figure 27, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no 4, 2018.

135

Figure 28, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no 3, 2018

136 to veil the truth and is no longer a representation of manipulative communication but a strategy that employs it. The flowers become a safety mechanism, a place to hide, as though my digital image could at any moment retreat and sink behind the flowers while the viewer is distracted by the more immediate discovery of a kitten that is being hunted by an owl.

Despite the multiple layers of imagery that offers mediation and emotional distancing,

I experience the production of self-portraits as an act of liberation and shame. Turning

Figure 29, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no, 2018. the camera lens on myself is a confronting experience. The dark void of the mechanical eye represents the unseen audience, but it is also an extension of my own gaze. Turned on myself, the gaze becomes an infinite loop, a deep non-verbal conversation with my past, present, and future self. In capturing an image of myself, I am faced with both an interior and exterior view. I am also subject to my own judgment. The opening of the

137 shutter is an act of commitment to processes of self-reflection, with thoughts given body I see my own discomfort as palpable.

Figure 30, The Age of Knowing (detail), 2017 - 2018.

My work The Age of Knowing, created near the end of this project, exhibits a forthrightness that I expressly avoided in the beginning. Being one of the most explicit of my works, it required a strong resolve to remain focussed on such painful stimuli over the course of the many patient and controlled hours required for its completion.

That resolve was driven, in part, by my ethical considerations. The Age of Knowing is

138 comprised of 500 small watercolour paintings. In each painting the word ‘no’ has been masked out prior to the application of paint; once the masking has been removed, the word is revealed in the absence of colour, the letters formed by the blank spaces left behind. This work is a memorial to feelings of sincerity that have been lost or never spoken. Each small-scale painting and utterance is marked by its absence, but through repetition they become a vast refrain, stretching from one end of the gallery to the other.

Presenting the text as an absence - void of paint or colour, alludes to notions of loss, omission, and erasure, yet the ‘no’ in each image is also unambiguously present. The palette of blues and greys, reminiscent of the broad scope of skies and oceanic horizons, is intended to symbolise the scope and weight of sincerity that has never been expressed.

4.7 The Uncanny Self / I Haven’t Felt Like Myself Lately

My experience of struggling to hold on to sincerity has been central to my practice and has led to feelings of personal alienation and disconnection that can be described as

‘uncanny’. In psychoanalytical and cultural terms, the notion of the uncanny is situated within a discourse of estrangement, alienation and otherness (Albano, 2008). Art critic

Jerry Saltz has positioned the uncanny in terms of sincerity. He describes what he calls

“the New Uncanny” as a surplus of awkward and unashamed sincerity. The new uncanny, he writes, is “un-self-consciousness filtered through hyper-self- consciousness, unprocessed absurdity, grandiosity of desire, and fantastic self-regard”

(Saltz, 2013). Speaking about celebrity performers such as Kanye West and Marina

139 Abramovic, Saltz (2013) describes how in the deliberate, perhaps desperate, quest to convey sincerity, these performers instead reveal their estrangement from the viewer:

In their grandiose sincerity, their attempt to keep it real … these stars become

alien things, automata, odd gods before our eyes. By some bizarre alchemy, they

then toggle back into demented sincerity while simultaneously remaining alien,

other, apart.

Too much sincerity ceases to remain sincere; therefore, a perceptible attempt at sincerity will likely destroy the very thing it hopes to create. What results is a move into the realm of the uncanny.

Moving into the final stages of the project and beginning to think about bringing works together for the exhibition created a stark reminder of sincerity’s fleeting and impossible nature, and the problematic fact that the fastest way to seem insincere is to ardently proclaim your sincerity. As Groys (2012, 50) asserted, “Much as he cannot trust a sign that arouses suspicion, the media observer is also incapable of withdrawing trust from a sign that presents itself as trustworthy and sincere”. As such, I worried that bringing the works together would be the proverbial ‘too much’.

Exhibiting feels tantamount to an act of uncomfortable disclosure. While the creation of each individual work was carefully balanced against my own comfort levels, during exhibition creative works previously only considered in isolation become part of a broader, more confronting narrative. Seeing my work installed in the gallery space I am confronted by information that is available to only me, the personal stories that inspired the works, the impetus and vulnerability. I am faced by my own sincerity and I readily

140 see my anger, grief, confusion, shame and my desperation to be heard. At the same time, I also see my dissociation, suppression, embarrassment and desperation to hide. I see the lengths I go to in order to conceal, distract and retreat. And I worry I am not sincere enough. It is clear to me that I am reaching out to the viewer with one hand while pushing them away with the other.

Exhibiting leads to what Brene Brown has referred to in her TED Talk on shame, as a

“vulnerability hangover” (2012). As Brown explains, to allow ourselves to be seen is the ultimate act of courage, but real courage is always preceded by fear and intense vulnerability. As such, the process or method of sincerity that was used to make the works is also a fundamental process of preparing for exhibition. I find comfort in focusing on the key qualities and strategies of sincerity that I have previously outlined.

I remind myself that each attempt, if it is to achieve sincerity, is bound to come with feelings of self-doubt, uncertainty, exposure and vulnerability. I suppose it is embracing a notion not dissimilar from the age-old “Does it hurt? Good – that just means it’s working” school of thought, but it helps nevertheless knowing that the feeling of discomfort does not signal a failure to be sincere, but rather is an indication that sincerity may be possible. To further combat feelings of over-exposure, and to satiate the burgeoning desire for privacy, it helps to remember that sincerity does have boundaries, it does not offer everything like candour or claim to expose the objective truth. Given that sincerity is in a constant state of flux, all we can do is plot occurrences of sincerity, moment by moment, work by work. There needs to be an acceptance that, in working with sincerity, it is part of an ongoing, perhaps perpetual, exploration, with no end-point or final destination.

141 The anxieties surrounding sincerity are amplified under the anticipation of being about to come under the suspicious gaze of the viewer. Groys has asserted the gaze of the viewer is always suspicious, however, I am also aware that it is only in this suspicion that the perception of sincerity can occur. As he explains it is only through self- alienation that we can appear to be sincere (Groys 2012, 54);

The waiting for the moment of sincerity is thus the waiting for the appearance

of the alien, the uncommon, the deviant amid the familiar and the well know.

Because media-ontological suspicion above all gives rise to the anxiety that the

interior makeup of submedial space is different from how it presents itself on

the surface, the observer will accept only those signs as sincere revelations of

the inside that seem different from the familiar signs of the surface -that is,

different from those signs that corroborate the original suspicion of discrepancy

between exterior and interior.

The exhibition showcases my own struggles with sincerity, self-alienation, and personal development of a sincere voice. However, expanding from my own subjective position, it was not designed to explicitly manifest an easy perception of sincerity for the viewer but rather to demonstrate sincerity’s complexity through a variety of critical approaches and creative expressions. The seven works in this exhibition encapsulate different processes and ideas from this research project. The gallery space consisted of a large central room and two smaller rooms, one at each end. The works were presented in a way that is best described as straightforward or simply put. Two video projections

142 filled the rooms at either end of the central room where the rest of the works were positioned around the gallery walls.

At one end of the gallery the gothic opera in the soundtrack of Sea is Lonely rings out, while at the other end, the canned laughter echoing from 4 E ‘female emoji’ ‘horse emoji’ also spills into the central space where the two soundtracks mingle together. This intermingling of the dramatic with the comedic sets the tone for the exhibition.

Figure 31, Under the Gaslight.

In the central room, the glittery spiders of Under the Gaslight are affixed in a loose cluster over a wall, placing them at eye level with the viewer and inviting a closer inspection of the surface. The ‘beckoning’ of the tiny, glittering details is contrasted

143 against the almost repulsion that the viewer may feel upon shifting focus from a close- up perspective of the bright and shiny foreground, to that of the background, where on the wall behind the glittering distractions, lurking in the resulting shadows, a chaotic tangle of long and gangly limbs lies in wait.

Figure 32, The Age of Knowing, Exhibition view.

The 500 watercolour paintings that comprise The Age of Knowing spanned one entire side of the gallery’s central room and offered an encounter with repetition. The word

NO is one of the first words and concepts that we learn to say and understand. Due to its brevity, importance and ubiquitous nature, we reflexively see and understand the word no at a glance, we recognise it as a symbol just as much as we recognise it as a

144 word. As such, for the duration that it takes them to walk the length of the room, the viewer has automatically read both the collective ‘no’ and an arbitrary number of concurrent ‘no’s’ in their head. In direct contrast to the word’s assertive straightforwardness, no further context as to where the no is focused is given. In the exclusion of direction, the viewer will naturally envision/enact the symbol of ‘no’ upon sight, conjuring up their own associations.

Figure 33, I Wish My Mother Understood Me, no 2, (detail).

145 On the opposite side of the gallery, the word ‘NO’ appears again, in one of the six self portraits that comprise the series I Wish My Mother Understood Me. This time the no is held directly in my hands, however my signposted body is dwarfed within the excessive flora of the surrounding frame. Adopting a similar approach to that of Under

The Gaslight, the ‘pull’ of the macro-level detail in the foreground is contrasted against a slightly more ominous ‘push’ from the sudden recognition of a hidden predator in the foliage, or from further introspection about the sign and its accompanying figure.

Next to these is, Feint Hearted, which consists of a pair of boxing gloves on crudely made but glittery stands in front of a large-scale photographic diptych. The readymade gloves are encrusted with thousands of tightly packed rhinestones, glitter, metal pins and spikes. The diptych, like the other photographs in the exhibition, features a self- portrait surrounded by a frame of foliage, although in this work, the figure, wearing a sequinned evening gown and the ornate boxing gloves, is centered at the forefront of the image. This singular image has been cropped so that each panel of the diptych comprises almost one half of the complete image, with the center section which would show my face, conspicuously absent, as it has been completely cropped out. Like many of the works in the exhibition, this work is caught in the tension between the desire to express and communicate and the impulse to hide. The artwork thus offers the intention to communicate and connect with the viewer while also undermining this possibility by removing the ability to look to the face of the subject for emotional cues.

146

Figure 34, Feint Hearted (Installation view) 2018-2019

Adjacent to Feint Hearted however, was a video work that reinserted my face into the space. I Haven’t Felt Like Myself Lately (2019) was produced for the exhibition and embodied my anxiety surrounding the act of being seen, and my own experience of dissociation. This work blends video footage of myself with animation of a computer- generated likeness. I filmed myself, and then created an animated simile from a series of stills of the original footage. The resulting animation is accompanied by a repetitively spoken mantra and song on loop and generates an effect that slips in and out of the uncanny in the collision between the virtual and the real, the sincere and the platitudinous. Installed on a small digital screen with a set of headphones attached, the work invites a more intimate exchange, however any promise of sincerity is undercut by the obviously constructed nature of the work. As the recording shifts from raw footage to an uncanny digitally-reproduced simulation, and the measured, deliberate

147 recitation of the consolatory tones give in to the cavalier murmurings of an obviously distracted, yet entirely digital, human.

Figure 35, I Haven't Felt Like Myself Lately, 2018. Video Still.

Freud described the uncanny as “that class of the frightening which leads back to what is known of old and long familiar” (4). This description of the uncanny also serves as a perfect allegory for certain forms of trauma where the inherent tension between the recognised and the unfamiliar plays out as an awakening of repressed memories, which in turn reveal themselves in alien and disturbing forms. I use the uncanny to explore my own internal conflicts that entail feelings of disassociation, estrangement, and dissonance from notions of self, as well as conveying the frustrating impossibility of sustaining an unremitting sincerity. I have also used the uncanny and the incongruous to explore the construction of sincerity, as I have struggled to reconcile the fragility of the experience of a sincere self with its constantly shifting boundaries. In the uncanny representation of self, I am both myself and a suspicious ‘other’. In this video my animated self is an emotionally void automaton that severs sentimental notions of

148 connection. While acting as a cypher of hidden anxieties and residual trauma it can be interpreted as a repulsive performance of visual inauthenticity.

In I Haven’t Felt Like Myself Lately the words ‘it wasn’t me. It was never me’, are repeated on loop. This repetition increases the significance of the words while simultaneously stripping them of meaning. They indeed slip into the uncanny as they become mindless, automatic, and numb. The ceaseless reiteration enhances the fall into the uncanny, as the compulsion to repeat is a primal unconscious drive, which is repressed in order to adhere to societal conventions, “whatever reminds us of this inner repetition-compulsion is perceived as uncanny” (Uncanny MIT, 12). To further capture my feelings of disassociation in the harsh light of such vulnerability, I added a musical refrain – after each repetition of the words the character absent-mindedly breaks into song, distractedly humming and singing along as if suddenly distracted by a memory of a tune in her head and unable to hold on to the sincerity of the spoken words. If the viewer feels a sense of revulsion, distrust and cynicism over the truth, or conviction of the mantra, then something sincere has been conveyed - I feel that too.

149 Chapter 5: Conclusion

By carrying my dangerous interior as a mask, I deliberately confirm the suspicion

directed against me- and thus pacify the evil gaze of the Other

- Boris Groys11

This practice-led research project has investigated sincerity through the lens of art and creative practice. Sincerity has been considered within four distinct frameworks: the ethical, the communicative, the affective, and the reflexive. I have argued that while one can explore these facets of sincerity in isolation, this does little to explain how sincerity functions in interactive, affective, and dynamic social spheres, and more importantly, in creative practice and visual culture. As such, this project has explored divergent elements of sincerity, using practice-led research as an investigative tool to unpack the nature and potential of sincerity in contemporary visual culture and art practice.

Undertaken during the turn towards a ‘post-truth’ culture, and the rise of the #MeToo movement, this project has emphasised sincerity’s contradictions and difficulties while also devising strategies for ‘sincere’ creative engagement for the viewer and in arts practice. While addressing the difficulty of performing sincerity, it has investigated sincerity’s inherent paradoxes, its ironic dimensions, and its inseparability from insincerity. While this study does not offer an exhaustive account of the manifestations and potentials of sincerity in a wider cultural framework, it does elaborate on the way sincerity can be used in art practice, specifically in relation to expressions of trauma. I

11 (Groys 2012, 60)

150 have found that sincerity requires reflexivity and constant adaption between strategy, technique, and emotional valence. It is a process of push-and-pull, of advance and retreat. While vulnerability and discomfort are crucial in the process of sincerity, a sense of restraint and self-preservation is also important. The core of the sincere creative process resides in the intersection of such strategies. Working through the intricacies of the current dramatic cultural change, the creative works and theoretical research produced during the course of this project represent new possibilities for sincere (both felt and constructed) representation.

I entered this project with a desire to unpack the workings of sincerity in my creative practice, however, as my research progressed I realised that in order to understand sincerity’s creative potential, I would also need to unpack the workings of sincerity in relation to my personal experience of it. The strength of practice-led research is of course that it allows for an adaptive shifting in and out of the personal, through the lens of research. The advantage of being able to ‘shift’ between the parallel objectives of investigative theory and praxis has afforded a comprehensive and reflexive appreciation of the subject from multiple angles and interpretations. This has been a turbulent unfolding of realisation and self-discovery. In the introduction (Chapter 1), I outlined my own subjective position and addressed how my lived experiences have shaped my interest in and understanding of sincerity. Positioning expressions of sincerity as separate from issues of authenticity, I have argued that the key to sincerity’s creative potential is in the distinction of sincerity from the notions of truth, honesty, and candour.

151 In Chapter 2 ‘Methodology’, I outlined the design of my research project and described my key methodological and creative research practices. As sincerity is often elusive and fleeting, I established the importance of using a multifaceted, flexible, and responsive methodology, aimed at building connections and embracing contradictions, in order to best capture the complexities of sincerity. I also addressed the notion of reflexivity and the different forms this has taken in my research. In my discussion of reflexivity, I addressed the relationship between my studio practice and written exegesis and described the significant tension I experience in relation to acts of disclosure.

Drawing a distinction between the process of working towards the perception of sincerity and the development of a sincere process, I have also outlined how my research strategies work together to constitute a method of sincerity.

In Chapter 3, Sincerity in Context, I provided an overarching view that traced the evolving notion of sincerity through historical and theoretical contexts, and outlined its interpretative framework in the contemporary, media-saturated era. In order to frame how I see sincerity functioning in visual arts practices, I described sincerity’s conceptualisation as a media effect, its correlation with suspicion, and examined its relationship with affect. I also addressed expressions of sincerity in contemporary culture and established how sincerity can be used as a strategy for manipulation and/or interpersonal connection. Analysing how perceptions of sincerity have been shaped in recent times, I also address the relationship between sincerity and cultural phenomena such as the #MeToo movement, and the rise of post-truth culture.

152 In the second half of this chapter, I examined how sincerity has been articulated by other contemporary art practitioners, Damien Hirst, Marina Abramovic, Tracey Emin and Ryan Trecartin, and reflected on how their work has informed my own practice.

In Chapter 4, Sincerity in Practice, I examined a selection of key creative works produced during the course of the project and explained how I have utilised creative practice as a site to explore the complex relationship between sincerity, personal trauma, and creative expression. My relationship with sincerity has revealed itself to be turbulent and challenging, existing as a continuous momentum that has challenged my artistic vision and the manner in which I can use creativity to communicate. In this chapter I examined the role of sincerity in my practice through the frameworks of ethics, communication, affect, and reflexivity. To begin, I addressed my personal understanding of sincerity as an ethical consideration. I also discussed sincerity as a phenomenological concern and outlined visual manifestations of sincerity, and their strategic employment in practice. I also reflected on sincerity’s relationship with affect, specifically affective communication. In the second half of this chapter, I turned my focus inwards to address sincerity as a state of self-reflection.

Coming into this project I considered sincerity primarily to be an ethical concern, but as my research progressed, this view widened to recognise sincerity as also outside of moral or ethical restrictions. While sincerity can be understood and used as a pragmatic and malleable visual strategy without considerations for ethical concerns, I have found that the ethics of sincerity continues to be a recurring and persistent drive that shapes my creative practice. My conception of sincerity requires me to trust and accept my affective feelings in the moment, while my ethical pull towards sincerity often asks me

153 to move beyond a place of felt comfort. On reflection, I suspect that I may have deliberately created an ethical conundrum for myself, albeit subconsciously, whereby, in undertaking this practice-led research project, with its focus on articulating the relationship between sincerity, trauma and the difficulties of clear expression, I have forced myself to take a significant step toward open and transparent communication – the very thing my practice has been trying to avoid.

The final exhibition in this project, I Haven’t Felt Like Myself Lately, demonstrated the research outcomes in a way in which the viewer is both pushed away and pulled towards sincerity. As discussed earlier, the tension of this contradictory approach is a crucial aspect of sincerity and is central to my creative practice. Working through the intricacies and paradoxes of sincerity, I have developed and inserted my voice into the ongoing conversation surrounding truth, belief, communication and creative expression. While my voice is often presented as highly constructed, obscured by glittery embellishments or ironic humour, and sometimes only offered as a whisper, it is an authentic voice that directly responds to the dramatic cultural shifts of the era. The research undertaken in this project, through analog, digital and theoretical enquiry, contributes new understandings of the relationship between sincerity and visual representations of trauma.

Through this research I have found that despite the lessons of postmodernism, which challenged binary distinctions of self, we cannot avoid the personal experience of believing we have two sides; one of these can be revealed to and witnessed by others, and one exists beyond the scope of their awareness. Our belief in our private selves makes us believe that others possess private selves also. Given that we are social

154 creatures, we wish to connect and to know others, and we wish for others to know us.

However, because some experiences and feelings cannot be readily represented or communicated, we are aware that we can never express ourselves completely; therefore, we can also assume that we can never fully understand another’s experience.

Ultimately, we are all trapped inside ourselves, despite our desire to know and connect with others. For Groys, this phenomenon creates a suspicion. I believe it also creates a sense of loneliness and isolation. Art contains sincerity for both the maker and the viewer, and by expressing openness and vulnerability it can quell this loneliness.

To perform sincerity through art is to perform aspects of ourselves that might otherwise remain hidden. For the artist, sincerity is implicated in a yearning to express; the desire to share something of ourselves in the hope that it might be recognised and considered of value by others. For the viewer, the sincerity effect of art manifests itself as something that can be related to and felt. It is a form of connectedness that requires a willingness to engage and to listen. Of course, the sincerity that the artist projects and the sincerity that the viewer receives is not necessarily related. I do not propose that this sense of connection is anything more than a fleeting impression, but for a moment, we might recognise our hidden, unarticulated self by glimpsing it in another, and in that moment, we feel a sense of connection: we feel less alone. While ‘true’ sincerity may be either too elusive to grasp or perhaps even categorically impossible, its significance for interpersonal communication and art continues; sometimes saying it just isn’t enough, sincerity is something that we must show.

155

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