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Aesthetics of Installation Art ± ƜE Ɯ ýýaäý ý

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>Vȿ ģĤÌÓ|ZZ¤[ IJĪ 4Ī Q9ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ &&&J_zIJ+Ī)Ī ȿȿ ȿ ȿ'ȿ ȿ = ȿȿ Sí÷Wá Ī- Ī ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿi fñ+.Ī8Ī =0 ȿ -ȿN ȿȿ&ȿȿi ÒTEď*n.Ī9 ȿ$ 0ȿ ȿ ȿƨȿ ȿ ȿ /C ¸Ğ* R¹Ī ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ'ȿ ȿȿȿ ºâl2ġĪ Q$ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ=ȿȿ) 56:;'EF-;X)Īȿȿȿ ȿ -ȿ Ī Áiě3)1Ī ȿȿ = ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ '9C4 Ī M9 ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ =F *2FĪ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ = ȿ Ç½*Ě Ī 9 ȿ ȿ ȿ $ ȿ,ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ?BCg.ĪRQ 3)Ī ȿ ȿȿ -ȿ6ȿ" ȿ i & >ACUĪ0hĪ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ +C9CĪN ĪG8Īȿ ȿ ȿȿ = ȿi BCAD[ ò% 8/Ī ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ! ërĥ>ĪGĪ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ$ȿȿȿòȿ ȱȌȍŷȲŰǓ£} ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ W \èĪW ĪÄQȿ Īȿ ȿȿ = ȿ ȿȿ -Ƣȿ' ȿ Ā 9Ī O ,Ī %ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ H ȿ sv\Ī C 1đ3 V Ī ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ĈĦ#9rħ +NĪȿȿ ȿȿ-ȿ' ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ãĪ;Ī ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ = ȿȿȿȿ "ëĉw ø.Ī Ī ȿ-ȿ,ȿ Ƨ ȿ%ȿ = ȿȿ ó »äĪ ¿ȿ%$ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ jĪù©]ªĪȿ9 ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ=ȿ'ȿ ȿ ȿ s'ËĪ ÂĪĪ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ -ȿjȿȿȿ µ #Ī ;þa ,3éĪȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ jĪ 7%Ī ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ [^_{Ī +4Ī ,Ī -ȿ,ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ'ȿȿ Đ`Ė ¼OĪ)Īȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ôý«Ī ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ "ëĊwĪ':,,XQĪ ȿ ȿ -ȿ,ȿ%ȿ ȿ ȿȿ

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ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ? ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ;ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ,ȿ ȿȿȿ?ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ?ȿȿ?ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ?ȿ@ ȿȿ Gȿ'ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ) ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ -ȿ' ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ? ?ȿ ȿȿ ȿ 0ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿÒ 0 ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ) 8 ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ

>\ȿ >Rȿ Jë¾cÖĨĪ Ïë ĸºȄËȿ ȿȂȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ¥¦¢£¢¤¢Ïªë Ô·ëu ȿ ȿȿ ȿ" ȿ]ȿȿ 4*-"C ]Ī°O ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ %ȿȿȿĜȿ fāČĪ -º° ëȿ ȿ ȿ = ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ txğuĪĪ Ī ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ Gȿ CÍ°2ê±Ī ěQ Xȿȿ ȿ ȿ >RV[ȿ ȿȿ+ ȿȿ;ȿ 5%,=.C% 8ĪĪ h ÃĪȿȿ,ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ #-$C OëSĪ¦Įȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ìēDY®Ī1 ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ %>?@<<=[ +åĪ Aȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ W ï7ÙĩDĪĪ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ &MM& -Ī: Īȿȿȿ" ȿ% ȿ ȿȿȿȿ `ALă o¦ Ī ƞ ȿȿ bȿȿ ȿȿȿȿõR[[ȿ ȿ"ȿ F%Fȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ nȿjȿȿȿ ȿ ǬȃȿêãºħĵQe ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ãtë ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ>R[mȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ úv7'Èd¯ĪÍȿ 8 ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ Ĝ5¶Ī Ș ȿȿ ȿ" ; ȿ' ȿȿ >R\mȿ" i ¶¯ë í ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ^ LëSë-.['0[ èƴȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ) b5bÔ9Ī ¬í ȿȿȿ ȿ ;ȿȿȿȿ Õc^×}I~!FċĪ pȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ"+ȿ ALAĪ =ëźè ȿĜ ȿȿ ȿ Gȿ ŋžQOȿ ȿ@ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ Ĥã¦ ȿȿ ȿ@ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ

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6 ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ$ȿ?uQ1$eȿ9ȿQăæ9Quȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ' ȿ ȿTĹT1Oȿ e) ȿȿȿ ȿTȿȿ"+!ȿ uȿ@ uŌȿ9Qȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ rȿȿȿ $QȿOy ȿ" ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ6 ȿQ$ y$ Úȿ¿Mȿ$ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿk=bTiȿȿ ȿȿ ȿT T uȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ Tȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ 1$eȿ "+ȿ ȿ@ ȿȿ ȿ@ ȿȿȿ ȿeȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ$ ȿȿZTȿ ȿTuȿȕ1Oȿ ȿȿ ȿȿrȿ'ȿ Xȿȿȿȿ ȿȿSĎ ȿȿ$ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ'ȿ ȿTuȿȿ9yȿ ȿT ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ=ȿ ȿO) =ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ űȿ ,ȿ ȿȿ# Xȿȿ ȿȿT OT uȿ ȿ Q$OMB ȿ ȿ ȿȿTȿ ȿȿ ȿQȿQQuĒȿ$ȿ $ ȿ -ȿpȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ $ȿyOM1ȿ·ȿ Tȿ=ȿȿ ȿ>R[mȿƯ= 0 ȿȿȿ$ȿOȿ ! ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ -ȿƌ1ȿ ȿ " 'ȿȿ ȿ ȿ# ȿ ȿȿ$ȿȿ$ȿ Q$$ ēȿOOȿC C<%J ȿȿ ȿȿ%ȿȿȿ 8 ȿȿǉuȿ $1ȿ ȿ" Ī y!ðąĢ ; ȿOȿȿȿT aTȿ Tȿȿ6OOO-ȿƛĒȿ$ȿ SC N S Oȿç ȿTȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ%Ty$ȿ ·ȿȿáăQ°ƩM1ȿĈMzuȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿĉ ȿ ȿȿ6OO0ȿT1uȿ M!ƶ y ȿ ȿȿ." ȿ= /ȿH ȿȿyȿŀȿ·QeȿC K!y>6) ȿȿ!ȿȿȴȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ$ȿȿ ÆǂQ$1»M»M¦āȿ &ȿȿ ȿȿç ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȑŦȿ@1ȿ " " ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿÍȿQ$ y$O ȿ!%y ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ aTȿȿ M1ȿQOŧȿ"" üQOȿ é·ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ !ȿSăeșȿ "" ȿ ȿ ȿȿT ȿȿQ$ 9y$O Ÿȿ "" ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ;ȿ$ ȿ¦K" " ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿT eȿ1uȿO " " "

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JJȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ$ ȿ$ ȿȿȿȿ ' ȿ ȿ ȿȿ$ ȿȿ#$ Xȿȿ$ ȿȿ&ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ $ȿ$ ȿ$ 0 ȿ$ȿ$ȿȿ ȿȿȿ 1ȿȿ$ȿ ȿ$ȿ0 ȿ $ȿ $ ȿ$ȿ$ ȿ ȿ $$ ȿ$ $ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ $ ȿ$ȿ$ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ$$ ȿ$ ȿ#$ Xȿ ć$%ȿȿȿć ) $ȿȿ6$ $ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ $ ȿ$ ȿȿȿ ȿ$ ȿȿ$ ȿ$ ȿ$ ȿȿ$$ȿȿ ȿȿ$ ȿ $ ȿ $$%ȿȿ O$ ȿ$ ȿ ȿȿ $ȿ ȿ$ȿ#$ ȿ$ ȿ+ ;ȿ2ȿ ȿD ȿ@ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ$ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ$ $ȿ$ ȿ ȿ 2ȿ ȿ#$ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ$ $ȿȿȿ $$ȿ $$ ȿȿ$ ȿ$ȿ 1ȿ' ȿ ȿ$ ȿȿ ]ȿȿp$8 ȿȿcȿ ȿj$ ȿȿ$ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ$ ȿ ȿ$ ȿ ȿ$ ȿ#ȿ$ȿ$ȿ ȿ ȿȿ $ ȿ$ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ $ ȿȿȿ $ȿ$ $ ȿ ȿ$ȿ$ȿ % ȿ O$ ȿ ȿȿ ) $$ȿȿȿȿ $ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ,ȿȿȿ $ $ȿ$ȿȿ ȿȿ$$ ȿ$ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ$ $& ȿ$ȿ$ ȿ$ 0 ȿ#$ ȿ ȿ2ȿȿ ȿ $ ȿ ;$ ȿ$ȿ $ ȿȿ$ȿȿAȿȿ $ ȿȿ $ $ ȿȿ$ ȿ ȿ$ ȿ ȿ ȿ$ȿ$ ȿ$ ȿ ȿ ȿ$ ȿȿ$$ ȿ $ ȿȿȿ$$ȿ,$ȿȵȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ$ȿ$ ȿȿ ȿȿ $ ȿ$ ȿȿ$ȿ$1$ ȿȿ$ȿ$ $ ȿ ,ȿȿȿ ȿȿ $H ȿ ȿ$ $ȿȿ ȿ ȿ$ Gȿȿȿ$ȿ $ȿ.]ȿ ȿȿ $ ȿp$8 /ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ$ȿ $ȿ .cȿ ȿȿ$ ȿj$ /ȿ ȿȿȿ#$ Xȿ ȿ $$ $ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ $$ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ $ ȿ $$ ȿȿ$ $ȿ ]ȿ ȿ#$ ȿ$ȿ$ ȿȿ $ȿ $$ ȿ ȿ $ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ$ȿ$$ ȿ $ȿȿȿN ȿ2ȿȿ$ȿ#$ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ $ȿ ȿ $ȿ+ȿ$ȿȿ ȿ$ȿ ȿ#$ ȿ$ ȿ$ȿ $$%ȿȿ6$ $ȿȿ.>RV[/ȿ2ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿA Xȿ&URVP/ȿ ȿ

JKȿ 9

ȿȿNXȿ)IUE*=6b.õRVV²V[/-ȿAȿ ȿȿ = ȿ ȿȿ# XȿBë ȿ@ ȿ'ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ =ȿȿ2==Xȿ ȿ ȿGȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ'ȿ =ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ=ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ.# ȿ ȿ 2==ȿȿ=ȿ ȿ ȿ =ȿȿȿ ȿ = ȿ ȿȿȿ= ȿ ȿȿ=ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿO ) =ȿȿ ȿ /ȿȿȿ ==ȿ ȿȿiIUEO=&ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ) rȿ ȿȿ =ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ" = ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ=ȿsȿ, =ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ =ȿ 0ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ =0ȿȿ= ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ=ȿsȿ,ȿ= ȿȿ=ȿȿ% ȿȿ =ȿ ȿ == ȿȿ ȿ =ȿ=ȿȿȿ ȿ =ȿ.ȿJ/-ȿ

Tý , Ɯ. CƜ&¿ ƜƜJƜ9:Ɯ*ƜE ƜƜ? {Ɯ~Zý / Ɯ ƜƜ¿J9-Ɯ Ɯ&AƜ* ƜƜ:Ɯ*ƜE ƜƜ- ý 1 Zý/ ƜƜ*-CƜ Ɯ8ý.ýý.ý.ý$_ýý2 ýý$ý /.Źź :Ɯ. Ɯy Ɯ; CƜ7 H -Ɯ77>Ĭ)Ɯ Ɯ)HÎ](>(xƜ

JPȿ ,& A&>E 8$E> 6 EA 81&DE C&11E ,ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ= ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ+ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿƪȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ,ȿ %ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ6izTT=kbI:6Oȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ =ȿ ȿȿIUk=bb=O6k=< N ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ %ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿN ȿ2ȿ ȿ6 ȿ # 0ȿȿȿ ȿ# ȿ ȿȿ W ȿȿȿ ȿ & ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ 2ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿtȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ% ȿ 'ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ2Xȿ ȿ %ȿ , ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ)IUE*=6b2ȿ 8ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ = ȿ 8ȿȿ= ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿH ȿ ȿȿ,ȿ ȿ ) ȿȿ2ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ" ȿ ȿȿ;ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ

9

ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ rȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿH ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ rȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ % ȿȿȿ ȿ,ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ.ȿ ȿȿȿ/i ȿȿ ȿ ȿ =ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ^ ȿȿ 8 ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ -ȿ@ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ2Xȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ) ȿ8 ȿȿȿ ȿ-ȿEȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ?ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ;ȿ Aȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿEȿ ȿ2ȿ ? ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ.ȿ+LȿKPR/ȿ2ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ %ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ^ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ" = i ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ") 8 - {ȿ2 ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ H ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ =ȿ ȿȿ vȿȿ,ȿ ȿ ȿ

]ý AƜ ƜƜ1ƜƜƜ T Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ1Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜE{Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ9^ƜgƜ Ɯ1ƜƜƜƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ1ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ :Ɯ&ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ 1 ƜƜ Ɯ ^'Ɯ§v§ eƜEƜ! ýý%ý¥ýu|ýý Wë "ýý%ý %*ý KƜ* Ɯ? Ɯ/V Ɯ[:ë.P Ɯ Ɯ ; Ɯ7 H2-Ɯ 4)HKƜ,Ɯ Ɯ. {Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜEƜƜ, Ɯ. Ɯ%ý 9 ý x.Jý7y ýý%ýE Yýý 0Øý/. Ɯ6*:Ɯg Ɯ y ƜÖ Ɯ 7 Î -Ɯ@@^Ɯ

JVȿ *'"5'39"0%93"."9

ȿ+ ȿA ȿ ȿA ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ` ȿ ȿ^ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ' ȿ" ȿȿE ȿ D ȿ2 ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿA (ȿ &U

HƜ , Ɯ? Ɯý /b1Ɯz :Ɯ9 Ɯ; Ɯ7 >F-Ɯ 4(xƜ

J[ȿ 9

ȿȿȿ %ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ#ȿ2 ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ (ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ 2 ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ &U{ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ,ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿC ȿ ȿ ȿCȿ ȿ 2 (ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿp ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿZ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ Cȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ' ȿA ȿ ȿȿ 2 ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ.ȿ ȿA /ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ,ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ&U

J\ȿ *'"5'39"0%93"."9

d ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ* ȿ6i ȿ 3 ȿ ȿ ȿȿ*C ȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ] `Dȿ D (ȿ* ȿ* *ȿ ȿȿ ȿ %0ȿ*ȿ ȿ " ȿ ȿȿȿȿ Gȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿHȿ ȿȿ*ȿ* ȿ ȿ*ȿH ȿ ȿ*ȿ,*ȿ ȿȿ *ȿ ȿ=yIik=UkI6O ȿȿ ȿ2 ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ* ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ8[ ȿȿ*ȿ*; ȿȿ ȿ "'ȿȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ*ȿ'ȿȿ ȿ ȿ,ȿ'ȿȿȿZkH=b ȿ ȿ* ȿ.+L ȿKK\/ȿ Eȿ*ȿ ȿȿ"* 8 ȿȿȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ& ȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ * ȿ ȿȿ 8ȿȿȿ ȿ*ȿH ȿȿ ZkH=b ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ ȿȿ"*) 8 ȿ' ȿA (ȿȿN(ȿ ȿ2 ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ;ȿ ȿ* ȿȿ&ȿȿȿȿ "* 8 Cȿȿȿ ȿȿ C ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ*ȿ'ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ+ ȿȿ2 ȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ¯ ȿ ȿ ȿȿxȿȿ ȿ* ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ*ȿ' ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ & ȿȿ H ȿZ ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿȿ* ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿ*ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ 2 ȿȿ ȿ*ȿ+ ȿȿ ȿ*ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ #ȿ2 ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ * ȿ ȿ*ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿH ȿ (ȿ ȿ´ȿAȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ*ȿ ȿȿȿ

¥Ɯ j ƜƜ "eƜƜƜ ƜƜ+\S\ý

JRȿ 9

ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ Yȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ Yȿȿ ȿ ȿ.ȿ+LȿKKP/ȿ A ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ 2 ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ Yȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿYȿȿ ȿ ȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿGȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿYȿȿȿH ȿȿȿ,ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿEȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿY ȿȿH ȿ.ȿ+LȿKKR/ȿ #ȿ ȿȿ2 (ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿYȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿYȿȿȿ0 ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿYȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿYȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ . ȿ ȿ ȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ&Uo\ØR/ȿA0 ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ2 (ȿ 0 ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ Y ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿHȿȿȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿYȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ0ȿYȿȿ 8 ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ^ ȿȿ2 ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ Yȿ ȿȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿHȿ ' ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿY ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿYȿ ȿ ȿȿ2 ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿǊ ȿYȿȿ (ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ& ȿYȿ ȿ2 (ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿYȿȿ0ȿYȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ & ȿȿȿ ^ Yȿ ȿȿ ȿȿY ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ#ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ) ȿȿȿȿY ȿȿ ȿ2 ȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ

Kmȿ

ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ;0ȿ ȿȿȿZUOz ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ gȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ -½ȿ +ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ% ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ&U

FƜ AƜeƜƜ1Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ@ Ɯ Ɯ1 Ɯ1 Ɯ ƜƜ ƚ ƜƜ. {Ɯ_ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ1 Ɯ1d Ɯ 9 1 ƜƜƜ Ɯ [Ɯ Ɯ ,Ɯ* Ɯvý ! ýý ý xƜ , Ɯg 1 Ɯ/. Ɯg :Ɯ y Ɯb Ɯ. Ɯ; Ɯ 4 F¥-Ɯ 4=>2xƜ Hë2Ɯ ,Ɯ. {Ɯ ƜƜƜ&,PƜ 'Ɯ1Ɯ ƜƜƜƜƜƜ D Ɯ ƜƜ ƜKƜAƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ }ƜƜƜ ƜTƜ ƜƜƜƜ/ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɨ}fƜ Ɯ. Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ1ƜÜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ1ƜƜ Ɯ/Ɯ*Ɯ()¥ÁƜ xƜ () -#ƜzƜƜ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ1ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ[ƜAƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ§ƜSƜ Ɯ

K>ȿ 9

' ȿȿȿ ȿ*ȿ ª ȿH ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ(ȿ ȿ ȿ.ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ /ȿ ȿ ȿ.ȿȿ * ȿ ȿ*=6bȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ&U

ƜƜ IƜƜƜ ƜƜ1 ýƜ1 Ɯ9 $ Ɯ1ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜŸƜ ƜIƜa Ɯß$ ƜČƜƜĔƜ ÁiƜVƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ Ɯ 1 Ɯ Ɯ1ƜŨƜ&9 $ |Ɯ$ 'Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ$ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜƜƜƜSƜ Y IƜ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ ®Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ IƜ? ¬Ɯ e$ƜƜƜ$ IƜƜƜ$Ɯ $ƜÃ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ IƜƜ- ý1 ý/ƜkƜ SƜ - ý1 ý ƜZý ý E ý >ýř1Ɯz ¬:Ɯ b Ɯ 7 H=ÚƜ 7)¥îFƜ iƜ 7=)ë>)-iƜ.Y ƜƜƜ&a ƜƜJƜ9'Ɯ $ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜIƜƜ $ :Ɯ&VƜ IƜƜ1 ƜƜ ŪIƜƜ ƜƜ1 ¬Ɯ1 ƜIƜ Ɯ Ɯ 1 Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ1IƜY$ IƜ Ɯ ƜIƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ 1ƜVƜYƜ1 ƜƜ$i'ƜSƜ ƜƜ.Y ƜY ƜƜ IƜIƜ $ƜƜƜƜ@P Ɯ IƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ e$Ɯ ƜIƜ 1 IƜƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ1 ý1 Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜƜ ƜƜ1 ƜƜƜƜƜ iƜ ? $Ɯ Ɯ $ ƜƜ ƜƜ 1IƜ ƜIƜ ƜƜƜƜƜ1$ Ɯ Ɯ$ iƜV ƜƜ¬ƜƜƜ IƜ IƜ}Y IƜ I} ƜƜƜ Ɯ@ƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯß$ ƜƜƜIƜ 1ƜƜ IƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ @P ƜƜƜ@Ɯ 1ƜƜƜ1 Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ IƜ /aJ9Ɯ7> ]H2-¹ƜaYƜ$ƜVƜƜSƜ Y Ɯ IƜƜ ¬ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ.Y ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ S|Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ1ƜƜ& ':ƜƜƜYƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ 1 Ɯ .Y ƜI IƜƜ ÜƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ@ iƜ

KJȿ )'"6'39"0%93"."9

ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ.EDȿ>Vm/sȿ' ȿ 2 (ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ sȿN ȿ ) ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ sȿ 2 ȿ ȿȿ ȿ" s ȿEȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ) ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ (ȿH ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ sȿ@ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ gȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ & ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ 2 ȿ ȿȿȿȿ" ȿ ȿȿ ȿ sȿtȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ%ȿȿª ȿ2 ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ A ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ sȿLȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ2 (ȿ ȿȿ&U

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P>ȿ 9

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Poȿ 9

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P[ȿ 9

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PRȿ 9

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\mȿ Zmr_ƜQZƜ°Mµ_Ɯ

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\Vȿ Zmr_ƜQZƜ°M _Ɯ

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RRȿ Aesthetics of Installation Art

Juliane Rebentisch Translated by Daniel Hendrickson with Gerrit Jackson

Sternberg Press+ Contents

1. ···································································································

2 ......

1 ...... 2 ...... • ...... ! ...... 2 ...... • . INTRODUCTION 6

...... THEATRICALITY 20 ...... Theater and Drama (Stanley Cavell) 25 ..... Theatricality and the Autonomy of Art (Michael Fried) 39 ...... I. Literalness and Meaning 49 ...... 2. "Theatricalization" and Aesthetic Reflection 62

..... INTERMEDIALITY 74 ..... Medium and Form (Clement Greenberg, Niklas Luhmann) 79 ...... Art and the Arts (Theodor W. Adorno) 99 ..... I. Progress and "Aesthetic Spirit" 103 ..... 2. Progress and "Fraying" 115 ..... 3. Progress and Autonomy 127 ..... Spatial and Time-Based Art (G. E. Lessing, Jacques Derrida) 141 ..... I. The Temporal Space of Landscape Theater (Gertrude Stein) 146 ..... 2. The Spatial Time of Theatrical Installation (Ilya Kabakov) 155 ..... 3. Cinematographic Installation (Boris Groys, Walter Benjamin) 171 ..... 4. Sound Installation (Theodor W. Adorno, Stanley Cavell) 197

.... SITE SPECIFICITY 220 .... Art and Space (Martin Heidegger) 225 .... I. Places and Spaces 227 .. 2. Setting Up, Setting Forth: The Ge-Stell 230 ... 3. The Interplay of Art and Space 240 ... Installation and Intervention 251 ... I. Institutional Critique 252 ... 2. Art and Politics 263 ... 3. Aesthetic Subjectivity 267

BIBLIOGRAPHY 276 Introduction First, a warning: the fo llowing is not an attempt to distill typologies out of the various artistic experiments that fa ll into the category of installation art in order to arrive, finally, at a clearly circumscribed genre definition. Certain general traits of installation art can indeed be named, and they will be subject to discussion in the fo llowing text. But to create a typology beyond such general traits seems not only difficult, but also not very sensible, given the wide range of phenomena and practices designated by the term "installation." Why codify what is in flux? Neither will I attempt to reconstruct the genesis of installation art or offer a provisional survey of its current variety. If the title of this book has led the reader to expect art historical classifications that would lend structure to an as of yet relatively amorphous art fo rm, this reader will be largely disappointed. For Aesthetics of Installation Art should be taken to refer to philosophical aesthetics. But given the fa ct that philosophical aesthetics concerns itself with the notion of art in general, what can it have to say about a particular art fo rm? And, moreover, about one that is as varied and continuously evolving as installation art? What might be the promise of such an undertaking? We are fa miliar with the sad picture such philosophical business presents. Sometimes the chosen art fo rm is declared, in daring theses, to be the paradigm of art-as-such; sometimes it is used simply to illustrate a general structure that might be equally well demonstrated by any number of other examples. But even with these two extremes set aside, aesthetics, by virtue of the very questions it poses, cannot renounce its tendency toward generalization. What, then, would the point of departure fo r an "aesthetics of installation art" be? We can approach the issue, as I will do in greater detail in the following, if we turn our attention away fr om philosophical aesthetics and toward debates in art criticism, or, more narrowly, in art theory. These debates have been waged since the sixties within the arts, and above all within the visual arts, over works which only later-at the earliest, I would say, since the late seventies-came to be called

Unless otherwise noted, all quotations from non-English titles have been translated by Daniel Hendrickson and Gerrit Jackson.

7 INTRODUCTION installations.1 Surprisingly enough, it is precisely here that the general questions of philosophical aesthetics resurface. To concede or deny that installations are works of art also means to advocate a particular conception of art. In normative debate, the very concept of art is at stake as well. This, of course, is not a peculiar fe ature of the debates revolving around the art of installation. The entire history of modem art is one of struggles with the notion of art. On the other hand, however, the art of installation does not simply mark the most current threshold of this debate. What is interesting about installation art is not its relative novelty, but the fa ct that it throws the fu ndamental problems of modem aesthetic discourse into sharp relief in their most contemporary fo rm. I will return to this point later. For now, what is important to me is that, because of the internal connection between art criticism and the question of the concept of art, much can be gained fr om reading this criticism philosophically, that is, against the backdrop of philosophical aesthetics. Still, the fa ct that the general questions of philosophical aesthetics are not so general-as is demonstrated by the role they play in art critical discussions-is significant also with respect to philosophical aesthetics itself. For the questions of philosophical aesthetics do not, strictly speaking, or at least not in any interesting way, arise as general questions; they arise with a prospective or retrospective view of a concrete aesthetic practice. Philosophical aesthetics can paint a picture of its object-aesthetic practice-only by (re)constructing it in an act of interpretation. Conceptual and aesthetic practice are therefore not simply opposites but imply one another; here, too, object and theory can obviously not be unambiguously separated, but are, as it were, sutured to one another. Just as art criticism, if it does not wish to be arbitrary, must necessarily treat general philosophical questions, philosophical aesthetics, if it does not wish to lose contact with its object, thereby becoming irrelevant, must always have art critical momentum. The respective fo undational discourses of art criticism and of aesthetics, although not identical, depend on one

See Julie H. Reiss, From Margin to Center: The Spaces of Installation Art (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), xi-xii; and Nicholas de Oliveira et al., Installation Art (London: Thames & Hudson, 1994), 8.

8 another. If philosophical aesthetics is conscious of this condition, its task can neither consist in establishing norms alien to actual artistic practice, nor can it limit itself to classifying art as it finds it. Rather, the task of philosophical aesthetics consists then, among other things...., Adorno in particular clearly saw this as a fundamental problem of all critical philosophy-in the attempt to offe r a plausible mediation of deduction and induction.2 Still, as debates within aesthetics over Adorno's aesthetic judgments and their dialectical legitimation clearly demonstrate (see also 2.2), how this theoretical task is to be accom plished after the end of idealistic systems remains a central problem. In recent years, however, an observer of philosophical aesthetics might have been able to fo rm the impression that the discipline has generally distanced itself fromAdorno's art critical ambitions and has now hardly anything to do with artistic practice or with the normative question of aesthetic judgment. Instead, the philosophically relevant debates in recent years, at least in Germany, have fo cused largely on what constitutes the practice of engaging aesthetic objects and, hence, the specific structure of aesthetic experience. 3 The question of what constitutes aesthetic objects has been subordinated to that of the specific structure of our experience of them: aesthetic objects, in this view, are in general those objects that provide the occasion fo r a particular, specifically aesthetic experience. Accordingly,

2 See Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), esp. 343. To list just a few: Rudiger Bubner, Asthetische Erfahrung (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1989); ChristelFricke, Zeichenprozej3 und iisthetischeErf ahrung (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2001); JosefFriichtl, Asthetische Erfahrung und moralisches Urteil: Eine Rehabilitierung (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1996); Hans Robert Jaul3, Aesthetic Experience and LiteraryHermeneutics, trans. Michael Shaw (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1982); Andrea Kern, Schone Lust: Eine Theorie der asthetischen Erfahrung nach Kant (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2000); Christoph Menke, The Sovereignty ofArt.· Aesthetic Negativity in Adorno and Derrida, trans. Neil Solomon (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999); Willi Oelmiiller, ed., Asthetische Erfahrung (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schoningh Verlag, 1981); Martin See!, Die Kunst der Entzweiung: Zum Begriffder asthetis chen Rationalitiil (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1985); Ruth Sonderegger, Fiir eine ,{,/hetik des Spiels: Hermeneutik, Dekonstruktion und der Eigensinn der Kunst (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2000); Albrecht Wellmer, "Truth, Semblance, Reconciliation: Adorno's Aesthetic Redemption of Modernity," in The Persistence of" Modernity: Essays on Aesthetics, Ethics, and Pas/modernism, trans. David Midgley (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1991), 1-35.

9 INTRODUCTION it is still considered protocol that academic specialists in aesthetics have some familiarity with art; this knowledge, however, would not seem to be a necessary component of their conceptual labor-in contra distinction to the traditional aesthetics of production or of the work of art. One might think that philosophical aesthetics has tended to retreat to the refuge from which Adorno's emphatically argumentative project (with and against Hegel) sought to release it in the name of artistic modernism-to the domain, as subjectivist as it is alien to art, of an aesthetics of the judgment of taste.4 No wonder, one might then think, that the conversation between aesthetic theorists on the one hand and practitioners on the other has once again largely come to a halt. Nowhere is this gap between the two contexts of discussion clearer than with respect to the discourse on aesthetic autonomy. While philosophers continue to talk a great deal about aesthetic autonomy-notably the autonomy of aesthetic experience from the domains of theoretical and practical reason-in the world of more advanced art, the term has seemingly become a slur. But this opposition, I think, is deceptive. Both positions-the academic defense of aesthetic autonomy and its disavowal in artistic practice-encounter one another in a critique of the concept of the work of art. And in both cases, it is a particular concept of the work of art that is seen as discredited. This convergence is indicative. It permits us to view the philosophical aesthetics and artistic practices of the recent past in interrelation: an interrelation that would be lost if we saw on the one side a Kant revival-at best provincial but at worst indifferent to current artistic practice-and on the other side an abstract negation of aesthetic autonomy. The interrelation I am interested in is one between the anti-objectivist impulse of theories of aesthetic experience and the impulses toward the dissolution of the concept of the work in artistic practice. As early as 1973, Rudiger Bubner understood his call for a return to Kant in philosophical aesthetics-aimed against the objectivism of the aesthetics of the work-also as a reaction to the destruction of the traditional unity of the work in contemporary art.5 Whereas Bubner, probably only

4 See Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, 333-5.

10 ostensibly drew the conclusion that theory should dispense with the concept of the work of art entirely,6 I would like to interpret the philosophical "turn" to aesthetic experience introduced by Bubner not as a turn away from the concept of the work of art, but as, among other things, an alternativeproposal for an anti-objectivist version of the concept of the work of art. 7 Of course, this implies a significant divergence from Kant. Corresponding to and in critical engagement with some of the existing theories of aesthetic experience, the latter will here be understood not in a Kantian sense, as the pleasure the subject takes in itself (or in its faculties), but as a process that is essentially played out between subject and object. Aesthetic experience, as I will explain in greater detail, exists only in relation to an aesthetic object; conversely this object becomes aesthetic only by virtue of the processes of aesthetic experience. The aesthetic object cannot be objectified outside aesthetic experience, nor does the subject ultimately become, on the occasion of an object that must be hracketed, the object of its own experience. The new conception of aesthetic experience as a process that comprehends the subject as well as the object of this experience to the same degree and equipri mordially, and which therefore cannot be attributed to either of these entities alone, follows a new conception of aesthetic autonomy as well. Art is not autonomous because it is constituted in this or that way, but because it allows for an experience distinct from the spheres of practical and theoretical reason, by virtue of the specific structure of the relation between its subject and its object. These general and, with respect to criteria that would be useful to artcriticism, decidedly ascetic definitions nonethelesshave an art critical point if we relate them to the normative debates about

RUdiger Bubner, "Uber einige Bedingungen gegenwartiger Asthetik," in Neue 1/efiefiir Philosophie 5 (1973): 38-73; reprinted in Bubner, Asthetische Erfahrung,

esp. 19-20, 33-34, 44 . c. In any case, Bubner later defended a rather conservative conception of the work. See RUdiger Bubner, "Demokratisierung des Geniekonzepts," in A'sthetik der lmzenierung, eds. Josef FrUchtl and Ji:irg Zimmermann (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2001), 77-90. It is significant that the academic discourse on art emphatically gestures in this direction. See Gottfried Boehm, "Das Werk als Prozel3," in Das Kunstwerk, ed. Willi OelmUller (Paderbom: Ferdinand Schoningh Verlag, 1983), 326-38.

11 INTRODUCTION contemporary art. For, in art critical arguments concerning the concept of art, it becomes clear that the question of what constitutes an aesthetic object always already implies the question of what constitutes aesthetic experience. The two questions are two sides of the same coin. This can be demonstrated precisely with respect to those positions of the aesthetics of the work against which the concept of aesthetic experience is directed. Yet whereas the concept of the work of art remains prior for those positions, theories of aesthetic experience claim the primacy of this experience over its object (and its subject; see 3.2.3). If work-aesthetic positions can be criticized in light of a methodological primacy of aesthetic experience as objec tivist, this is not because the work is conceived as entirely divorced from its relation to the experiencing subject in work-aesthetic positions. It is much more a question of how the relation between work and experience should be understood. It is certainly not by chance that the argument concerning the concept of art-which in this sense is always a double argument, one concerning both the work and the experience of it-has since the sixties revolved around installation art with particular vehemence. Installation art, in its diverse manifestations, clearly condenses qualities that have proven to be incompatible not only with the conventions of form in aesthetic modernism but also with the versions of aesthetic autonomy delineated by positions in production and work-aesthetic theory that were associated with these conventions. In art criticism, these incompatibilites resulted in a clear front line that remains in effectto this day: on the one hand, defenders of aesthetic modernism repudiated installation art as no longer autonomous art; while advocates of aesthetic postmodernism, on the other hand, repudiated the concept of aesthetic autonomy rather than the new art form. Both sides, as I hope to demonstrate, are simultaneously right and wrong. Both sides are right in that the various forms of installation art can indeed probably no longer be called autonomous in the sense of the definition of aes thetic autonomy associated with the standards of aesthetic modernism. Both sides are wrong in concluding that the acceptance of installation art as art inevitably entails that the idea of aesthetic autonomy must be renounced altogether. For without a concept of aesthetic autonomy,

12 I would maintain, the term "art" is conceptually empty. This may be one of the reasons why art critics have recently tended to justify contemporary art as theory or politics. Correspondingly, the discursive competence of many artists, a relatively new phenomenon that contrasts with the position of theoretical naivete traditionally ascribed to them, concerns primarily problems of political philosophy (catchwords: postcolonial, gender, and queer studies) rather than this blind spot is symptomatic-those of aesthetics. In order to counter this trend toward obscuring aesthetic questions in the discourse or art criticism and art practice (which is not to say that I wish to diminish the political dimensions of this discourse), I would like to make the case, in light of a new conception of aesthetic autonomy based on a theory of aesthetic experience, for seeing the tendencies toward boundary-crossing in art in conjunction with its autonomy expressly with a view to the (time and again) contemporary boundary crossings between art and life, art and politics, or art and theory (see 3.2). Installation art is certainly only one example of this tendency toward boundary-crossing, but, I would maintain, an especially instructive one precisely because of its far-reaching genealogy and its unclear boundaries with other, traditional art forms. Regarding its genealogy, it is notable that a list of the potential precursors of installation art reads like a list of classical and neo-avant-garde movements. Particu larly those that demonstrate that the history of modern art was already rundamentally shaped by tendencies toward boundary-crossing that some contemporary critics would ascribe in toto to so-called post modemism.8 Yet if we indeed assumed a fundamental break between modernism and postmodernism, such continuity could not be ex plained. Instead, as I would like to show in the example of installation

s The Thames & Hudson monograph Installation Art cites as precursors: "the inclusiveness of Futurist Cubist Collage; Duchamp's readymades; Dada and the constructions of Schwitters and Baader; El Lissitzky and Constructivist approaches to space; Duchamp again and his contributions to the Surrealist exhibitions in 1938 and 1942; Fontana's 'spatialism'; assemblage; happenings; Klein and Manzoni; the Pop tableaux of Kienholz, Oldenburg, Segal and Thek; Fluxus; Minimalism; Pop Att; Arte Povera; Process Art; Conceptualism; [ ... ]." De Oliveira et a!., lmtallation Art, 9.

13 INTRODUCTION art, we should interpret tendencies toward artistic boundary-crossing not as a break from but, on the contrary, as a radicalization of the principles of aesthetic modernism. Hence, the impulse to transgress the boundaries of the modernist concept of the work of art would be postmodern only in the sense of an impulse toward a critical over coming of modernism by and through itself. For what such trans gression attacks is not the idea of autonomous art but an objectivist misunderstanding of it. Because installations, through their breach with modernist conventions of form, throw the central problems of modernist aesthetic discourse into sharp relief, they emphatically call for a different philosophical reflection on the concept of art-and that of its experi ence-a reflection, moreover, that is, as I will show, decidedly post-metaphysical. This is not to say that only installation art offers an experience of what art, correctly understood, really is. But neither is installation artmerely an arbitrarily chosen object for such reflection. Rather, installation works seem to function in a particularly explicit way against an objectivism that is already inadequate with respect to interpreting traditional works. What we could call the anti-objec tivist effects that installation works have on the concept of art might also be the deeper reason why critics continually extend the concept of installation (even retroactively) to the point where, at least with regards to certain aspects in each individual case, it now seems appli cable to nearly all art. The fact that installation art, despite-or rather, because of-its ubiquity, offers a peculiar sort of resistance to a neat definition as a genre would then be an indication not only that what is conceived by the open term "installation" is still in dynamic motion, but also that it would be pointless to discuss the theoreti cally relevant traits of installation art in the framework of a discussion of the characteristics of a new genre. In any case, installation art resists an objectivist concept of the work by transgressing the boundaries of the traditional arts into ever new fields of intermedia hybridity (see 2.3). As such, the diver sity of installation art does not constitute a new genre. What is created under the umbrella term "installation" is not so much works but models of the possibility of works; not so much examples of a

14 new genre but ever new genres.9 Installation art offers resistance to an objectivist concept of the work also by transgressing the boundaries that separate the traditional, the organic work of art from the space that surrounds it (see 1.2 and 3.1) and/or its institutional, economic, cultural, or social contexts (see 3.2). Yet, what lends the movement against objectivism in art theory and criticism particular momentum is the novel active role installation art seems to assign to the be holder. This aspect, however, should not be misunderstood to be a kind of interactivity; what the various movements of boundary crossing reflect is, I think, the constitutive role of the viewer for the ontology of the work of art in general. Installations are not only ob jects to be beheld but simultaneously also the site of reflection on the aesthetic practice of beholding. More than any other feature, what has often been called the "inclusion of the beholder" places installa tion art in direct relation to a central problem of modem philosophy: the problem of an ontology founded on the subject-object distinction. Now the question of how this ontology-and with it, the ratio nalistic control of the subject over the object-might be overcome by truly autonomous art is an important, if not the central topic of modem aesthetics: it is central to the works of such diverse authors as Theodor W. Adorno, Stanley Cavell, Hans-Georg Gadamer, and Martin Heidegger. This nexus of ethical-aesthetic arguments was par ticularly dense in the debates of the late sixties, which were sparked by the unusually radical tendencies in contemporary art toward bound ary-crossing or the "dissolution" of the traditionalconcept of the work. These developments, or so it seemed, put the autonomy of art itself at stake. The very dissolution of the concept of the work, as critics of such dissolution asserted, paradoxically corresponded to a logic of reification that is the immediate antagonist of the autonomy of art. Seen in this light, installation works, especially because of their struc tural "inclusion" of the beholder, seemed to pose not only an aesthetic but also, and primarily, an ethical problem: they seemed to surrender to the subject's control (see especially 1.2). A defense of installation art (and the following is intended as one) must address this set of issues

'I See Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, 308.

15 INTRODUCTION lest it leave itself helplessly exposed to the reproach that it is simply part of the problem diagnosed by this critique. But a rereading of certain contributions to the debates of the late sixties is valuable also because the categories introduced in these contributions remain extraordinarily influential even today, both in art criticism and, more generally, in academic cultural studies as well as among artists. The relevance these contributions indeed have for today's artists is indicated by the fact that the most interesting contemporary art is full of revisions and resumptions of artistic positions from the late sixties and early seventies.10 Yet, in the context of today's discussions, the categories of those debates lead a life of their own-one largely de tached from any awareness of the problems originally associated with them. This is precisely why I believe we need to uncover the underlying argumentative contexts of the respective categories; not only in order to arrive at a correct understanding of the critical point of historical assessments, but also to develop a new, different concept of aesthetic autonomy that is adequate for contemporary aesthetic phenomena while matching the acuity of insight into these problems achieved in the sixties. It is important to recall this acuity, regardless of all the criticisms of the ways such an insight has been articulated not least in view of those "postmodem" positions that consider the concept of aesthetic autonomy as altogether dispensable (see 3.2). In this sense, too, the following intends to rehabilitate philosophical aes thetics as a critical project. I will structure my engagement of the aesthetic theories and theorems that characterize the discourse of installation and related practices in art criticism and theory since the sixties around specific focal points marked by the most important terms of this discourse. I do not claim, then, that what I offer is a catalog or index of all the issues relevant to the discourse revolving around installation art. Instead, I have chosen three terms that seem to focus the philosophical problems of relevance to our context: "theatricality" (part 1 ), "intermediality" (part 2), and "site specificity" (part 3). Their con-

10 Examples that come to mind are the numerous artists engaging with Robert Smithson's work and the Minimal art of Tom Burr, Renee Green, Florian PumhOsl, Heimo Zobemig, and others.

16 stellation, or rather the constellation of the sometimes interlocking arguments hidden beneath these terms, will, I hope, delineate the horizon within which critical aesthetic discourse engages its problems implicitly or explicitly-even today. Since the first two terms theatricality and intermediality-have in recent years become keywords in extended branches of academic cultural studies, I should like to emphasize right away that my interpretation of them will move ex pressly within the framework of philosophical aesthetics. The following aesthetics of installation is thus indeed a treatise less on installation than on the terms engendered in response to it. Yet these very terms manifest the aforementioned close interrelation between aesthetic and conceptual practice. This is also the context for my decision to do without illustrations. Most "installation shots" for the term designates not only exhibition photos, but has come to be used also for the photographic documentation of installation works are peculiarly sterile and unsatisfactory as reproductions of installation art, even of works that, as might be the case with a few tableau-like arrangements, seem to anticipate their own photographic documen tation, or in other words, their translation into a picture.11 Installation shots cannot adequately reproduce installations because the difference that distinguishes the latter from the picture, the third dimension, is essential to our experience of them. In my opinion, the only means to collect the data relevant to an aesthetics of installation are those of theory and criticism themselves. Theory cannot quote installations like poems. The question of what it means, under these circumstances, to refer to an installation leads back to a problem I already mentioned, that of the mutual implication of concept and object. Due to the close interrelation of aesthetic and conceptual practice, it is necessary to pursue the argument on both levels, with constant reference from one to the other. The new conception of aesthetic autonomy I will advocate in the following is intended as an intervention in theconceptual practice of theory or criticism that aspires to do greater justice to the aesthetic practice under consideration. This requires an analysis of

II See Brian Fer, "The Somnambulist's Story: Installation and the Tableau," in Oxford Art Journa/24, no. 2 (2001): 75-92.

17 INTRODUCTION the various critical interpretations of installation art, but also an engagement of certain traits of the art form itself, a journey into the domain of concrete works. The fact that both my own interpretation of the aesthetic potential of installation art and my new conception of aesthetic autonomy are themselves contentious is not in and of itself a reason to reject them. On the contrary: I think that the argument on both levels as well as that about their relationship is the most inter esting topic not only in philosophical aesthetics but also in aesthetic discourse in general. In this sense, and in view of the dangers posed by a retreat of philosophical aesthetics into an academicism on the one hand-as estranged from art as it is irrelevant-and by the regression of artistic practice into an abstention from all aesthetic conceptual ization on the other, the following indeed intends to explicate and reopen aesthetic discourse as controversy. 19 Theatricality There is probably no other term used more often in art theory and criticism to describe installation art than "theatricality." However, to speak of theatricality, also means to speak of a critique of it. For most writing about theatricality in installation art refers back to a single text, one in which this term is used in an exclusively negative sense: Michael Fried's essay, published in 1967 in the American art journal Artforumunder the title "Art and Objecthood,"1 on what he saw as the peculiarly theatrical quality of Minimal art and which remains notoriously influential to this day. The term "theatricality" indeed seems intuitively plausible in certain ways when used with reference to the spatial settings of Minimalist art, particularly in view of the significantly more active role this art assigned to the viewer: he would no longer stand passively before a work but was to physically involve himself with it. This innovation gave rise to the impression that the visual arts had succeeded in abolishing the separation between audience and stage, something theater itself was working on at the same time. But it was also in light of the strategies that had been devel oped since the late sixties in theatrical performance art in the more narrow sense that the term "theatricality" quickly became, as the art historian Rosalind E. Krauss put it as early as 1977, an "umbrella term" for a wide variety of artistic practices. 2 Due to its application to performance art on the one hand and to installation strategies, which were rapidly expanding after 1970, on the other, the term seemed capable of characterizing those more recent phenomena in art that would soon be called "postmodem." In the 1980s, "theatricality" often used in a negative, but increasingly also in a positive sense thus became a token in the aesthetic debates as to how the provoca tions associated with the concept of postmodemism were to be interpreted. Nearly thirty years after the initial publication of "Art and Objecthood," Fried wrote in retrospect: "Art and Objecthood" was both right and wrong about the developments it described. On the one hand, it seems clear that

Michael Fried, "Art and Objecthood," reprinted in Minimal Art: A Critical Anthology, ed. Gregory Battcock (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 116--47. Abbreviated in the fo llowing as AO. 2 Rosalind E. Krauss, Passages in Modern Sculpture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1977), 204.

21 THEATRICALITY

[Minimalism] did represent a break with modernism as regards the terms of its appeal to the viewer. In fact, subsequent com mentators who have taken issue with "Art and Objecthood" are in agreement with it on that score; where they disagree hotly is with respect to my evaluation of Minimalist theatricality. This is to say that the terms of my argument have gone untouched by my critics, an unusual state of affairs in light of the antagonism "Art and Objecthood" has provoked. On the other hand, my essay is nowhere near as pessimistic as futureevents would warrant from my point of view; I don't seem to have imagined the pos sibility that within a few years the art that I admired would be all but submerged under an avalanche of more or Jess openly the atrical productions and practices, as proved to be the case.3 The fact that Fried's terms remained largely untouched by criticism, even when the value judgments they connote were reversed, is indeed astounding. Not only is the overall negative evaluation of virtually all art after 1970 problematic-even more so is the termi nological system on which this evaluation is based. In the following I will propose, contra Fried and a majority of his critics, that theatri cality is not a quality to be criticized or affirmed in a certain "post modem" artbut a structural feature of all art. Now, this hypothesis that theatricality must be understood not as a quality of a certain kind of art, but as a structural feature of all art-may sound suspiciously like a ("typically philosophical") effacement of all art from the philoso phy of art as well as, and more importantly, like a counterintuitive first step for the aesthetics of a certain art form. One consequence of this hypothesis is indeed that the concept of theatricality precisely does not designate a distinctive feature of installation art. Yet the art of installation has shed new light on the general problems of philosophical aesthetics concealed beneath the rubric of theatricality: with its emergence, the central terms of modem aesthetics have come under pressure, and the problem of aesthetic autonomy and the concepts of

3 Michael Fried, "An Introduction to My Art Criticism," in Art and Objecthood: Essays and Reviews (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, I 996), 42-43. This collection also includes a comprehensive bibliography ofthe debates spurred by "Art and Objecthood."

22 the work and of aesthetic experience must be rethought. In any case, I think that Fried's text, which at first glance seems to call very diverse things theatrical-and this is probably not the least reason for its enormous suggestive powers-becomes comprehensible in its systematic and critical intention only when we consider it in the context of philosophical aesthetics. Fried's critique of the theatrical ity of Minimal art should, on the one hand, be seen in relation to a general ethical tum in aesthetics in the sixties, a trend of ethically motivated critiques of certain aesthetic phenomena whose protagonists, along with Fried, included Adorno, Cavell, and Gadamer. On the other hand, the topic of theater, or rather of theatricality, which only Cavell and Fried among these authors treated explicitly, plays a positively paradigmatic role in this context. In modem aesthetics from Hegel through Nietzsche to Rousseau and Diderot, theater is the one object where aesthetic and ethical aspects intersect. For it establishes not only a certain aesthetic structure but also a certain form of social interaction, and with it, consequently, certain models of subjec tivity, both for the audience and for the actors. The problem of theatricality is therefore not a philosophically marginal phenomenon but a significant issue in aesthetics-and Fried and Cavell are correct in turning their attention to this problem. But more importantly, the interrelation of ethics and aesthetics treated under this rubric gains new currency in the philosophical discourse of the sixties. This was due not least to the massive impact of contemporaneous theater practice, which was itself inspired by this interrelation. Theater has usually played two different and incompatible roles for modern aesthetics: that of its paradigm (Hegel and, more ambivalently, Nietzsche) on the one hand, and that of its antagonist (Rousseau and, more ambivalently, Diderot) on the other. Fried's art criticism clearly belongs to the latter tradition, the strand of modem aesthetics critical of theatricality. How much Fried is guided by this tradition becomes especially clear when one compares his writings with those of Stanley Cavell, who, like Fried, must be counted among its contemporary representatives. At approximately the same time that Fried articulated his critique of Minimal art (1967), Cavell wrote two texts on theater, one about Beckett's Endgame (1964) and

23 9

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ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ rȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿH ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ rȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ % ȿȿȿ ȿ,ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ.ȿ ȿȿȿ/i ȿȿ ȿ ȿ =ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ^ ȿȿ 8 ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ -ȿ@ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ2Xȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ) ȿ8 ȿȿȿ ȿ-ȿEȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ?ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ;ȿ Aȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿEȿ ȿ2ȿ ? ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ.ȿ+LȿKPR/ȿ2ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ %ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ^ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ" = i ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ") 8 - {ȿ2 ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ H ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ =ȿ ȿȿ vȿȿ,ȿ ȿ ȿ

]ý AƜ ƜƜ1ƜƜƜ T Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ1Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜE{Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ9^ƜgƜ Ɯ1ƜƜƜƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ1ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ :Ɯ&ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ 1 ƜƜ Ɯ ^'Ɯ§v§ eƜEƜ! ýý%ý¥ýu|ýý Wë "ýý%ý %*ý KƜ* Ɯ? Ɯ/V Ɯ[:ë.P Ɯ Ɯ ; Ɯ7 H2-Ɯ 4)HKƜ,Ɯ Ɯ. {Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜEƜƜ, Ɯ. Ɯ%ý 9 ý x.Jý7y ýý%ýE Yýý 0Øý/. Ɯ6*:Ɯg Ɯ y ƜÖ Ɯ 7 Î -Ɯ@@^Ɯ

JVȿ *'"5'39"0%93"."9

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HƜ , Ɯ? Ɯý /b1Ɯz :Ɯ9 Ɯ; Ɯ7 >F-Ɯ 4(xƜ

J[ȿ 9

ȿȿȿ %ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ#ȿ2 ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ (ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ 2 ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ &U{ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ,ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿC ȿ ȿ ȿCȿ ȿ 2 (ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿp ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿZ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ Cȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ' ȿA ȿ ȿȿ 2 ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ.ȿ ȿA /ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ,ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ&U

J\ȿ *'"5'39"0%93"."9

d ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ* ȿ6i ȿ 3 ȿ ȿ ȿȿ*C ȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ] `Dȿ D (ȿ* ȿ* *ȿ ȿȿ ȿ %0ȿ*ȿ ȿ " ȿ ȿȿȿȿ Gȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿHȿ ȿȿ*ȿ* ȿ ȿ*ȿH ȿ ȿ*ȿ,*ȿ ȿȿ *ȿ ȿ=yIik=UkI6O ȿȿ ȿ2 ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ* ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ8[ ȿȿ*ȿ*; ȿȿ ȿ "'ȿȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ*ȿ'ȿȿ ȿ ȿ,ȿ'ȿȿȿZkH=b ȿ ȿ* ȿ.+L ȿKK\/ȿ Eȿ*ȿ ȿȿ"* 8 ȿȿȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ& ȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ * ȿ ȿȿ 8ȿȿȿ ȿ*ȿH ȿȿ ZkH=b ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ ȿȿ"*) 8 ȿ' ȿA (ȿȿN(ȿ ȿ2 ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ;ȿ ȿ* ȿȿ&ȿȿȿȿ "* 8 Cȿȿȿ ȿȿ C ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ*ȿ'ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ+ ȿȿ2 ȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ¯ ȿ ȿ ȿȿxȿȿ ȿ* ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ*ȿ' ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ & ȿȿ H ȿZ ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿȿ* ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ*ȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿ*ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ 2 ȿȿ ȿ*ȿ+ ȿȿ ȿ*ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ*ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ #ȿ2 ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ * ȿ ȿ*ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿH ȿ (ȿ ȿ´ȿAȿ ȿ ȿ*ȿ*ȿ ȿȿȿ

¥Ɯ j ƜƜ "eƜƜƜ ƜƜ+\S\ý

JRȿ 9

ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ Yȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ Yȿȿ ȿ ȿ.ȿ+LȿKKP/ȿ A ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ 2 ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ Yȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿYȿȿ ȿ ȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿGȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿYȿȿȿH ȿȿȿ,ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿEȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿY ȿȿH ȿ.ȿ+LȿKKR/ȿ #ȿ ȿȿ2 (ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿYȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿYȿȿȿ0 ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿYȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿYȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ . ȿ ȿ ȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ&Uo\ØR/ȿA0 ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ2 (ȿ 0 ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ Y ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿHȿȿȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿYȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ0ȿYȿȿ 8 ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ^ ȿȿ2 ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ Yȿ ȿȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿHȿ ' ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿY ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿYȿ ȿ ȿȿ2 ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿǊ ȿYȿȿ (ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ& ȿYȿ ȿ2 (ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿYȿȿ0ȿYȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ & ȿȿȿ ^ Yȿ ȿȿ ȿȿY ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ#ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ) ȿȿȿȿY ȿȿ ȿ2 ȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿYȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ

Kmȿ

ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ;0ȿ ȿȿȿZUOz ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ gȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ -½ȿ +ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ% ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ&U

FƜ AƜeƜƜ1Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ@ Ɯ Ɯ1 Ɯ1 Ɯ ƜƜ ƚ ƜƜ. {Ɯ_ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ1 Ɯ1d Ɯ 9 1 ƜƜƜ Ɯ [Ɯ Ɯ ,Ɯ* Ɯvý ! ýý ý xƜ , Ɯg 1 Ɯ/. Ɯg :Ɯ y Ɯb Ɯ. Ɯ; Ɯ 4 F¥-Ɯ 4=>2xƜ Hë2Ɯ ,Ɯ. {Ɯ ƜƜƜ&,PƜ 'Ɯ1Ɯ ƜƜƜƜƜƜ D Ɯ ƜƜ ƜKƜAƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ }ƜƜƜ ƜTƜ ƜƜƜƜ/ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɨ}fƜ Ɯ. Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ1ƜÜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ1ƜƜ Ɯ/Ɯ*Ɯ()¥ÁƜ xƜ () -#ƜzƜƜ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ1ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ[ƜAƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ§ƜSƜ Ɯ

K>ȿ 9

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ƜƜ IƜƜƜ ƜƜ1 ýƜ1 Ɯ9 $ Ɯ1ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜŸƜ ƜIƜa Ɯß$ ƜČƜƜĔƜ ÁiƜVƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ Ɯ 1 Ɯ Ɯ1ƜŨƜ&9 $ |Ɯ$ 'Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ$ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜƜƜƜSƜ Y IƜ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ ®Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ IƜ? ¬Ɯ e$ƜƜƜ$ IƜƜƜ$Ɯ $ƜÃ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜƜ IƜƜ- ý1 ý/ƜkƜ SƜ - ý1 ý ƜZý ý E ý >ýř1Ɯz ¬:Ɯ b Ɯ 7 H=ÚƜ 7)¥îFƜ iƜ 7=)ë>)-iƜ.Y ƜƜƜ&a ƜƜJƜ9'Ɯ $ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜIƜƜ $ :Ɯ&VƜ IƜƜ1 ƜƜ ŪIƜƜ ƜƜ1 ¬Ɯ1 ƜIƜ Ɯ Ɯ 1 Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ1IƜY$ IƜ Ɯ ƜIƜ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ 1ƜVƜYƜ1 ƜƜ$i'ƜSƜ ƜƜ.Y ƜY ƜƜ IƜIƜ $ƜƜƜƜ@P Ɯ IƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ e$Ɯ ƜIƜ 1 IƜƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ1 ý1 Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜƜƜ ƜƜ1 ƜƜƜƜƜ iƜ ? $Ɯ Ɯ $ ƜƜ ƜƜ 1IƜ ƜIƜ ƜƜƜƜƜ1$ Ɯ Ɯ$ iƜV ƜƜ¬ƜƜƜ IƜ IƜ}Y IƜ I} ƜƜƜ Ɯ@ƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯß$ ƜƜƜIƜ 1ƜƜ IƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ @P ƜƜƜ@Ɯ 1ƜƜƜ1 Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ Ɯ ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ IƜ /aJ9Ɯ7> ]H2-¹ƜaYƜ$ƜVƜƜSƜ Y Ɯ IƜƜ ¬ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ.Y ƜƜ Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜ S|Ɯ ƜƜ ƜƜƜ1ƜƜ& ':ƜƜƜYƜƜƜ ƜƜ Ɯ Ɯ 1 Ɯ .Y ƜI IƜƜ ÜƜƜ ƜƜƜ Ɯ@ iƜ

KJȿ )'"6'39"0%93"."9

ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ.EDȿ>Vm/sȿ' ȿ 2 (ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ sȿN ȿ ) ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ sȿ 2 ȿ ȿȿ ȿ" s ȿEȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ) ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ (ȿH ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ sȿ@ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ gȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ & ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ 2 ȿ ȿȿȿȿ" ȿ ȿȿ ȿ sȿtȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ%ȿȿª ȿ2 ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ A ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ sȿLȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ2 (ȿ ȿȿ&U

KKȿ !9

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()&> 18&??E 8$E& 8 8+E Þȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ6 ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ M1 ȿȿ vȿ B ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ 8 ȿȿ6 ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ¶ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ÷ (ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ Â ȿ ȿLȿ ȿ6 ȿȿ"ȿȿȿȿȿȿ nȿȿ 3 ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ) Ą ȿȿ %ȿȿȿ(ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ 1ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ# ȿ 8ȿ ȿ6ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ# (ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ6Ok=g6kIv= ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ Eȿ# (ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ

(2Ɯ * Ɯ## ýv # $ý Ɯ2)8Ɯ 4N#Ɯ

(4Ɯ 9ƜD Ɯ #5ýý#ý # #ý/D ~Ɯ? ! Ɯë E Ɯ 4 F(Ɯ- ()Ɯ 3 !Ɯh !Ɯ!ƜƜ Ů!! Ɯ ! ƜƜ!Ɯ 4 HHƜ 1iƜ hƜ? Ɯ9w! Ɯ &ŏƜƜh !Ɯ! Ɯk 'ƜƜ8 ý Cýý ý Yý 4>FxƜ3 Ɯ!Ɯ eƜƜh !tƜƜ&! 'ƜƜ! Ɯ9 ƜD vg !Ɯ&Ɯ Ɯ ƜTƜhë 'Ɯ !#Ɯ (ƜƜ#ý4#ýý&$?ý #ý4 ýý # #ý

PRȿ 9

ȿ ȿȿ" ȿ ȿZ ȿ5ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ5ȿȿ ȿAȿ ȿȿƭȿȿȿȿȿ5ȿ ȿ ȿ Gȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ & ȿȿ ȿ ȿEȿȿ ȿ5ȿȿ~ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ C ȿ ȿȿȿȿ5ȿȿ(ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ5ȿȿȿ5ȿ0ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ5ȿȿȿ ȿ5ȿ ȿ% ȿ 5ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿø5ȿȿȿȿȿȿ 0ȿ5ȿȿ" ȿ ȿȿ5ȿ 0ȿ ) ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ %ȿ5ȿȿ ȿ 5ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ) ȿ ȿ ȿ5ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ %ȿ 5ȿȿȿ ȿ5ȿȿ5 ȿ ȿ5ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ5ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ 4 ȿ ȿ Nȿ ȿƎ ȿ+ȿ %ȿ5ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ %4ȿ5ȿ6 ȿ# (ȿ %ȿ5ȿ6 ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ5B ȿ5ȿȿ6 ȿ ȿ ȿ5ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ5ȿ ȿ ,ȿ5 ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ5ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ# (ȿ ȿ ȿ5ȿȿ"ȿ ȿ5ȿ6 ȿ ȿ]ȿ# (ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ;ȿ ȿȿ ȿ5ȿ ȿ ȿ5ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ 5ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ5ȿ ȿ ȿȿ5ȿ5 ȿȿ ȿȿ H ȿȿ ȿ5 ȿ4 ȿ ȿ;ȿ5C ȿ ȿȿ;ȿ ȿ ȿ ) ȿ#ȿ"ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ&¾ȿ",ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿA ȿȿ ȿȿ"+ȿ Nȿ@ ȿ5ȿȿ, ȿ"ȿƒ ȿ ȿȿD {ȿ,ȿ

((Ɯ hƜLƜ%ýW j 5ýý*ý4ÐxƜ (=Ɯ hƜ!Ɯ9 Ɯ D vg !tƜ ! ƜƜ3 Ɯý4ýýjù?ý ý4ý ý*ý #Ɯ ! ƜH#Ɯ (>Ɯ ? Ɯ? Ɯ&*Ɯh ƜW !Ɯ ƜƜA! 'ƜƜ2 %ýý%Vý%ý'û j ýýý% *ý !KƜkƜJƜĠ1Ɯz ÑƜ gƜëJ!Ɯ4ÐH=-Ɯ 4Ð=[Ɯ

omȿ )&"53+$",+589"0%95)&975202.892(9359

:ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ Ƒ ȿL(ȿ ȿȿ ȿ# (ȿ ȿȿȿȿ Sk ȿȿ6 ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ) u4 3 ȿȿȿ4 ȿ`:3 ȿ 3Úȿ @1ȿȿ 1ȿ 3 ȿ# (ȿ ȿȿ4 ȿ ȿ4 ȿȿ ȿȿ :4? ȿ 4ȿ ȿ:4ȿȿ Gȿ "' ȿ ȿ ȿ 73 ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ'ȿ4ȿ ȿ4 ȿ ȿ ) U ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ`=biZU!ȿ) S ȿȿ ȿ4 ȿ ȿ ȿ4 0ȿ ȿ 3 ȿȿ ȿC ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ) %4 ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ.+@ȿ>J\/ȿ# ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ d?ȿuU:6UUz ȿ ȿȿ ȿ:4 ȿ ȿȿ6 ȿ 0ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ6 ? ȿ ȿ"ȿ ȿ U:ȿ4 ȿ ȿȿ ȿ3iI:5 ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ :ȿȿȿȿ ȿ C4ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿƲȿȿ e ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ"ȿ ȿ : ȿȿ.+@ȿ >JR/ȿ# (ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ) SȿȿǏ?ȿ ȿȿ ȿ~ȿ ȿ Ŀ: ȿ Ukȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ 3 ȿ ȿȿ 8ȿȿP6k=U:zȿ6 ȿ ȿ Eȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ1ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ%4 ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ) ȿȿ ȿ ȿ.pȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ǙĿgȿȿȿȿ ȿ&ȿ ȿN ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ /ȿ.H=:bu:I6PKm/ȿ ¶: ȿ ȿ# Cȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ8 ȿȿ å ȿ ȿ ȿ2(ȿCȿ4ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ Y:ȿ ȿ ȿȿ]ȿ ȿ ; ȿȿȿȿ %ȿ ȿȿT6iN=< ȿ#ȿ# ȿȿ41 ȿȿȿ

ñHƜ oƜƜ GƜGƜƜ GƜƜƜ&G Ɯ GƜƜGG G ƜG Ɯ ƜG ƜƜƜƜGĉƜƜƜ! cƜÙƜ##ƜŚƜ GƜƜG Ɯ Ɯ G ƜG'Ɯ G Ɯ ƜGƜG ƜƜƜĉ ƜƜG G ŭG G Ɯ G c ƜƜ Ɯ& Ë ! Ɯ¤GtƜ '`ƜƜ Ɯ É Ɯ T ƜG ƜGƜ Â GKƜ* ƜgG GƜG Ɯ?ƜLƜ&* 'ƜƜ,ð ý 3 " ÓÔ/ý #ƜuƜ KƜSG ƜcƜ?G Ɯ GęKƜ/hGƊ:ƜkƜ ?#Ɯ Lc Ɯ)2Ĵ2-ƜF(#Ɯ

o>ȿ 9

6 ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ Ñȿȿȿ ȿ%` ȿȿȿ ȿȿ" ȿȿ ȿ,ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿtȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ¾ȿȿ# ȿ! ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ % ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿEȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ %` ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ % ȿȿȿȿȿ" ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ" ` ȿ ȿ ` ´ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿEaȿȿ " ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿPK/ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ8U<ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿ% ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ) ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ+ȿaȿȿ ȿȿȿ6 ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ & ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ% ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ¾ȿaȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ,ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ 0ȿȿ ) ȿȿ ȿ ȿ' ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿW ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ 6 ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ½ȿ,ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ# ȿȿȿ W ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ" ȿ ȿ% ȿ

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oJȿ

ƚÏřȿȿ" ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ǳ£91ȿȿ ȿȿȿ6 ȿȿȿ ȿ ^ȿȿ'ȿ îMǣȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ 2 ȿȿ# ȿȿ ȿȿ îkȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ w ȿ-ȿ #ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ŕȿŏ9kȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ħ ddȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ Ó ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ z ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ èhȿMȿ ȿ ȿ ȿtȿ ȿȿ ȿ Ï ȿȿ6 ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ »:ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ Ķ9! ȿ ȿ Ƅ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ6 ) }3ȿ ȿȿ6=ikH=kI; ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ Łh ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿHȿȿ&ȿ ȿȿȿȿ à1 ; ȿȿ w ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ) ķ ȿ ȿȿ6 ȿ-ȿE ȿȿȿȿ1 ȿ ĵȿȿ ȿ# ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ¦Mȿȿȿ6 ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ & ȿȿȿ(ȿ ȿȿ" ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿuU;=bk6IUt 1ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ -ȿpȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ § 3ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ & ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ) 9 1ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ 1F ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ) ȿ ȿ -ȿ Ƃ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ²ȿ w ȿ & ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ k ȿ -ȿA ȿȿȿ ȿ ņȿȿ6 ȿ ȿ k ȿ ȿ ȿEȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ% ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ) ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ 1ȿ,ȿȿ" ȿ ^ȿȿ 0 ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ (ȿ ȿ6;;=iikZȿ ȿ ȿ F ȿ -ȿ", ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ

oKȿ <\B<©RBR

ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ` ȝȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ0 ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ 0 ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ,ȿ6 ȿ ȿȿ 8ȿȿ & ȿ ȿ % ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ2 ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ6 ȿȿcȿ6ȿ# ȿGȿ Ɩ×ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ"ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ,ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ & ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ.+@ȿ >PP/ȿ 6 ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ%ȿ ȿȿ # ×ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ' ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ gȿȿȿ ȿȿ=y_=bI=U:=ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿEȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ# ×ȿ ȿȿ ȿ Cȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿi ȿ&ȿ%ȿȿȿ & ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿb ȿ ȿb ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ 8 ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȷ ȿAȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ.ȿb ȿW ȿȿ /ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ,ȿȿ ȿȿ# ×ȿȿ ȿȿ 8ȿȿ ȿ ȿ6 ȿȿ) ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿB ȿ" ȿ.+@ȿ >Ko/ȿEȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ

oPȿ

6[ S! ȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ` ȿ !ȿ!ȿ ȿ ȿȿ!ȿ!ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ Ǿ·ȿ:ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ -ȿ ¶ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ# ȿȿȿȿ ȿ 9ȿȿ+ ȿ2(ȿ" ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ q:ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ Ĩ ĽȿEȿ6 ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ M4 ȿ2ȿ ȿ# (ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ!ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ûȿȿȿ ȿ 0ȿ ȿȿ"!ȿ ȿ ĀÖ!` ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ 0 ȿ# (ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿ 9S ȿ ȿ & ȿȿ` ȿ ȿȿ 7Mǈ ¡ȿE ȿ ȿȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ M & ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ% ȿȿȿ ! ȿȿ ȿ ȿ Gȿȿȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ ę9!ȿ ȿȿ & ȿ ȿȿ'ȿĳȿ ȿȿ ȿ Ö ȿ ȿ ȿ,ȿ ȿȿxȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ·kȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿ 8 ȿȿȿ6 ȿ M Cȿȿ# ȿ ȿȿ 0ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ÖS ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ! ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ :! ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿ ȿȿ ȿȿȿ M ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ' ȿȿȿ ȿ"pȿ ȿN ȿ ȿ ȿ# ȿcȿ6!ȿGȿ ,ȿȿ ȿ!ȿȿ ȿȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿZ ȿȿ ȿȿ ȿȿ(ȿ& ȿȿ ȿ ¶ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿȿ ȿȿ ȿ -ȿ'ȿȿ ȿ ȿȿȿF ȿ ȿ (ȿ ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿȿ ȿȿȿ!ȿȿ ȿ ȿ ȿȿ

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ooȿ THEATRICALITY

work, with its many internal relationships. One is more aware than before that he himself is establishing relationships as he apprehends the object from various positions and under varying conditions of light and spatial context.40 Because they eliminate internal relations or are sometimes presented serially in space, the simple forms of Minimal art seem to demand a heightened reflection on the viewer's performative involvement in the creation of relations-but in principle, this involvement is a feature of any aesthetic object relation. If "inclusion of the beholder," often cited as an innovation of Minimal art and installation art, designates this self-reflective and performative structure of the aesthetic object relation, then such inclusion is a characteristic of all experiences of art. The true innovation in Minimal and installation art would be the fact that the self-reflective and performative structure of the aesthetic object relation seems to emerge with particular clarity in the various spatial mise-en-scenes of the object. This effect is a consequence not least of the fact that the viewer here creates relationships to the aesthetic object by virtue of, among other factors, his physical activ ity-for example, by moving around the Minimalist object or the elements of the installation. But the self-reflective and performative activity of the viewer cannot be reduced to the physical-spatial involvement or to the interactive play usually associated with the term "inclusion of the beholder." Accordingly, it is, in Fried's reading, less the necessity of moving through space to grasp the Minimalist object, than the "inclusivity" of the Minimalist situation that lends the aesthetic experience a structure that is not only practically 41 incompatible with his idea of an instantaneously intelligible art

40 Robert Morris, "Notes on Sculpture," in Minimal Art: A Critical Anthology, 232. 41 In this "practical" sense, Diderot's preference for the painted panel implies a privileging of the presumably instantaneous experience of the single surface of painting over the implicit duration of the experience of the "many surfaces" of sculpture. In fact, however, this hierarchy of the genres in Diderot, like Fried's art critical privileging of a Caro sculpture, supposedly "manifest" from all sides, over a Smith cube, corresponds to that objectivist misunderstanding of aesthetic experience that is here at issue as a matter of systematic importance. Regarding the "practical" threat to the idea of manifest totality already posed by classical sculpture and its "many surfaces," see Alex Potts, "Installation and Sculpture," OifordArt Journa/24, no. 2 (2001): 6-24, esp. 8-10. Regarding a conception of sculpture from the spirit of installation, see 3 .I.

56 Theatricality and the Autonomy of Art equally manifest from any perspective, but also systematically at odds with it. If it is correct that the fundamental uncertainty of the object relation constitutes the distinguishing structural feature of the aesthetic ex perience, and hence also the basis of its autonomy from the spheres of practical and theoretical reason, then art is autonomous not in spite of but because of the inexhaustibility of the experience to which it irifinitely gives rise. To the extent that the process of aesthetic expe rience in such a post-Kantian model of aesthetic autonomy is consti tutive of the concept of the work of art itself, this also implies an internal temporalization of the work of art that cannot be anything but diametrically opposed to Fried's idea of its autonomy. The Mini malist object thus contradicts Fried's ideal of an art that is "at every moment[ ...] wholly manifest" (AO, 145), in particular because it proves, in the process of viewing it, to be unstable in a peculiar way: it is in itself constitutively processual. This processuality or internal temporalization of the Minimalist object "itself," however, is intel ligible only if we understand it as mediated through the process of aesthetic experience.42 And this experience, due to the irresolvable double legibility of the aesthetic object, is fundamentally incapable of closure. This is why this specifically aesthetic experience of infin ity, which at the same time always also exposes the finitude of the empirical viewer with his limited supply of time,43 is a particular target of Fried's critique: The literalist preoccupation with time-more precisely, with the duration of the experience-is, I suggest, paradigmatically theat rical: as though theater confronts the beholder, and thereby isolates him, with the endlessness not just of objecthood but of time; or as though the sense which, at bottom, theater addresses is a sense of temporality, or time both passing and to come, simultaneously approaching and receding, as if apprehended in an infinite per spective. (AO, 145) Fried is here clearly speaking neither of the time of a theatrical per formance, scheduled with a beginning and end, nor, however, as has

42 See Boehm, "Das Werk als ProzeJ3." 43 See 2.3.3 and 2.3.4.

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\mȿ Zmr_ƜQZƜ°Mµ_Ɯ

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RRȿ INTERMEDIALITY

sees the faithful further development of that project. Whereas Fried, fo llowing Greenberg, insists that art can only survive by keeping the genres strictly separate-since only such separation offers protection against the risk of degenerating into entertainment-Adornorecognizes a resistance against "culinary" use in precisely this movement of art against its preconceived classification and into the various arts (AaA, 371). Quite unlike the New York modernistcamp, Adorno sees in the trend toward a "blurring of the clean division between diffe rent genres of art" less the end of the autonomy of art than, on the con trary, its salvation fr om the embrace, fatal in the long run, by the self appointed "friendsof the arts." For, according to Adorno,the "plural, touchingly philistine [ ...] sheds light on the subject"-the arts appear to the "friends of the arts" as nothing more than "a profusion of goods on display fo r the contemplative observer, from the kitchen to the lounge [ ...] that are then inspected and sampled" (AaA, 371). For Adorno as fo r de Duve, the modernistavant-garde is distinguished by a resistance to any given "context of aesthetic expectations" (de Duve) that decides what is still and what is no longer art. The subdi vision of art into the arts appears in this context as one of the most stubborn conventionsfr om which art must free itself fo r the sake of its autarky, indeed its autonomy. The avant-garde, Adornowrites, took "the philistine question 'Is that still ... ? ' [ ...] quite literally" (AaA, 370). And it answered with an art that no longer wishes to be art in the sense of the preconceived specificgeneric categories es tablished for it. In 1967, Adornois thinking of the sound montages by the Italian composer Franco Donatoni, Gyorgy Ligeti'sAtmospheres, as well as Hans G. Helms's serially organized prose, the partial tem poralization of sculpture in Alexander Calder's mobiles, and the ten dency toward spatialization in Bernhard Schulze's paintings. The development toward the fraying of the arts, however, is in Adorno'sinterpretation-and this, as we will see, leads to a certain rapprochement between his position and that of his American col leagues-not the result of a sudden generational ignorance toward the medium specificityof the various arts. In contrast with de Duve, who is concernedwit h the "postmedial" situation of art after Duchamp- something we will come back to in 2.2.3-Adorno is defending merely

100 Art and the Arts

a movement motivated by the internal logic of development of the individual arts themselves. The convergence of the individual arts in the sixties, according to Adorno, is an essential consequence of an engagement with the particular problems internal to each art. Based on the fact that the development toward fraying in the arts is moti vated by an engagement with each individual arts' immanent problems rather than, as it were, enjoined upon the individual arts from the outside as well, Adornothen distinguishes this development from the art of the Romantics, who demanded the unification of the genres of art into one art, primarily in the name of a subjectivity that would be equally at work in each of the arts: Works of art became the impression of a soul-one that was not necessarily identical with that of the composer. It was the language of the self freely expressing itself. This idea brought the arts closer to one another. It could no doubt be shown that the same soul animates all the diffe rent arts. But their boundaries were scarcely weakened by this. They remained what they were, and this disparateness is not the least important critical reason for the most recent development. (AaA, 374-5) As a development motivated by a critical engagement of the internal logic of each individual art itself, the tendency toward fraying in the sixties, claims Adorno, is different not only from the artof the Romantic era but also fr om any "inclination toward the Gesamtkunstwerk."28 For what Adornocal ls fr aying does not, properly speaking, aim at a unification of the arts. The artists of the sixties did not plan the convergence of the arts as such; nor does this convergence entail an attempt to synthesize the arts. This fact alone marks a fundamental distance between this movement and the idea of the gesamtkunstwerk. For this idea, according to Adorno, violently seeks to undo what indeed cannot be undone, namely the historical differentiation of the arts with their specific media. But Adorno sees yet another reason why the development toward a fr aying of genre boundaries in the sixties must not be associated with the unifyingideolog y of the

28 Harald Szeemann, ed., Der Hang zum Gesamtkunstwerk: Europiiische Utopien seit 1800 (Aarau: Sauerlander Verlag, 1983).

101 INTERMEDIALITY gesamtkunstwerk. The idea of a unification of the arts is problematic in Adorno'seyes not only because it implies a false unity--fa lse because it is inadequate in light of the historical situation-it is problematic also because this unity in all its actual forms has always only been realized as fa lse unity: by power of the mutual subjugation of the means of representation involved. Adornohad previously criticized this double problem in Wagner's "music drama." As he writes in his In Search of Wa gner: In the contingent experience of individual bourgeois existence the separate senses do not unite to create a totality, a unified and guaranteed world of essences. It is questionable, indeed, whether such a unity of sense experience has ever existed, dependent on it as Wagner's disillusioned mind may be. On the contrary, the senses, which all have a different history, end up poles apart from each other, as a consequence of the growing reification of reality as well as ofthe division of labor. For this not only separates men from each other but also divides each man in himself. It is for this reason that the music drama proves unable to assign meaningful fu nctions to different arts. Its fo rm, therefore, is that of a spurious identity. Music, scene and words are integrated only in the sense that the author-the freakishness of his position is well suggested by the term "poet-composer"-treats them as if they all converged on the same goal. But he only achieves this by doing them violence and hence distorting the whole, which ends up in tautology, as permanent over-determination. The music repeats what the words have already said and the more it pushes itself to the fo re the more superfluous it becomes, when measured against the meaning it is supposed to express. And this in tum affects the integrity of the music. The very attempt to adapt the arts to each other disrupts the unity of the compositional structure. [ ...] The closer and the more indiscreetly the diffe rent arts are brought into proximity, and the more the music drama approaches their fundamental indiffe rence to each other, the more they prove mutually disruptive. 29

29 Theodor W. Adorno,In Search of Wa gner, trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Verso, 1981), 102-3, 104.

102 Artand the Arts

We should not underestimate the importance of the fact that Adorno offers his praise of very recent developments toward a fraying of genres against the backdrop of a critique of the gesamtkunstwerk. In fa ct, this praise is always tied to a critique of the "failed dream" of the "convergence [of the aesthetic media] as abstract utopia. "30 A closer examination of this systematic nexus suggests what we might learn from Adorno fo r an assessment of the proliferation of the intermedial in contemporary art. The reference to the "principle of the division of labor" in Adorno'scritique of Wagner conspicuously indicates the interweaving of philosophical, artistic, and social developments in his argument. But the connections between this argument and that in "Art and the Arts" have not yet to my mind been sufficiently explored. Instead, "Art and the Arts" has been read as documenting that the mellowing "late" Adornohad a more open mind for contemporary phenomena, if not even as evidence of a revision of his aesthetic dogmas, fo unded in the philosophy of history, which Adorno had laid out prominently in his Ph ilosophy of New Music. I think, on the contrary, that Adorno's later text on fraying remains completely in I ine with this older set of arguments, and should thus not be misun derstood as a first step toward its revision or toward its productive destabilization on the way toward a "post-avant-garde" aestheticsY In order to demonstrate this claim, I will firstbroadly reconstruct certain arguments that are essential for the present context. In a second step, I will then discuss their consequences fo r the art critical inter pretation of intermedial art.

2. 2.1. Pmgres• and "A

30 Adorno lays out an argument similar to that of"Artand the Arts" in "On Some Relationships between Music and Painting," trans. Susan H. Gillespie, The Musical Quarterly 79, no. I (Spring 1995): 74. Abbreviated in the fo llowing as RMP. 31 This is the rather influential claim made by Christine Eichel in Vo m Ermatten der Avantgarde zur Ve rnetzung der Kiinste, esp. 27-54.

103 INTERMEDIALITY

generic boundaries as a continuation of that story rather than its decay. He ties his notion of aesthetic progress to the dimensions of aesthetic "productive forces" and aesthetic "material." The concept of aesthetic material in Adorno,howev er, refers not, as one might think, to the material qualities of the various aesthetic media or means of representation. Rather, aesthetic material denotes the principles of construction engendered over the course of history in relation to each of the various aesthetic media, principles which the significantworks of any given period-and in Adorno this means, among other things, works conscious of their own place in history are called upon to advance and developY According to Adorno, we cannot speak about aesthetic material irrespective of historically emergent fo rms or constructions ofform.33 Material exists as aesthetic material only in each individual fo rm. His discourse of a progress in terms ofthe aesthetic material makes sense only on the basis of this quasi-Luhmannian premise. In Adorno's view, successful works are those that build on the previous historical progress of aesthetic principles of construction, and do so in such a way that the previous state of the aesthetic material is not merely reflectedaffirmatively but developed fu rther in a critical engagement with that material. More precisely, successful works are those that realize what had already been implicit in the previous principles of aesthetic production, but which had led to the eventual failure of these principles and the works associated with them. In his Aesthetic Theory,Adorno writ es: The socially most advanced level of the productive forces, one of which is consciousness, is the level of the problem posed at the interior of the aesthetic monad. In their own figuration, artworks indicate the solution to this problem, which they are unable to provide on their own without intervention; this alone is legitimate tradition in art. Each and every importantwork of art leaves traces behind in its material and technique, and fo llowing them defines the modem as what needs to be done, which is contrary

32 See Adorno,Ae sthetic Th eory, 192. 33 For an explicit discussion of this see Theodor W. Adorno, "Reaktion und Fortschritt," in Gesammelte Schriflen, vol. 17 (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1982), 133.

104 Art and the Arts

to having a nose for what is in the air. Critique makes this definition concrete. The traces to be found in the material and the technical procedures, fromwhich every qualitatively new work takes its lead, are scars: They are the loci at which the preceding works misfired. By laboring on them, the new work turnsagainst those that left these traces behind; this, not shifts in subjective fe elings for life or in established styles, is the actual object of what historicism treated as the generational problem in art.34 In this sense, the importance of a work of art is a functionof its posi tion vis-a-vis the dynamically determined historical state of the aesthetic material; that is, of its relation to the state of the historically acquired possibilities of aesthetic production. How high a work of art ranks, Adorno alsoemphasizes in "Art and the Arts," is thus inde pendent of the position of its genre in any of the systems-be they hierarchical (e.g., Schopenhauer) or historical-dialectical (e.g., Hegel)-- that philosophy produced in the attempt to synthesize the heteroge neous diversity ofthe arts; yet it is independent also of "its historical position in the sense that the later work" is by no means eo ipso "superior" (AaA, 372).351ts value is measured, according to Adorno, only by the either reactionary or progressive relation of its technique to the state that the aesthetic material had attained in its time.36 How ever one may determine this state fo r any given moment in history (I will come back to this problem later): in any case, it is-quite in line with the model of progress I have just sketched-the progres sive-critical and, in this sense, immanent engagement of the artswith their respective state of the material that Adorno claims is respon sible in the sixties for what he considers the movement, as legiti mate as it is necessary, of the individual arts toward their synthesis in an "idea of art as such" (AaA, 373). For, according to Adorno,th is movement will inevitably lose all energy and purpose without such an engagement with concrete

34 Adorno, Aesthetic Th eory, 35. 35 See Adorno, "Reaktion und Fortschritt," 133. 36 See the fu ller version of this argument, which contrasts Schoenberg (progressive, according to Adorno)wi th Stravinsky (reactionary), in Theodor W. Adorno, Philosophy of New Music, trans. and ed. Robert Hullot-Kentor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006).

105 INTERMEDIALITY problems of construction-an engagement, moreover, that is tied back to material. As a consequence, Adorno strictly distinguishes the movement toward a fr aying of the genres not only from the art of the Romantics and fr om the ideology of the gesamtkunstwerk but also, and even more fundamentally, fromall attempts at a sublimation of art that are not sufficiently mediated by a thorough engagement of the current state of aesthetic material. Because aesthetic material can be constituted as aesthetic solely in form, Adornowrite s, only the most serious work on the most advanced principles of fo rmal construction can do justice to one absolutely ineluctable problem of artistic pro duction: that of the material side of art. However legitimate the call for sublimation as a reaction to the "culinary" fetishization of the sensual charms of the work of art may be-and Adorno'sown per spective may in fa ct at first suggest this-it becomes just as prob lematic inasmuch as it ignores the fact that works of art nonetheless need material support in order to be realized at all. "The more rigor ously and ruthlessly [works of art] insist on their spiritualization," Adorno warns, "the fu rther they distance themselves from what is supposed to be made spiritual" (AaA, 373)-from the sensuous ma terial. The ultimate consequence, writes Adorno, is that a void opens up in the works between the intended "spirit" and the support (AaA, 373) that can only be closed by conventions or a dubious belief in the immediate symbolic value of colors and notes; by means, that is to say, that unwittingly lead art back toward the decorative arts from which it had sought to dissociate itself. Adorno refers to Kandinsky's manifesto Concerning the Sp iritual in Art as the earliest testament to such a fa lsely abstract tendency toward sublimation accompanied by a reversion to the spiritlessness of decoration.37 "It is not for noth ing," says Adorno about this text, "that in it technical reciprocity replaces a symbiosis of the arts or their agglomeration in the cause of some intensifiedeffect or other" (AaA, 3 72). Yet fo r Adornothat which marks the proximity between Kandinsky's artistic program and Romantic ideology or the ideology of the

37 Wassily Kandinsky, Concerning the Sp iritual in Art, trans. M. T. H. Sadler (New York: Dover, 1977).

106 Artand the Arts gesamtkunstwerk, the false abstraction of the "spiritual" from the material, has consequences that, he writes, go beyond the subjective problem of an individual "bad" artist. In his model, the danger of a reversion of the tendency toward sublimation into spiritlessness is, as it were, the goad that drives the historical developmental tendency of modem art in general. For this danger concerns the relation of construction and material as such. The project to be pursued via an engagement of the state of aesthetic material, the project of, as Adorno puts it, the "most authentic" art of any era, is then nothing other than the attempt to preserve art from such a reversal by criti cally working on this relation. This also implies a firstindica tion as to what is truly at stake in Adorno's judgments about modem art, grounded as they are in a theory of progress. The idea of aesthetic progress serves Adorno not only as a philosophical foundation fo r criteria of artistic advanced ness but at the same time also helps him define aesthetic autonomy. Without a more precise understanding of this motivation, I think, the actual point of Adorno's idea of progress will remain obscure. I would therefore like to explain in greater detail what the danger of a reversion of increasing sublimation of art into spiritlessness means. For this danger makes the category of progress more than just a criterion of artistic quality-it turns it into a necessity if autonomous art is to survive at all. The tendency toward "sublimation," according to Adorno, is by no means merely a contingent fe ature of modernistart-it is in scribed at its core. Like bourgeois society, modernistart, too, obeys the principle of progressive rationalization. Elsewhere and with reference to developments in music, Adorno writes: "The core concept that set the more recent history of music in motion [is] that of rationality, which is inseparable fr om that of the social domina tion of nature without and within the human being."38 Adorno has no objection to the central role technical rationality plays in the artistic procedures of modernismin music and elsewhere. On the contrary, art

38 Theodor W. Adorno, "Tradition," in Dissonanzen: Musik in der verwalteten We lt (Frankfurtam Main: Suhrkamp, 1973), 130.

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can only unfold its potential for resistance to the dominance of in strumental reason if it is rational, and not by ideologically declaring itself to be a refuge of the irrational in a thoroughly rationalized world. Adorno recognizes the potential fo r aesthetic rationality to offer resistance against the violent aspects of instrumental reason in its relation to mimesis.39 Mimesis in Adorno,as Albrecht Wellmer has summarized, is the "name given to those forms of behaviour of living beings which are sensually receptive, expressive and commu nicative. It is in art," Wellmer continues, "that mimetic forms of behaviour have been preserved as spiritual ones in the course of the development of civilization. Art is a fo rm of mimesis that has be come spiritualized; that is, it has become transformed and objectified by rationality."40 Spirit as the agent of"reconciliation" in Adorno is therefore not only the medium of an art that nonviolently synthesizes what is dispersed; it is at the same time its vanishing point and its utopia, the epitome of its relation to truth.41 Yet art, according to Adorno, is true-that is, spiritual in the correct sense, that of reconciliation-in two dialectically interrelated ways: as aesthetic coherence and as the bringing-to-appearance of reality. In the passage already cited, Wellmer has succinctly reconstructed this dialectical core idea in Adorno's aesthetics as fo llows: art, as the sphere of seeming reconciliation, [ ...] is by definitionthe Other, the negation of an unreconciled reality. Art can thus be true in the sense of being fa ithful to reality to the extent that it shows reality as unreconciled, antagonistic, divided against itself. But it can only do this by showing reality in the light of reconciliation,

39 This is also Adorno's objection to Hegel's idealist concept of the aesthetic spirit, which he adopts, but then radically reinterprets. It no longer appears, as in Hegel, as the reflection of a capacity (modeled on the subject) to create totality. On the contrary, as we will shortly see more clearly, it is now intended to designate this aspect to an artwork which is irreducible to the subject and its mastery of the material, and which therefore works against the Hegelian idea of the work's closure: the dynamics inherent in the individual elements vis-a-vis their integration into the aesthetic totality. In this context, refer also to the rehabilitation of natural beauty in Adorno,Aesthetic Th eory, 61-77. See also Thomas Baumeister and Jens Kulenkampff, "Geschichtsphilosophie und philosophische Asthetik: Zu Adornos 'Asthetischer Theorie, "' Neue Hejiefor Philosophie 5 ( 1973): 84-96. 40 Wellmer, "Truth, Semblance, Reconciliation," 4-5.Translation modified. 41 Ibid.

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i.e. by the non-violent aesthetic synthesis of disparate elements that produces the semblance of reconciliation. This means, how ever, that an antinomy is carried into the very heart of aesthetic synthesis-which can by definitiononly succeed by turning against itself and questioning its own underlying principle, fo r the sake of the truth which nevertheless cannot be extracted except by recourse to this very principle. [ ...] This antinomial structure of art is present fr om the very outset in the historical separation of image from sign, of non-conceptual fr om conceptual syntheses, even if the conscious awareness of it only becomes apparent in the art ofthe modem world, i.e. under conditions of fullydeveloped instrumental rationality. It is inherent within the idea of art that it must tumagainst its own principle and become a rebellion against aesthetic semblance.42 In short, as Adorno puts it: "The negation of synthesis becomes a principle of form."43 "What this paradoxical fo rmula is saying," again, this is, Wellmer, is that art can only survive and remain authentic if it succeeds in articulating the negation of synthesis as its aesthetic meaning, and in bringing about aesthetic synthesis in the very process of negating it. The modem work of art must, in a single pass, both produce and negate aesthetic meaning; it must articulate meaning as the negation of meaning, balancing, so to speak, on the razor's edge between affirmative semblance and an anti-art that is bereft of semblance.44 Because aesthetic spirit, conceived as the content of the work in polemical antagonism against an unreconciled reality, is to be had only via the principle of the constitution of fo rm, of construction this is the basis of the primacy of construction in artistic production the danger arises that form (aesthetic spirit I) becomes independent of its content (aesthetic spirit II), thereby effacing it, when the negation of the construction of fo rm in and by power of that construction fails. This occurs, fo r instance, when the principles of the construction of

42 Ibid., 9. 43 Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, 155. 44 Wellmer, "Truth, Semblance, Reconciliation," 10.

109 INTERMEDIALITY form have been rationalized to such a degree that they become available as conventions whose virtuosic mastery itself subsequently becomes the be-all and end-all of artistic production. For at this moment the principle of construction becomes independent of what is to be constructed, of the individual material. The consequence is expressed, according to Adorno, in the very idea of "mastering the material" when the principle of construction is imposed on individual elements. This "mastering" then takes the place of a production that non-violently fo llows the impulses of the elements in the process of their integration such that formal coherence emerges as much fr om these impulses themselves as these impulses must necessarily remain alien to, even object to, such coherence.45 In absolute mastery over the material, however, the rationality of construction gains the upper hand, as it were, over its "polar opposite," the "mimetic impulses" inherent in the material it organizes.46 The immanent process, working against itself, that is aesthetic form as spiritual fo rm, ceases to in habit such works-the consequence being that the spirit of the work is dialectically reversed into spiritlessness. This is also Adorno's explanation for the fact that works can lose their tension, such as the now merely decorative abstract paintings that even in Adorno'stime had already graced the walls of executive officesof major corporations. For Adorno, when the principle of construction becomes indepen dent of its material, absolute mastery over the material converges with its opposite-the belief in the pure material. In the one case, the material, having lost all power of resistance under the blind dominance of absolute artistic control, is surrendered to "culinary" use. In the other case-when it is fe tishized as pure material-it, a priori, remains untouched by any fo rm of spiritualization. In "Art and the Arts" Adorno writes:

45 See Adorno,Aesthetic Th eory, 118: "In artworks, spirit has become their principle of construction, although it fu lfillsits telos only when it emerges fr om what is to be constructed, fr om the mimetic impulses, by shaping itself to them rather than allowing itself to be imposed on them by sovereign rule. Form objectivates the particular impulses only when it fo llows them where they want to go of their own accord. This alone is the methexis of artworks in reconciliation. The rationality of artworks becomes spirit only when it is immersed in its polar opposite." 46 Ibid.

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The primacy of context that is created in the material by the principle of construction is converted by this domination through the spirit into the loss of spirit, namely of intrinsic meaning. From that point on, all art suffe rs fr om this contradiction, and the most serious art suffe rs the most painfully. Spiritualization, the rational manipulation of artistic methods, seems to drive out spirit as the substantive content of art. What set out to spiritualize the material of art ends up in the naked material as if in a mere existent, just as was explicitly called for by a number of schools-in music, by John Cage, fo r example. (AaA, 373) Adorno's concept of autonomous art and the resulting judgments of aesthetic value are certainly impressively compelling and attractively complex. But the assumption of a dialectical unityof form (aesthetic spirit I) and content (aesthetic spirit II), as Wellmer has already pointed out in his critique of Adorno, is no more self-evident than the mutual referential interrelation of reality, art, and utopia that, according to Adorno, must be deciphered in all art by the dialectical mediation of fo rm and content sketched above. As soon as we stop basing actual viewings of concrete works of art on the presupposition of such refer ential interrelation, Adorno's claims concerningthe dialectical relation between form and content may also no longer be immediately plau sible. Once we no longer conceive the processes of aesthetic under standing as the reconstruction of a referential relation presupposed by a certainphilo sophy to be present in all art, and instead tie these processes to questions of the interpretation of each individual work, what inevitably emerges is that the coherence of individual elements in the aesthetic fo rm as such need not already imply reconciliation. Such interpretation is in fact nothing but the concrete projection of a philosophy that-for all art-decides ahead of time what it will seek to find in the individual works, namely its own concept of aesthetic spirit, or rather, of aesthetic truth.47 Yet the idea that a work of art ought to be capable of being deciphered with a view to the referential interrelation of reality, art, and utopia, presupposes not only that the coherence of the elements in the aesthetic form as such must always

47 Wellmer, "Truth, Semblance, Reconciliation," 23-24.

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already be charged with a certain content ("reconciliation"). It also presumes that the immanent process that is aesthetic form as spiritual form, is a fact that is merely waiting to be grasped or reconstructed by the receiving subject in a more or less suitable way, and this means for Adorno, as philosophically as possible. In this respect, I think that even the notion that the successful aesthetic form "objectivates" "mimetic impulses" of the material contains a problem-however, not necessarily with regard to the some what mystifying image that Adorno paints in this context of the sensitive artist, who almost interpassively fo llows the "mimetic im pulses" of his material. For this reference to a dynamic in artistic production in which the internal logic of "the thing itself' surpasses the artist's intention is in fact corroborated by the self-description of artists who organize their own material. And it may more generally be quite a good image for a largely unalienated process of production. In light of Cage's aleatorics and the industrially fabricated boxes of Minimal art, however, the decisive question for art criticism and theory is whether this-the fact that art comes into being in such a way-is relevant for the notion of art. Adorno rather obviously assumes that it is,48 presupposing, however-and here lies the central problem-that the "impulses" of the material, which the sensitive artist fo llows, can be objectified in the successfulaesthetic fo rm and can therefore also be reconstructed as such by the receiving subject as it contemplates the work. In the context of my discussion of Fried and Luhmann, I have already argued against the reduction of the experience of art to the mere reconstruction-however sensitive--ofthe process of production that works of art are accessible to the receiving subject only in and through a specific experience of the self-reflective and performative constitution of interrelations-an experience that,in principle, remains forever incomplete because the works themselves can never vouch for such interrelations. The consequence, however, is that the relation of form (aesthetic spirit I) and content (aesthetic spirit II) can never be guaranteed on the side of production-no matter how much

48 See 2.3.4 and 3.2.3.

112 Artand the Arts the artist strives to be true to the material. Adorno's idea, according to which the most serious artworks by means of ever new fo rma- t ions of internallyantag onistic interrelations to keep the two poles of the aesthetic spirit together safeguard against reversion into spirit k:ssness-at any time-seems misleading fromthe perspective of a theory of aesthetic experience. For, from this perspective, the two poles or the aesthetic spirit are always already separated from one another, irrespective of whether the aesthetic form appears internallyantag onistic or harmonious, whether it has been produced in the spirit of Adorno or in that of Kandinsky: if we do not want to misconceive aesthetic understanding in objectivistic terms as a mere reconstruc tion, then the receiving subject necessarily enters between the two poles, that is, between aesthetic fo rm and aesthetic content.49 Yet, this subject is not, properly speaking, a "mediating instance"50 between limn and content. It is, rather, the center of forces in a process not in liH.:t entirely subject to its control that plays back and forth on the object between materiality and meaning; a process that cannot be arrested either in the supposed facti city of form or in any particular t:ontent, or in any particular hypothesis-no matter how dialectical regarding their mediation. What it means to underestimate the pecu- 1 iar productivity of what we have so far discussed under the title "aesthetic experience" is perhaps most strikingly manifest in those artistic phenomena that, from Adorno's perspective, cannot possibly he called art because they fa ll short-a priori, as it were-of the dialectical problem of fo rmal creation: John Cage's aleatory proce dures, for example. Adornowrites elsewhere: What art becomes, depends on whether its progress retains power over the regressive element, or whether it succumbs to it with the barbaric literalness that triumphs equally in the cult of absolute methods or of absolute material. One cannot fail to hear such regression, which does not transform the concept of art into something higher, in many products of the most recent musical practice; it would not surprise the musician if complementary

·l'l See Wellmer, "Truth, Semblance, Reconciliation," 24. �0 Ibid.

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things were to be reported about painting. (RMP, 78) As we know, complementary reports indeed emerged at the same time fr om the world of visual arts. It is not by chance that Adorno's cri tique of the regressive literalness of Cage's experiments and other phenomena of the "most recent musical practice" recalls Fried's arguments against Donald Judd's programmatic call fo r the positivism of "specificob jects" (see 1.2). Adorno's objection to "the regression of artworks to the barbaric literalness of what is aesthetically the case"51 does indeed bear a relation to Fried's objection against the literalness ofMinimalism. Fried's quest in the field of the visual arts, as much as Adorno's in that of music is to save art from the reversal into, respectively, literalness or spiritlessness. For Adorno as well as for Fried, the viability of autonomous art, and with it of the modem project, depends on preserving art from this fate-even if the two give very diffe rent answers to the question of how this project can be kept alive in the fa ce of such a threat. With respect to the critique of aesthetic literalness, however, our discussion of Fried has shown that, aesthetically speaking, there is no such thing as pure or literal material. The structure of the aesthetic experience of Minimalist art instead revealed that the positivist program of the Minimalists arguing along the lines definedby Judd was a self-misconception. A similar argument could be made fo r John Cage's music.SZ The material can be neither sublated in symbolic meaning (Kandinsky) nor, on the other hand, grasped as such, in its "pure existence" (Cage, Judd). We have seen that "spirit" and "letter"- meaning and material--existin the aesthetic experience only in dynamic and antagonistic interrelation. From the perspective of experience, art is constitutively processual not because the individual elements emancipate themselves objectively, as it were, in a suitable form of mutual antagonism, but because the coherence of their in terrelations can never be conclusively evident on or in the work to the subject of the aesthetic experience. This, if anything at all, emancipates the elements of the work of art and allows for a process

51 Adorno,Aesthetic Th eory, I 03. 52 For a more thorough discussion of this, see 2.3.4.

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in which they can develop productive as well as destructive im pulses in relation to the individual context in which they are placed. Now, such a release of what Adornoju dges to be "spiritless" aesthetic ohjects fr om the symbolism or positivism of the programs that motivated them inevitably calls into question not only the criteria on which Adornobases his judgments about works of modern art. The very introduction of questions of an aesthetics of reception into the broadest sense into Adorno's work aesthetic-which ultimately argues in terms of an aesthetics of production-affects the progress hypothesis at its systematic roots. Against the backdrop of these questions, the supposition of a coherence of referential interrelations between reality, art, and utopia-interrelations that the subject of aesthetic experience merely needs to reconstruct more or less adequate ly -must appear as questionable as the notion, motivated by this supposition, of the dialectical unity of fo rm and content, which in turn grounds Adorno's progress-theoretical conception of aesthetic autonomy. Before coming back to the critique of this set of arguments (2.2.3), however, I would first like to show in greater detail that and how these arguments also underlie Adorno'spr aise for the fr aying of the boundaries between genres and how this fu nctions. I will show that lx:cause of its embeddedness in a theory of progress, this praise should by no means be read as advocating a principled affirmationof inter medial procedures in art.53

2. 2. 2. Prognee again, then: good works ofmodem art, according to Adorno, are generally those that, by working on what went awry in previous works, continue the project implicit in these works. And this project, as Adorno conceives it, consists for all modem art in articulating

�I This, as already mentioned, is Christine Eichel's claim in Vo m Ermatten der Avantgarde zur Ve rnetzung der Kilns/e.

115 INTERMEDIALITY the negation of aesthetic construction as aesthetic meaning and, in the same gesture, by putting aesthetic construction into effectthrough its negation. Only in this way can art maintain its autonomy, and protect its "spirit" fr om the reversion into spiritlessness. In practice, however, negation of the aesthetic construction means negation of every principle of construction that has become stabilized by conventions, and has thereby lost its tension. Accordingly, the negation of the conventions of formal creation established for and by the traditional definitions of the genres is what, according to Adorno,motiva ted the fr aying of genres' boundaries. As he oftendoes, Adornouses the example of music to illustrate his point; and, as he also often does, he begins his considerations with Schoenberg. In a continuation of the integral processes incorpo rating all compositional dimensions for the production of musical co herence pioneered by Schoenberg, the development of music took a step of"unforeseeable significance"-a step in the direction of what Adorno had programmatically called "musique informelle" only a fe w years earlier in 1961.54 This step consists, writes Adorno, in separating [Schoenberg's] concept of musical coherence fr om its traditional assumptions and thereby from everything that had accreted historically in the concept of music. Thus music had even become allergic to such cohesive techniques as free atonality and twelve-tone technique, in which the trained ear could still hear the traces of the tonality that such techniques repudiated. It could therefore freely fa ce up to the concept of coherence, independently of the limited shapes that the concept had assumed and that had become an ingrained part of our hearing. The entire output of Stockhausen can be regarded as an attempt to test musical coher ence in a multidimensional continuum. Such sovereign domi nance, which makes it possible to establish coherence even in an incalculable variety of dimensions, creates fr om the inside the link between music and the visual arts, architecture, sculpture,

54 See Theodor W. Adorno, "Vers une musique informelle," in Quasi una Fantasia: Essays on Modern Music, trans. Rodney Livingstone (New York: Ve rso, 1998), 312. Abbreviated in the fo llowing as VMI. For a more thorough discussion of this text, see 2.3.4.

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and painting. The more the coherence-creating methods of the individual arts spread their tentacles over the traditional stock of forms and become formalized, as it were, the more the different arts are subjected to a principle of uniformity. (AaA, 374) A principle of uniformity-here, that means a general idea of art. Nonetheless, this idea, as was already suggested above, can never be had in abstraction and as such. This shows that Adornowas an early critic of that radicalized tendency toward the "generic" in art, which was represented, according to Thierry de Duve, firstand fo remost by the Conceptual artist Joseph Kosuth.55 In 1973, Kosuth had tautologically equated the idea of art with art, and dismissed its concrete realization as irrelevant. 56 Yet, simply pointing to the fa ct that the material execution of Kosuth 's installations is not at all irrelevant but in fact constitutive of their idea, demonstrates that Kosuth commits a performative self-contradiction and suffe rs fr om an intentionalist self-misconception. 57 In general, those works that have been grouped under the title of a "dematerialization of the art object"58-Conceptual art (art-as-idea) and the happening (art-as action)-depend on a material realization that is certainly not arbi trary, be it in the form of the performance itself or its documentation (in the case of the happening), or in the form of the presentation of an idea (in the case of Conceptual art). The dependence of even these art fo rms on a material realization is a consequence not of a compromising accommodation to the art business, which demands marketable objects, but of the fa ct that there can be no art without aesthetic judgment, which in tum is necessarily dependent on public objects. 59 Whereas de Duve defends this necessity that there be aesthetic objects against Kosuth's programmatic statements from a post-Kantian perspective, for Adorno, and this is decisive for the

55 De Duve, Kant aft er Duchamp, 245-6. 56 Joseph Kosuth, "Art afterPhilo sophy, I and II," in Idea Art: A Critical Anthology, ed. Gregory Battcock (New York: Dutton, 1973), 70-101. 57 For an elaboration ofth is argument, see Martin See!, Asthetik des Erscheinens (Munich: Hanser Verlag, 2000), 197-202. 5H See Lucy Lippard, Six Years: The dematerialization of the art object from 1966

to 1972 ... (Berkeley: University of CaliforniaPr ess, 1997). 59 See my argument against the identification of art with arbitrary subjective experi ences (Erlebnisse), 1.2.1.

117 INTERMEDIALITY present argument, there is more at stake than this basic point. He seeks to defend not only the general claim that without material realization there exists not even an idea of art,60 but also the much more far reaching claim that true art exists only where construction releases the material stratum ofthe work of art in and through itself. Such a release, in tum, fo llowing Adorno'snow familiar claim, can succeed only in a critical engagement of the current state of the aesthetic material in question. Only here, in an engagement of the problems of construction critically directed against the existing state of artistic production and its conventions, asserts Adorno, can the problem of the material layer of art be transformed into a legitimate claim of that layer vis-a-vis construction. For Adorno,such a state, however, can exist only in reference to each of the individual arts. This argumentative nexus defineswha t Adorno calls the "dual stance of art toward its fo rms." "Its dialectical nature," he writes, "consists in the fact that [art] can carry out its movement toward unity solely by passing through multiplicity. Otherwise, its movement would be abstract and futile" (AaA, 383). The multiplicity Adorno speaks of here is the countable multiplicity of the arts and precisely not the innumerable multiplicity of individual works, and not merely because Adorno could not have foreseen the radicalism of the de velopments toward the individualization of the work of art-devel opments whose beginnings he describes in the example of the phe nomenon of fr aying. In fact, this limitation implies one of the central points of Adorno's (art) critical theory. Now, it is not immediately plausible that Adorno would tie his concept of art in such a way to the traditional arts, given the obvious contrast between his position and that of his American colleagues. For art cannot become or remain autonomous, according to Adorno, by an attempt to insulate the individual arts against empirical reality, by insisting, for instance, on their own "unique and proper area of competence," which can be secured only by dogmatically defending the conventional genre definitions-as both Greenberg and Fried

60 The rare case of Adornomaking positive reference to Heidegger appears in this context-to be precise: to Heidegger's emphasis on the thingness of the work of art. See AaA, 381-2.

118 Art and the Arts advocate. In fact, Adornopr oposes the exact antithesis: only by negating the conventional positive definitionof art, only as a "rebel lion against aesthetic semblance," can art preserve its authentic exis tence. Only by attempting to shed what is art-like about art, and shed also its meaningfulness,which has itself congealed into a "culinary fe ature"-only by virtue of this negation can art preserve and expand its existence as art uncorrupted in its meaningfulness. This negation of aesthetic meaning, however, must not be misunderstood as an abstract negation, for to do so would amount to the self-abolition of art.No work of art is conceivable, claims Adorno, that "does not create meaning after all" while "[turning] against its own meaningfulness as a totality" (AaA, 385). Accordingly, it is also the determinate negation of what positively counts as art that fo rms, according to Adorno,the "intrinsic [law]" (AaA, 386) in accordance with which, in the sixties, even the rigid definitionsof the genres could ultimate ly become an object of critique: The erosion [ Verfransung] of the arts is hostile to an ideal of harmony that presupposes, as the guarantee of meaning, what we might call ordered circumstances within the kinds of art. This erosion of the arts wishes to escape from the ideological basis of art, which reaches right down into its constitution as art, as an autarkic sphere of the spirit. It is as if the artistic genres, by denying their own firm boundaries, were gnawing away at the concept of art itself. (AaA, 384-5) This is also the context for Adorno's affirmation-quite remarkable, given his general aesthetic preferences-of the "principle of montage" as the "original example of the erosion of art." Montage, according to Adorno, "amounts to the disruption, and hence the denial, of meaning in works of art through the invasion of fragments of empirical reality that do not abide by the laws of art" (AaA, 385).61 hI When Peter BUrger writes in "Das Altern der Moderne"that Adorno's conception of the material is entirely subordinate to the principle of immanent composition and is therefore in conflict with the avant-garde principle of montage (see page 181 in BUrger), he overlooks the fa ct that the principle of immanent composition in Adornoaims not at all at a sublation of the individual elements into the unity of form but, on the contrary, at an elaboration of their internal contradictions. That Adorno'sinterpretation is, on the other hand, more interested in the fa ct of

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But such an invasion, and this is important in the present context, must never become total-as it does, for example, in the readymade. As much as the tendency toward a fr aying of the boundaries of the genres, the invasion of reality into art is legitimate only when it remains bound to an engagement of the conventions of formal creation within each of the individual arts. Accordingly, the readymade, as a clean break from the traditional genres, marks a qualitative leap against which Adorno's writings labor-and on this front, he finds himself in the company of Greenberg, Fried, and Krauss.62 The relation between art and the arts in Adornois definedby a program matic tension: the works do justice to the concept of autonomous art only by virtue of their conflictwit h the definition of their genre. But they must not break altogether free of this conflictingrelation ship. On the contrary, precisely the most critical engagement of the genre-specifictrad ition, according to Adorno, will in the end prove to be the greatest fidelity to it. 63 In a certain respect, the facts support this claim. In this last sense in particular, Adorno'shypot heses on the fraying of the genres accurately describe the historical fact that arts open up toward one another at the very moment-or, at least, at the possibility-of breaking free from their representational fu nction and increasingly reflect and fo cus on their respective means ofrepresentation.64 The result of this process of reflection, a reflectionthat has become more trenchant in modernism, is indeed that the musicalization of music,

contradictoriness than in the substantial semantic aspects of the material involved, is indeed rooted in the one-dimensionality of such an interpretation Biirgerrightly criticizes. The same can be said of the fact that Adorno here conceives the "principle of montage" to comprise solely the "invasion of fragments of empirical reality," and not, for instance, the confrontation of different conventions of fo rmal creation in Stravinsky, whom he criticized precisely for such a confrontation. See Peter Biirger, "Das Altern derModerne," in Adorno Konferenz 1983, eds. Ludwig von Friedeburg and Jiirgen Habermas (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1983), 177-97. 62 See Adorno'scriticism of processes that, "indifferentto the genres, completely [follow] the nominalistic commandment." Adorno,Aesthetic Th eory, 221. 63 See ibid., 201. 64 The Romantics (Schlegel, Novalis) already reflected extensively on this issue, albeit with a strong fo cus on language. The notion of a mutual reflection of the arts upon one another, of course, is even much older: for example, the rivalry between the arts in the Renaissance (when this rivalry was still a matter of their respective representational fu nctions).

120 Art and the Arts the theatricalization of theater, the reflectionon the painterly in painting, etc., have reflectively led the arts to open up toward one another. And this opening-up proves, upon closer examination, an opening-up only in the sense that it is implicit to the reflection upon the specificity of the means of representation of each of the arts. For what emerges first and foremost in such reflection is what we might call the constitutive role intermediality plays fo r the specificity of the means of representation of each of the arts. 65 For illustrations of what this means, the reader need only think of, fo r example, the graphic quality of writing brought to the fore by concrete poetry, of the phonic aspect of words as it comes to the surface in works such as Finnegans Wa ke, or, with Adorno, of the graphical quality of musical notation or the sculptural quality of the canvas that becomes thematic in Frank Stella's Shaped Canvases. These qualities may be emphasized by individual works, as in certainworks from the sixties, but they are also present where they are not emphasized. They are constitutive of the specificity of each means of representation and therefore also of each of the arts. "In every art fo rm," as Martin See) has put so succinctly, "there are numerous intrinsic relationships to other arts, although not every art maintains them to every other art. These relationships are not something by virtue of which the genre under consideration can be expanded; they arefimdamental for its constitution as one artistic genre among others."66 This, the emergence of the intermediality fu ndamental to the individual arts, is obviously what Adornohas in mind when he notes that the very developmental logic of the individual arts motivates the tendency toward a fr aying of the boundaries of the genres: "The arts converge," he writes elsewhere, "only where each pursues its immanent principle in a pure way" (RMP, 67). This process of reflec tion on the relationships among the various aesthetic media, constitutive of the specificity of each individual art, has certainly not leftthe notion of a neat separation of the genres untouched. But for Adorno, and I think he is right about this point, this does not at all mean

1•5 On the notion of"constitutive interrnediality"see also See!, Asthetik des Erscheinens, 178. Ill• Ibid., 179.

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that the structural differences between the aesthetic media associated with traditional artistic genres disappear. The fact that no art plays the same fu ndamental role for every other art clearly indicates that artistic transgressions of rigid definitions of traditional genres do not simply make the structural differences between aesthetic media associated with these genres disappear. On the contrary, these diffe r ences emerge in a new way. The transgression of the conventions of formal creation valid within the framework of traditional definitions of genre obviously does not lead to the abolition of the idea of medium specificity but to its liberation fr om the grip of the idea of genre-specificity. That is why I also believe that it is misleading to speak, as Krauss does, of a "post-medium condition" with respect to intermedial phenomena. Intermediality should not be misunderstood as evidence either of ignorance regarding the specificitiesof various aesthetic media or, on the other hand, of mere ignorance regarding conventions of formal creation within the traditional genres. Instead, the specificitiesof each medium become the object of an artistic production that confronts these conventions freely-but not fr om a position of simple ignorance. This artistic production has rightly dismissed rigid definitionsof genre-and, as Adornowas able to show, not by distancing itself fr om but, on the contrary, by intensifying the engagement of the specificities of the means of representation in question. This is also true-and here, I think, we should go beyond Adomo for the reflection on the potential of certain aesthetic means of representation from the perspective of a problem of another art tradi tionally alien to these means; for the confrontation of diffe rent aesthetic media in new hybrid genres or the many artistic variations on the notion, in McLuhanian terms, that the "content" of a newer medium is always an older one.67 Interestingly, the latter can be dem onstrated particularly well in ways artists who appropriate today's only real "convergence medium"-that of digitality. The fa ct that digitization makes virtually anything possible has led to novel hybrids such as time-based paintings, located somewhere between

67 See Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media (London: Routledge, 2001), 8.

122 Art and the Arts painting and film.Yet these unfold their aesthetic potential not by going beyond or by breaking with the genre-specifictra ditions but only by engaging them. The reflection and fo cus on that which is "unique and proper" in each art, and the engagement of its other, as I will later show (see 2.3), are two sides of the same coin. Adornohimself seems to gesture toward this nexus when he writes that the boundaries between the "immanent relation of one medium to the other and a syncretistic combination in the style of Scriabin 's Prometheus" (RMP, 74) may well become blurry for some observers as the historical distance grows longer. Yet it would be entirely wrong to infer fr om this remark that Adorno means to relativize the differ ence between "immanent relation" and "syncretistic combination." This distinction-difficultas it may sometimes be to make-is ab solutely crucial to Adorno.Yet the stipulation that the fraying of the boundaries between the genres is legitimate only when it is inherently motivated by an engagement of the specific problems of one particular art is clearly indispensable to Adorno not because he seeks to preserve the genres of art as such-which is Greenberg's and Fried's motiva tion-but because the historical fact of their differentiation, as the point of departure, is irrevocable. Some of the argumentative strands discussed above converge once more in this claim. It is based, on the one hand, on the assumption that the historical diffe rentiation of the arts according to their media and the principle of the division of labor in bourgeois society are internally interrelated. Against the backdrop of this assumption, developed in his philosophy of history, Adorno rejects the unificationof various aesthetic media fo r example, in Wagnerian music-drama as the semblance of a unity that is fa lse in relation to the realities of bourgeois society. A fraying of the genres, on the other hand, motivated from within the individual arts acknowledges the irrevocability of their differentiation and, at the same time, of an unreconciled reality. Only this enables Adorno to incorporate this movement into his theory of autonomous art con ceived as a theory of progress, which, as we have seen, is based on the idea of a mutual referential interrelation of unreconciled reality, art, and utopia. The reader may of course rej ect this argument from Adorno'sphil osophy ofhistory in its entirety on systematic grounds-

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I will come back to this issue shortly (see 2.3.3). But a simple em pirical objection may also be raised at this point: many of the artists working today in hybrid intermedial fo rms do not at all aim to produce a unifiedtotal impression; on the contrary, they are interested in emphasizing the differences between the various media in their works. Yet this point would hardly satisfyAdorno . For his critique of the fa lse unification of the arts, a critique inspired by the ideology of unity in the gesamtkunstwerk, is merely one aspect of Adorno's claim that transgressions of the boundaries between genres is legitimate only when their motivation is immanent to one particular art and driven by an engagement of the specific problems of this art. For, on the other hand, this latter claim aims at an emphatic idea of being true to the material for which specialization in one aesthetic medium would be the minimal requirement given even only the in homogeneity of the aesthetic media that has emerged over the course of their history. "It is enough to remind ourselves," writes Adorno, that historically, at least, one essential difference among the arts has distinguished between, on the one hand, those that are or were based on images and continue to fe ed on that tradition, that is to say, the imitative or representational arts, and on the other hand, those, like music, that, at least initially, were without images and had them grafted on only gradually, intermittently, and always precariously. There is a fu rther qualitative distinction between literature, which depends upon concepts and cannot dispense with them entirely, even in its most radical fo rm, and the noncon ceptual fo rms of art. [ ...] Differences like these have their own profound implications, but at all events they demonstrate that the so-called arts do not form a continuum that would allow us to provide the entire complex of phenomena with a single unifying label. (AaA, 382) Correspondingly, the critique of the compulsory unification of the arts in the gesamtkunstwerk-ifwe recall Adorno'scomm ents on Wagner's music-drama-is not confined to its context in the phi losophy of history discussed above. Adorno criticizes the unification project of the gesamtkunstwerk rather because it is programmatically indifferent to the differences between the various aesthetic media.

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The fact, however, that the integration of the different aesthetic media into a single total impression usually goes awry--even in productions characterized by the gesamtkunstwerk and its ideology-is to Ador no's mind merely an index of its failure, a failure without aesthetic value of its own.68 Still, there are systematic reasons for the rigor of Adorno'sap o dictic judgment of such productions. For, as Adornoconceives it, construction-thorough compositional organization-is of constitutive importance fo r aesthetic autonomy. The problem of the construction of aesthetic coherence is for him the central problem of any serious artistic production-that is, one that aims to be true to the material. Even the stipulation that the negation of aesthetic synthesis should become the principle of fo rmal creation is ultimately subordinate to that synthesis. That is why the problem of the construction of aesthetic coherence must neither be abstractly negated-as in aleatory works such as those of Cage69-nor, on the other hand, be fo rced when the medial conditions by themselves already contradict the idea of aes thetic coherence, as in the gesamtkunstwerk. Adorno'scritique of the ideology of un ityin the gesamtkunstwerk is thus simultaneously a critique of the lack of un ity in its actual construction. Specialization in one aesthetic medium and the commitment it entails to a critical continuation of the genre-specifictrad ition are to Adorno'smind no less indispensable a prerequisite fo r the production of great art than fidelity, demonstrated by critical engagement, to the principle of aesthetic coherence. Both in his defense of specific artistic skills against the hybridization of aesthetic media and their respective problems, and in his defense of the principle of artistic construction against the principle of literalness, Adorno'sargument comes so close to the aesthetic conservatism of Greenberg and Fried as to be come nearly indistinguishable from it. Accordingly, Adorno, like Greenberg and Fried, writes, "art exists only in the arts" (AaA, 383). Of course, one cannot object to traditional artistic skills or the critical awareness of the history of their use, even fo r those hybrid in termedia productions that Adornomust exclude due to the systemic

6H Compare this to my discussion of Kabakov in 2.3.2. 69 This becomes quite clear in Adorno's philosophy of music. See 2.3.4.

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requirements of his theory of progress. The decisive question, how ever-and Duchamp usually stands as representative of this provo cation-is whether the possibility of great art need still be tied at all to the skillful employment of the traditional aesthetic media, as Adorno, like Greenberg and Fried, insists. In fact, the trend toward the transgression of boundaries between genres is matched by an increasing individualization of the work of art in modernismthat ul timately releases it fr om all ties to traditional aesthetic media, an individualization to which the philosophy of art generally responded and the beginnings of this response appear in fact quite early70-in claiming that to go beyond the traditional theory of genres means to go back behind it: to tum to the general concept of art, on which any systematic attempt to categorize the variety of its manifold concrete realizations must be based. Up to this point, I myself have argued that we should conceive aesthetic autonomy as the effect of a specificallyaesthetic object relation and no longer as a category that could be recovered by an aesthetics of production or the work. Our discussion must now tum to the consequences that a concept of art that is, in this sense, "generic" has, among other things, fo r the assessment of intermedial art. I will address this question once again by engaging Adorno's attempt to definethe autonomy of art within a theory of progress. Still, it should already be clear that Adorno,by conceiving aesthetic autonomy from within a theory of progress, can hardly be made into an apologist for the explosive growth of new intermedial artistic genres. If we wish to defend the aesthetic potential of these inter medial procedures, which are currently omnipresent in the art world, we must obviously do so by distancing ourselves from, rather than drawing on, Adorno.

70 Friedrich Schlegel, for instance, was already aware of this problem. See Peter Szondi, "Friedrich Schlegel's Theory of Poetical Genres: A Reconstruction fr om Posthumous Fragments," in On Tex tual Understanding and Other Essays, trans. Harvey Mendelsohn (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 82.

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3. 2 • 2. Progre" and Autonomy Indeed, with Adorno, the helplessness of the attempts to seal offan area proper to aesthetics against an outside of empirical reality could be criticized. These attempts have no other recourse than the conservative appeal to conventions fr om which art has sought to break fr ee since the sixties. "Art," according to Adorno's defense of this struggle, "needs something heterogeneous in order to become art. In the absence of that, the process that every work of art is lacks a target and so just freewheels. The clash between the work of art and the world of objects becomes productive, and the work authentic, only where this clash is allowed to happen and to objectify itself by its friction with the thing it devours" (AaA, 375). But Adorno cannot have the final say here with this defense of the disintegration of the boundaries between the arts: not because it has been shown that this defense in the end excludes a large part of the intermedial art seen today-not, that is to say, because of its repressive consequences hut rather fo r systematic reasons. For the "clash with the world of objects," on which Adorno, like Fried, stakes his concept of aesthetic autonomy, cannot, as we have argued (2.2.1), be objectified in a theory of progress. Even those productions of modem art that are most sensitive to their materials and most conflicted in themselves are, fo r systematic reasons, inca pable of achieving what for Adorno could alone constitute them as autonomous- that is, if they kept the two poles of the "aesthetic spirit," form and content, together. The receiving subject always already steps between the two. Yet the dialectical connection between the two sides of the "aesthetic spirit" is evident only from the per spective of a philosophy that presupposes this dialectics for all art interpreting it in the context of a fu rther thesis on the mutual inter relation of reality, art, and utopia. This means reading the works in accordance with a previously established hermeneutic schema and, consequently, reducing the experience of any concrete work to a mere recognition of contents already familiar from the philosophy of history.

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The ending of"Artand the Arts," too, gives-with particularpathos testimony to this perspective on art fr om the philosophy of history. Adornowrite s: While the present situation no longer has room for art-that was the meaning of the statement about the impossibility of poems afterAuschwit z-it neverthelesshas need of it. For reality without images is the counterpart of another condition without images: the condition in which art disappears because the utopia encoded in every work of art has been fu lfilled. In itself art is not capable of such a demise. This is why the arts eat away at each other. (AaA, 387) What is problematic here is not only that the tendencies toward a fraying of the boundaries between genres are supposed to be, in toto, nothing but an illustration of the presumed constellation of unreconciled reality, art, and utopia-there is another problem hidden in the construction of this constellation itself. For the despair itself a reference to this constellation-as articulated in the final paragraph of "Art and the Arts," seems to be not only nourished by the bitter experience with the German past but also driven by conceptual motivations. As Albrecht Wellmer has correctly pointed out, it is "built into" the polemical interrelation in which Adorno believed he had to conceive art and reality.71 Because Adorno obvi ously associates the sphere of conceptual thinking as a whole with instrumental reason, he can consistently imagine mimesis only as the other of conceptual thinking.A convening of mimesis and rationality in art can, fo r the same reasons, only be thought of as a negation of historical reality. Utopia, removed from its original, political, place and, as it were, put into storage in art, can thus for purely conceptual reasons not be of this world-the world for its part, having been assigned to negativity. Apart from the fact that Adorno thus generally blocks any perspec tive on the possibility of changing our reality by means of the com municative and intersubjective aspects of conceptual thinking,72 art

71 Wellmer, "Truth, Semblance, Reconciliation," 12. 72 See ibid., 13-15; and also Wellmer's "The Dialectic ofModernism and Postmodernism," in The Persistence of Modernity, 71-85.

128 Art and the Arts becomes fixed in a position vis-a-vis this reality that is as polemical as it is otherworldly and utopian. Assigning this position to it, however, means not only overburdening it with content fromthe philosophy of history-it also means underestimating the critical and, under the right circumstances, even utopian potential of concrete works. For the particular works of art are by no means reducible to illustrations of the general referential historico-philosophical interrelation Adorno believes he must recognize time and again in the works of modern art he discusses (which, not incidentally, he chose to be as nonrepre sentational as possible). Instead, the concrete work of art delineates an open horizon of possible formations of relation and meaning for the receiving subject; a horizon that may in each case, and in ever different ways, be sated with concrete sociopolitical content. In fact, this is true almost without exception for today's most important works (see 3.2). Yet what is specifically atstake in them can hardly be understood from Adorno'sper spective. Adorno's philosophy-which addresses all philosophies-proves too general with regard to what is particular in the individual works. Against Adorno'sown intentions, his historico philosophical fixationon the referential interrelation between reality, art, and utopia in the end systematically misses the concrete semantic horizons of each work. The same goes fo r the progress-theoretical thesis of the dialectical unity of fo rm and content, a unity that is to be the concrete production-aesthetic realization of this relation: it is a matter exclusively of questions of formal creation that are as such charged with historico-philosophical content. But what Adornothus fails to do justice to is not merely the particu lar in each concrete work, including its respective semantic horizon, but also the particularity of art as such. For Adorno'sprogre ss-theo retical formalism (although it is an, as it were, second-order formal ism, given its historico-philosophical codedness) corresponds-as does the more simplistic media-aesthetic formalism proposed by his American colleagues-to an ultimately technical concept of aesthet ic autonomy that in my view cannot sufficiently account for what, certainly in Adorno, it is primarily intended to represent: the incom mensurability of the work of art, its autonomy in relation to the subject and its reason. This concept stipulates the technical objecti-

129 INTERMEDIALITY fication of what, according to Adorno's own conception, must be precisely irreducible to technique. It determines in advance how-in which way-art must progressively escape the various ways in which it is determined. I think that this very operation, something almost like a category mistake, renders Adorno unable to remain true to his fu ndamental intuition that there is something elusive about art, an enigma. "Technique," he writes in Aesthetic Th eory, "is the de finablefigure of the enigma in artworks."73 With his theory of prog ress, he has, as it were, always already solved this enigma-and in so doing made it disappear. By contrast, I have offered a concept of aesthetic autonomy grounded in a theory of experience that makes the insolubility of the enigma of art the decisive point of its definition. The aesthetic phenomenon has the "structure ofungraspability," says Rudiger Bubner in the central essay of his book Asthetische Erfahrung. 74 The aesthetic object is essentially undefined; its constitution blocks any approach that attempts to lead to a conclusive understanding of it. "No name gets to the heart of it."75 The fact that the object incites understanding as much as it can ultimately shrug off any concrete hermeneutic act in a particularly noncommittal way only to provoke new ones is-as we have said-where the autonomy of art lies, its "clash with the world of objects." The aesthetic object becomes aesthetic by virtue not of particular qualities but of a specific sort of processual relation to it. Aesthetic autonomy, according to this proposed conceptualization and Kant had already seen this-is not something that can be local ized in particular object qualities. Works of art are "authentically" aesthetic, to use Adorno's term, not when they are formally constituted in a certain way but when they allow a particular, specificallyaesthetic experience. Now the objection raised by a theory of experience to the concep tions of aesthetic autonomy offered by media aesthetics or a theory of progress is by no means tantamount, as might perhaps be fe ared, to a return to subjectivism that would sacrificethe art critical discourse

73 Adorno,Aesthetic Theory, 213. 74 Bubner, "Uber einige Bedingungen gegenwiirtigerA sthetik," 41. 75 Ibid., 42.

130 Art and the Arts and with it any consideration of questions of production aesthetics. Rather, this discourse, together with the criteria of its production-aes thetic judgment, moves to another systematic position. It is no longer a prerequisite of the aesthetic experience; instead, this discourse necessarily fo llows aesthetic experience. The objectivist misconception was to envision an object of critical assessment with constitutive qualities that precede the experience of this object; what is judged now is instead the object as an objective reflection of an experience prompted by it.76 But art critical discourse also necessarily fo llows aesthetic experience, lest the term "aesthetic object" become mean ingless. If it is correct that aesthetic objects become aesthetic in the sense of a "second-order thing" only in and through the processuality of aesthetic experience, only in and through the processuality of a specificaesthetic object relation, then this also implies that aesthetic objects, because of this processuality, depend on forms of a public aesthetic discourse in which this process, as Adornoputs it in a passage already cited from his Aesthetic Th eory, "crystallizes."77 Only in these forms, only in aesthetic discourse, can aesthetic objects show their "second-order objecthood," can they show themselves as aesthetic objects. Because these objects cannot be objectified as aesthetic as separate from the historically changing experience they provoke public aesthetic discourse, in which this ever-changing experience becomes explicit, is also not merely accidental to the aesthetic objects but, at any moment in their history, constitutive ofthem.78 Accordingly, autonomy as conceptualized in a theory of experience is also neither a transhistorical value (as in Fried) nor a value objec-

76 Regarding the belatedness of the aesthetic judgment in relation to aesthetic experience, see Menke, The Sovereignty of Art, 140. 77 Adorno,Aesthetic Th eory, 194. 7H I believe that the constitutive role aesthetic discourse plays for art deserves to be defended, in part with Adorno,against positions such as those of Christine Eichel, who writes, sketching an "interdisciplinary aesthetic" afterAdo rno:"The products of an almost parasitical relationship between art and commentary that are flooding the book market, and print media and television satisfy a demand for information that fe eds on the notion that talking about art is at least as important as art itself. The dialectic of artistic my steriousness and interpretive eloquence surrounds the·works with a rampart of words that threatens to rob the notion of aesthetic experience of its sensory nature." In Vo m Ermatten der Avantgarde zur Ve rnetzung der Kiinste, 254.

131 INTERMEDIALITY tively situated in history (as in Adorno). If it is correct that the autono my of a work is not tied to particular qualities of the object, then it is wrong to short-circuit the incommensurability of a work with tech nical innovation, as Adorno'stheory of aesthetic progress suggests. His theory is obviously motivated by the conviction that artistic strategies without progress are inevitably afflicted by a loss of tension that declasses their once autonomous production to the status of mere decoration. In other words, any given artistic strategy that had been developed against a loss of tension in an earlier strategy will suffer the same loss in tum. This notion would almost seem to be based on the view held by a vitalistic view that mere duration will lead to the death of all living things and the reification of all movement into mere repetition; as a consequence, innovation becomes a goal even more, a necessity-for aesthetic production. This is not to suggest that Adorno elevates novelty as such to the status of an aesthetic category; he specifiesthe developmental logic of the arts by virtue of a theory of progress. But Adorno'sprogr ess-theoretical concept of autonomy, and this is the point here, reduces the historicity of the individual work to an evolutionary history of artistic forms in which the latter play their historically specificand at the same time inevitably limited role. Yet as even a superficialexam ination of the history of the reception of any randomly chosen work-marked as it may be by times of strong public recognition, but also by losses of tension, periods of latency, and renaissances-will show, the historical life of a work is irreducible to whatever role one particular formalist history of progress may assign to it. Adorno's correct insight into the historicity of aesthetic autonomy needs to be liberated fr om the association with his progress-theoretical objectivism and opened up toward the historical dimension of experience. Not the mere passage of time but only the experiences it occasions determine whether, but also how lastingly, works may lose their tension. For historically changeable experience also implies that the innovative potential im plicit in a work is subject to ongoing reassessment.79 Accordingly, categories such as novelty or progress cannot be definitively pinned

79 See, in relation to this, I .2. I.

132 Art and the Arts down on particular factual aspects. Instead, the question of whether and, if so, in what respect-a work can be called progressive or, inversely, reactionary, is subject to ongoing and indefinite debate within the aesthetic discourse that is the public manifestation of experiences of art. This has in fact been powerfully demonstrated by the reactions to Adorno'sown progress-theoretically motivated judgments of aesthetic value. So it seems by no means clear, even within the medial horizons demarcated by the traditional arts, how we can actually determine the state of aesthetic material, a state on which the identifiability of aesthetic progress in Adorno is dependent. Which aspects qualify as state of the art at any given point in time is probably not immedi ately evident even to Adorno's most committed disciples. But this problem, and with it that of determining aesthetic progress, becomes dramatically important in the moment we no longer internalize Adorno's fo rmalist-philosophical perspective on the production of art. This already becomes evident with respect to the normative debates over Adorno's perhaps most well-known aesthetic judgment, according to which Schoenberg is considered progressive while Stravinsky is considered reactionary (because Schoenberg can be inscribed in the history of aesthetic progress Adornowants to tell whereas Stravinsky cannot be).8° For the respective debates demon strated that, contrary to Adorno,other conceptions of aesthetic progress can be justifiedas well. The argument over Adorno's critique of realism similarly showed that other positions on the question of aesthetic progress could be held.81 "Precisely the criterion," as Christoph Menke wrote in view of these discussions, "that is supposed to establish evaluations in unambiguous fa shion multiplies in number and lets the question of evaluation reappear on a second level: Wh ich sort of aesthetic progress do we or should we want?"82 Now the li nding that the category of aesthetic progress, if it is not misconceived

XO See Adorno,Philoso phy of New Music. See also the argument between Adorno and Heinz-Klaus Metzger in Metzger's Musik wozu: Literatur zu Noten, ed. Rainer Riehn (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1980), 61-128. X I See, most importantly, Peter Biirger, Th eory of the Avant-Garde, trans. Michael Shaw (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 85-87. X2 Menke, The Sovereignty of Art, 135.

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in reductionist fashion, is inevitably contestable does not imply that it should be neglected by art criticism. Because art criticism treats ob jects of art and not those of nature, it necessarily relates to their having been made. And this relation also, and not least importantly, probably involves a reflection on how advanced the artistic construction in question is-even when such construction can no longer be associ ated with traditional artistic skills. In this sense, the central position the concept of progress occupies in Adorno is surely symptomatic of its role in art critical discourse. But we must object to Adorno's attempt to ground his definition of aesthetic progress in a philoso phy of history-the definition of this term is an ever-recurrent prob lem of art critical judgment, and not already its solution. On the other hand, my pointing out that the category of progress is contested should not be misconstrued as advocating a live-and-let-live attitude toward the divergences between critical positions, favoring, for example, the notion that, given the uncertainty surrounding the foundations of aesthetic judgment, anything goes, as many would have it. The fact that criteria of aesthetic judgment can never be established once and for all means, rather, that only the public debate over such criteria can lend them a degree of generality and bindingness. The aesthetic judgment that "x is beautiful," which has been used in philosophical tradition since Kant to distinguish the structure of aesthetic experience, is not identical with the judgment that "x is good": the judgment that "x is beautiful" is the value judgment implied by an aesthetically experienced object relation; this implied value judgment, then, is a merely necessary but not sufficient condition fo r the art critical judgment that "x is good." Accordingly, aesthetic discourse-the public dispute over the quality of individual works should not simply be misconstrued, as I may have seemed to suggest until now, as the conceptual substantiation of a value judgment al ready anticipated in aesthetic experience. The validity of interpreta tion and aesthetic judgment is indeed in this sense dependent on the experience that necessarily precedes them. And aesthetic experience in tum indeed anticipates its objectification in public aesthetic discourse. This intrinsic anticipation of art critical judgment distinguishes aesthetic experience (Erfahrung) from mere subjective experience

134 Art and the Arts

(h'rlebnis). Conversely, interpretation and criticism are not mere ex lerna! additionsto the totality of aesthetic experience but are already constitutive elements of this totality.83 Still, the subsequent explica- 1 ion of this totality of experience does not simply coincide with it. The subsequent discursive explication of the totality of an aesthetic expe rience will in fact frequentlyalso be an important corrective to its im plicit normativity. "The interpretive retracing of the specificcon tents of a totality of aesthetic experience can contribute to an indirect test of the direct experience of the fact of its stringency," Menke writes, "because it describes aesthetic totalities in such a way that, against the backdrop of our previous aesthetic experiences, judgments [regarding their stringency] appear more or less plausible."84 And of course such subsequent interpretations of a totality of aesthetic experience can themselves be contested in the public aesthetic discourse they address. My own engagement of Fried's art critical interpretation of his experience of Minimalist art above (in 1.2.1) is only one possible example of such a debate. Ultimately, the same holds ro r the dispute over the correct conception of aesthetic autonomy, which was the fundamental issue in this engagement. The fact that my conception of aesthetic autonomy-which I have in the preceding pages not only described but also explained and defended by engaging the arguments of Cavell, Fried, Greenberg, Krauss, Luhmann, and Adorno--is itself normative is not a valid objection to it. To the contrary, the fact that my conception of aesthetic autonomy both corresponds with and explicitly disputes other theories that assign a similar or different role to art only points out what has always been the task of philosophical aesthetics: as Martin See! has put it succinctly, "to be an ap ology of aesthetic practice based on an understanding of its best possibilities."85 Where apologies are necessary, however, it can ob viously also be disagreed upon as to what can be considered the best possibility of aesthetic praxis. Ifl have once again fe lt the need to offer a general argument based on a theory of experience that, for the time being, has only marginally

X1 See See!, Die Kunst der Entzweiung, esp. 236-65. X4 Menke, The Sovereignty of Art, 143. X5 See!, Asthetik des Erscheinens, 69.

135 INTERMEDIALITY concerneditself with the specifics of intermedial installation art, this was above all because I needed to respond to art theoretical and philosophical preconceptions whose, as it were, a priori conceptual terms block the aesthetic potential of intermedial procedures-be it that they reject these procedures as such based on their media-aesthetic premises, be it that they impose unacceptable restrictions upon their possibilities based on a theory of progress. But to say the latter is to say that this engagement of other theories proceeded in implicit anticipation of a different interpretation of this artistic praxis and the experience of it. But before explaining this different interpretation by drawing on a number of fe atures of installation art in the next chapter (2.3), I would like to point out an important consequence of my attempt to cut the ties binding the concept of aesthetic autonomy to the ob jectivist attempts to define it according to an aesthetics of production. This consequence once more concernsthe problem of the relation between the specific and the generic we had begun with. It is obvious that a productive and critical reflection on the tradi tional aesthetic media is by no means the sole fo cus of artistic production today. The work of one artist can encompass underpants sewn together as well as fo und film posters and a serious examination of the possibilities of painting, in light of a situation in which all this is possible-such is the case, fo r example, with the contemporary artist Michael Krebber.86 This is what is at stake in the debate prompted by what de Duve calls the "historical, critical, 'theoretical' and in the end ethical" challenge of an artistic production that has become potentially "generic" after Duchamp.87And de Duve is correct also in asserting that this situation-that potentially anything can become art-is a challenge faced with particular urgency by the visual arts. For they have indeed been emancipated, at least in principle, from the traditions of painting and sculpture. 88 The aesthetic medium seems less than ever to be capable of guaranteeing a work's suc cess; and the standards for aesthetic progress have multiplied radi-

86 See Michael Krebber, Apothekermann (Cologne: Verlag der Buchhandlung Walther Konig, 2000). 87 De Duve, Kant aft er Duchamp, 206. 88 Ibid., 277-8.

136 Art and the Arts cally. But this does not primarily signal to us-or that is how I un derstand de Duve's post-Kantian problematization of the relation between the "generic" and the "specific"-an ethical problem in the sense of a general concept of art having been asserted at the cost of particularity. On the contrary, in light of very heterogeneous and, hence, specificprod uctions, this general concept is inevitably always at stake. Today's avant-garde art, Alexander Garcia Diittmann says, is avant-garde no longer "in the sense of the so-called historical avant garde, but in the sense of touching upon a limit, upon an end that is always [ ...] the end of art itself."89 Precisely because art must face the "conditions of radical, that is, of constitutive contingency" today as never before,90 the haunting question of its raison d'etre simultaneously points to its dependence on aesthetic judgment. For the aesthetic object as aesthetic object depends on judgment that confers on it the general status of"art." Inversely, however, there can be no aesthetic judgment without reference to a particularaesthetic object. The fact that in what Adorno critically called the "nominalist situation" this reference can no longer be guided by the traditional criteria would therefore amount neither to a surrender of the particular to the general nor on the other hand to the end of criticism. For if the reflection on the specific qualities of each aesthetic medium is capable neither of consti tuting clearly definedar tistic genres nor of safeguarding, by itself, the autonomy of art-and if even the criterion of progress cannot solve the problem of our critical assessments but is instead itself part of that problem-that only indicates the critical challenge posed by the attempt to judge works of art as art. For this attempt challenges us also to work on the critical categories themselves, which the endgames of art time and again unsettle and set in motion. That taking up this challenge is worthwhile also to philosophical aesthetics is something we can perhaps still learn best fr om Adorno.For Adorno always conceived the particular in contemporary art as a "force [field]," as a corrective and an inspiration to the

X

137 INTERMEDIALITY generality of aesthetic concepts.91 The incompatibility of modem art with the categories of traditional aesthetics thus compelled Adorno to rethink these categories with the aspiration to reveal their "trans fo rmed truth."92 The present book is driven by a similar motivation now with a view to the phenomenon of contemporary installation art that is increasingly incompatible with Adorno's categories. For to defend contemporary installation art as art means, as we have seen, to transfo rm the concept of art, of aesthetic autonomy, with the ambition, again, to arrive at a better and more correct understanding of these concepts. The concept of aesthetic autonomy I derive fr om the par ticular fo cus on contemporary artistic production aspires to general validity beyond the confines of contemporary installation art; if this claim to general validity remains ultimately debatable, this marks the fact that aesthetic theory, too, is fa llible. The fact that a theory is aware of and reflects on the fa llibility inevitably entailed by its fu ndamental openness to artistic developments is not a weakness but, I think, on the contrary, one of the methodological strengths of an aesthetic theory conceived as a critical project. The attempt undertaken here to critically continue the aesthetic project of modernism-even and especially in light of contemporary artistic phenomena-instead of replacing it with a general theory of culture or with aisthetics 93 sharply contrasts with those theoretical endeavors that draw on Adorno,but at the same avoid the category of aesthetic autonomy altogether merely because Adorno'smodernist conception of it is obviously no longer adequate to a large portion of the most widely discussed productions of contemporary art.94 Indeed, the art of the past thirtyto forty years has largely refusedany guidance from the categories of modernist discourse: its forms are intermedially

91 Adorno,Aesthetic Th eory, 351. 92 Ibid., 341. 93 This, however, is Eichel's recommendation in her sketch of an "interdisciplinary aesthetics," a position far removed from Adorno'sprec isely where she believes she is fo llowing him. See Vo m Erma/ten der Avantgarde zur Ve rnetzung der Kiinste, 261, 27 9. For a defense of the diffe rence between aesthetics and aisthetics, see also Martin See!, "Asthetik und Aisthetik: Ober einige Besonderheiten asthetischer Wahrnehmung - mit einem Anhang iiberden Zeitraum der Landschaft," in Ethisch-iisthetischeStudien (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1996), esp. 36-59. 94 Eichel, Vo m Ermatten der Avantgarde zur Ve rnetzung der Kiinste, 27 2.

138 Art and the Arts hybrid, are found ready-made, industrially manufactured, calculated using a random generator, or assembled out of citations fr om previous works. And after 1970, modernistdi scourse indeed fe ll into a crisis so deep that even its embittered diagnoses of decline can hardly conceal the inadequacy of its arguments to contemporary phenomena. For, as is well known, such crises imply that the time has come for a paradigm shift.95 Accordingly, the arrival of a new paradigm has more than once been proclaimed in art critical debates over aesthetic postmodernism.The question we are concernedwith, however, is how exactly the new paradigm should be spelled out, particularly con cerning its relation to the old paradigm as well as the interpretation of the phenomena both attempt to achieve. Following a respective shiftin philosophical aesthetics, I propose to replace the modernistparad igm with one based on a theory of experience, as the latter is better able to do justice to both the funda mental critical intuitions of its predecessor and to contemporary phenomena. Whereas the negative stereotype of aesthetic postmod crnism simply equates artistic opposition to modernist categories with an abstract negation of aesthetic autonomy, an engagement of the modernistdisco urse from the perspective of a theory of experience shows that art after 1970 attacks not the idea of autonomous art as such but only its objectivist misconception. I think, therefore, that the dissolution of the aesthetic categories that govern modernistdiscourse a motivated and concrete dissolution performed by intermedial and installation procedures-represents a piece of aesthetic enlightenment: progress, if you will. But this would also mean progress over the modernistparad igm of progress; over the objectivism of the notion of autonomy fo unded in a theory of progress as well as over the objectivist explanation of the historicity of art that goes along with it. If, then, we wish to speak ofp ostmodern phenomena in reference to art after 1970, the notion of postmodernism would mean an impulse I rom within the modernistpro ject to break fr ee of rigid modernist conventions, not a break with that project; an impulse toward its self transcendence, not a departure fr om it.

'15 See Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962), 76.

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Certain features of intermedial installation art seem to me particularly significant for such an impulse, as I will elaborate in the next chapter. Not only do they illustrate that intermedial procedures do not abandon the reflection on aesthetic media but in fact radicalize it by liberat ing it from genre-specific limitations. This holds true both in those cases where this reflection proceeds from the logic of the avant garde engagement of the various individual arts (cinematographic and sound installation) and in those cases where it is based on the hybrid attempt at fu sing two arts (theatrical installation). The strategies of intermedial installation art fu rther demonstrate-and this point is of particular systematic importance-that the transgression of the traditional boundaries between the genres is motivated by an implicit resistance to an objectivist concept of art and of the experience of it. Indeed, it is motivated by the ambition to break free from this concept-not only do intermedial strategies refuse guidance from the modernistdis course, by the same token, they expressly emphasize a structural aspect of aesthetic experience that is as fu ndamental to its autonomy as it is obscured or marginalized in modernist conceptions of art, namely, that of the indefiniteness of this experience. This is the case not only for intermedial installation art, but the latter makes it particularly evident. Our examination of Michael Fried's argument already showed that installation art in space, fo llowing Minimal art, undermines the objectivist ideal of the instantaneous comprehensi bility of art. The fo llowing chapter will show, complementarily, that those forms of installation art that engage in a revision or integra tion of time-based arts work specifically against the objectivist ideal of a synchronous mental reconstruction of the work. If this places the art of installation once again in opposition to central fe atures of modernistart discourse, as the second step of my engagement of Cavell's theory of theater and Adorno's philosophy of music will show, that is a sign-according to the normative consequences of the reflectionsthat I would like to open for discussion-not of an aes thetic decline but, on the contrary, of quality.

140 2 Spatial and Time-Based Art • 3 • (G. E. Lessing, Jacques Derrida)

In the broadest sense, the art of installation is obviously an art fo rm that has to do with space. Installations are spatial art in a quite literal sense: they organize the exhibition space at hand. This not only dis tinguishes them fr om two-dimensional painting-which serves as G. E. Lessing's model fo r the concept of spatial art96-but also fr om the spatial extension of sculpture. I will returnto the specificquestion of whether the art of installation can also shed light on traditional spatial arts in the next part. In the meantime, the present chapter will address the relations that installational spatial art maintains to time-based arts that it intermediallyassimila tes and works with: theater, film, video, and music. In this context, it is of course worth noting that Lessing conceived the notions of spatial art and time-based art as opposites. This is precisely why the notion of spatial art was originally conceived in reference not to the three-dimensional extension of the plastic arts but-in contradistinction to the consecutive quality of the elements of poetry-to the juxtaposition of the elements on the painting's surface: their simultaneity.According ly, Lessing also contemplated the object that gave the title to his famous treatise on the boundaries between the arts, the late Hellenistic Laocoon group, as though it were not a sculpture but a painted panel. Yet because Lessing also recognizes that there can be no simultaneity without time, his Laocoon, known for its rigid division of the arts according to their spatial or temporal dimensions, is a suitable reminder at the beginning of our examination of these questions of the particular way in which temporality is con stitutive of all spatial arts.97 For the spatial art of painting, according to Lessing, is only successful when absolute simultaneity transcends itself, in its effect, into time-when what is represented in spatial juxtaposition

141 INTERMEDIALITY appears as a development of action or plot that, as it were, is holding its breath. Lessing's theorem of the "pregnant moment," too, aims at this point. In order to narrate a story, the painter-as opposed to the poet-has only a single moment at his disposal: the moment he will record on the canvas,98 which he can therefore never choose carefully enough, as Lessing says, particularly when the painting in question is meant to "stand the test not only of a passing glance, but of long and repeated contemplation. "99 A pregnant moment is one which "allows the imagination free scope." "The longer we gaze," writes Lessing, "the more must our imagination add; and the more our imagination adds, the more we must believe we see."100 In Lessing, then-unlike in Diderot, whom Lessing translated-the pregnant moment does not function like a hieroglyph from which one can read at a single glance the past, present, and fu ture of what is represented; that is, its historical or narrative meaning.101 Rather, Lessing's pregnant moment is pregnant because it contains a repre sentational potential that can be brought to life only by the play of the imagination.102 Of course, even Lessing restricts this play of the imagination, in an aesthetics of content, to the imagination of the plot development the represented moment is meant to evoke. But as Inka Mulder-Bach has shown contra to David E. Wellbery's inter pretation of Laocoon, the point is by no means that the painting is to sublate itself in the pregnant moment "as material painting" in order to gesture toward "the area of the free scope of imagination-

98 By contrast, according to Lessing, painters who attempt to represent the course of a story in a "simultaneous narrative" by juxtaposing several of its moments on the same pictorial surface, for instance, miss the principle of painting. 99 Lessing, Laocoon, 17. 100 Ibid. 10 I Although another discussion sees parallels between Diderot and Lessing on this point: Roland Barthes, "Diderot, Brecht, Eisenstein," in TheRes ponsibilityof Forms: Critical Essays on Music, Art, and Representation, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill & Wang, 1985), 93. For Diderot's version of the "one instant" of paint ing, see the section "Section on Composition in Which I Hope I'll Talk About It," in his "Notes on Painting," esp. 220. 102 For a discussion of Lessing's pregnant moment in relation to the productive performance of the imagination as the fa culty of recollection, see also Gottfried Boehm, "Mnemosyne: Zur Kategorie des erinnemden Sehens," in Modernitiit und Tradition: Festschriftfor Max Imdahl zum 60. Geburtstag, eds. Gottfried Boehm et al. (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, I 985), 40.

142 Spatial and Time-Based Art to the area of the narrative, of poetry." 103 It is, rather, that the pow ers of imagination, aroused by the pregnant moment, are to enter into a process with the painting that cannot be brought to a halt either in what is "materially" seen or in a single comprehensive projec tion of narrative meaning.104 In this sense, however, the notion of the pregnant moment structurally exceeds any mere aesthetics of content. It aims not only at the imaginative bringing-to-life of what is represented but simultaneously also at a bringing-to-life of the representation itself. "The naive comment that when looked at in tensely a painting, the fleshof a Rubens nude comes alive," Adorno illustrates the issue in a diffe rent context, "connotes more than that one thinks the woman represented there is alive. This will hardly be the case, and certainly not where significant paintings are con cerned. What is alive is rather the paintings themselves, what is painted, not what has been painted" (RMP, 70-1 ). Against the backdrop of what we have said so far about the structure of aesthetic experience, we should add here that the life of the representation is not reducible to the imaginative bringing-to- ! i fe of what it represents. For the imaginative bringing-to-life of what is represented is only one side of that play of processes in which the imagination gets entangled in gazing at the representation. For, on the other side, the representation constitutively eludes, time and again, the totalities of meaning it provokes. This is, in fact, what sets it into aesthetic motion. Lessing himself seems to hint at this spe cifically aesthetic becoming-enigmatic of seeing-as when he writes: "The more our imagination adds, the more we must believe we see." 105 The production of meaning at, or rather in, the work of art, which is how I have so far explained the becoming-enigmatic of the aesthetic object in experience, necessarily proves, precisely where

I OJ David E. Wellbery, "Das Gesetz der Schonheit. Lessings Asthetik der Repriisen tation," in Wa s heij3t "Darstellen "?, ed. Christiaan L. Hart Nibbrig (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp 1994), 180. For a more thorough examination, see also his Lessing s Laocoon: Semiotics and Aesthetics in the Age of Reason (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 104 lnka Miilder-Bach, "Bild und Bewegung: Zur Theorie bildnerischer Illusion in Lessings Laokoon," Deutsche Vi erteljahresschrift 66 (1992): 23, 27 . 105 Lessing, Laocoon, 17; italics added.

143 INTERMEDIALITY it yields illusionistic effects of life, to be a projection, a case of "something dependent that has become independent"106-as semblance, referring the viewer back to the materiality of the work of art. But the latter is never a simple and evident given either. For this materiality now proves to be "pregnant" with representational potential of its own, inciting new fo rmations of meaning, and so on. Incidentally, the structural indefiniteness of this specificallyaesthetic process in which seeing and imagination both heighten and contest one another is not the least reason behind Lessing's stipulation that the work of art be suitable for "long and repeated contemplation."107 These reflections, however, fu rther imply that not all elements of a work can ever be equally and simultaneously present to the viewer. Even in the case of a structurally very simple painting, the notion of an absolute simultaneous givenness of its elements would be a "theological" idea, as Derrida would put it.108 Instead, the individual elements are constituted as such-that is, in their significance, only in a potentially infiniteprocess of reference, in the process of entering and passing over into ever new sets of interrelations, in a dynamic that is the work of art and whose internal structure is temporal. There are certainly limits to how much of this can be read into Lessing. But it remains interesting that already in Lessing, even the ideally "simultaneous" spatial art of painting bears an index of temporality, mediated by the productivity of the imagination, which alone can release the work of art into its processuality. If we understand this temporality in the way I propose, it should not be confused, and this is particularly important with respect to the three-dimensional spatial arts, 109 with the time required to view the work of art as a whole-if we think of the fact that this takes walking around a sculpture or through an installation. Neither, however, should it be identified with the historical or narrative meaning of what is represented. For the temporality that is in question here is related to the processual

106 Bubner, A.sthetische Erfahrung, 39. I 07 Lessing, Laocoon, 17. 108 Jacques Derrida, "Force and Signification" in Wr iting and Difference, trans. Alan Bass (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), 10-- 11. 109 On this, see 1.2.1.

144 Spatial and Time-Based Art

t:x istence of the work of art itself, to the constitutive role of the fun damentally indefinitepr ocesses of aesthetic experience. But if this is the case for all art, the question of what the discovery or this specifically aesthetic temporality means with respect to the I ime-based arts arises. For this temporality, being potentially infinite, obviously does not coincide with the limited time in which a piece or music, a film,or a play takes place. Something similar seems to pertain in the case of literature, of which the time of the experience is obviously irreducible to the time of an act, conceived as linear, of rt:ading. The point of departure fo r the fo llowing considerations is lhe diagnostic hypothesis that this very incongruity has itself become an important object of artistic production since the sixties. The ten dt:ncytoward the so-called spatialization of time-based arts, that is, I heir intermedial approximation to the principles of the spatial arts, is not the least testimony to this work with and on the tension between I he temporality in which the time-based arts unfold and the internal It:mporality of the experience of such work. The work on these ten sions-between the passing oftime and the time of experience-not only motivates intermedial productions between literature, film, 1 heater, and music on the one hand and visual artson the other. As I w iII show, the procedures under consideration here are moreover marked by an implicit resistance to an objectivist concept of art and Iht:ex perience of art. For the various strategies artists employ to distance their work from the traditional work of the time-based arts manifestly labor against the objectivist ideal that models this experi l"nt:eas a synchronous mental reconstruction of the work-and thus labor, once again, against a centralmotif of modernistdiscourse. Indeed, '•pposition to the metaphysical vestiges of this discourse, I would 111aintain, is one of the central motivations driving the spatialization or I he time-based arts-and, to the extent that the latter culminates 111 installation art, this opposition is also the backdrop against which 1 he genuinely aesthetic intervention of installation art becomes visible. In order to arrive at a better understanding of this intervention, and because installation art in its various subgenres engages literature as well as film,theater, and music, it would seem advisable that we lirst take stock of how, and to which degree, the so-called time-based

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arts themselves have moved toward the principles of spatial art. To this end, we need a more precise understanding of the tension-which is fundamental to works of art organized by time-between the tem porality ofthe work on the one hand, and that of its experience on the other. I will begin by turning to theater.

2 The Temporal Space of Landscape Theater • 3 .1. (Gertrude Stein)

In a short text that has exercised extraordinary influence in the world of avant-garde theater, Gertrude Stein accounts for why traditional theater makes her "nervous," particularly with regard to its temporality: Your sensation as one in the audience in relation to the play played before you your sensation I say your emotion concerning that play is always either behind or ahead of the play at which you are looking and to which you are listening. So your emotion as a member of the audience is never going on the same time as the action of the play. [ ...] This that the thing seen and the thing fe lt about the thing seen not going on at the same tempo is what makes the being at the theatre something that makes anybody nervous. [ ...] And nervousness is the certain proof that the emotion of the one seeing and the emotion of the thing seen do not progress together.U0 What that makes her nervous already begins, according to Stein, with the fact that a curtain separates the events on stage fr om the audience, and people sitting in front of you might block the view even further. All of this insistently reminds you, of course, that you are part of the audience and not part of the events on stage. The curtain and the other people in the audience are manifest signs of the ontological and therefore irresolvable separation between the events on stage and the space of the audience, which Stanley Cavell also took as the point of departure for his critique of theatricality in the theater. Yet

110 Gertrude Stein, "Plays," in Last Op eras and Plays (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), xxix-xxx. Abbreviated in the fo llowing as P.

146 Spatial and Time-Based Art while Cavell, as we have seen, attempted to resolve or cathartically rL:shufftethe problem with this structure via a theory of empathetic witnessing that stipulates that the spectator makes the time of the dramatic events his own, 111 it is precisely this operation that Stein finds impossible, for the time of the events on stage can never be completely synchronous- they can never be brought into complete accordance with the internal time of aesthetic experience.m But because lhc empathic convergence of the "emotional" time of the audience with the time of the events on stage is indeed the implicit aspiration of' traditional dramatic theater-in this, Cavell is a theorist fa ithful to I he theater of drama-the audience, Stein claims, will inevitably hL:comener vous. For an audience that aims at even only an approxi mate fulfillment of this idealistic aspiration must reckon with certain hurdles that structurally definethe theatrical experience. There is, first,the doubling-marginalized by Cavell's theory of I he theater, which privileges the model of drama-of all theatrical signs into what is representing and what is represented. Accordingly, lhc initial source of Stein's nervousness is the fact that the spectator 111 the theater, unlike the lone reader of Shakespeare's dramas, fo r l'X:tmple, is compelled to make the "acquaintance" not only of the l·haracters but simultaneously always also of those who represent I hem. "When one reads a play," Stein writes, and very often one does read a play, anyway one did read Shake speare's play a great deal at least I did, it was always necessary to keep one's fingerin the list of characters for at least the whole first act, and in a way it is necessary to do the same when the play is played. One has one's programme for that and beside one has to become or had become acquainted with the actors as an actor and one has one's programme too for that. And so the intro duction to the characters on the stage has a great many diffe rent sides to it. And this has again a great deal to do with the nervous ness of the theatre excitement. (P, xxxviii-ix)

I I I See 1.1. II.' This is why Stein's nervousness cannot simply be translated as "dramatic tension," as Hans-Thies Lehmann proposes. See his Postdramatic Theatre, trans. Karen .liirs-Munby (London: Routledge, 2006), 104.

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We might object that even the lone reader of Shakespeare's dramas has to make a double acquaintance: on the one hand with the drama's text and on the other with the dramatis personae represented in it. But the general double structure of aesthetic signs, which is what is at issue here, moves to the fore in a particularly glaring way in the theater. The double acquaintance ofthe figures on the stage, of the characters and the actors, and with it the doubling of all theatrical signs into what is representing and what is represented-produces a tension within the theatrical signs that is obviously incapable of resolution in favor of what is represented; the nervousness that results from this tension cannot be put to rest. Not even if the actor attempts to lose himself completely in his role. This tension is constitutive of both the structure of theater and its experience. A second cause of Stein's nervousness when attending the theater is that the spectator has to deal at each moment of the performance with the simultaneity of various visual and auditory theatrical signs, whose perception, as it were, stands in the way of any one-dimen sional linear attention to the plot: I became fa irly consciously troubled by the things over which one stumbles over which one stumbled to such an extent that the time of one's emotion in relation to the scene was always interrupted. The things over which one stumbled and there it was a matter both of seeing and hearing were clothes, voices, what they the actors said, how they were dressed and how that related itself to their moving around. Then the bother of never being able to begin over again because before it had commenced it was over, and at no time had you been ready, either to commence or to be over. (P, xli) The simultaneity of the various signs of theater, according to Stein, stands in a tense relation to the course of events on stage because the audience is constantly tempted to relate the different signs of theater to one another, to do justice to their simultaneity. In other words, the simultaneity of the various theatrical signs implies a mode of perception aiming at the theatrical tableau. With its various possible spatial constellations of interrelated individual elements, the tableau stands out fr om the course of the dramatic action, or, more generally, from the course of the theatrical performance, without,

148 Spatial and Time-Based Art however, being capable of being grasped or recollected as such. The tension between the theatrical signs unfolding in juxtaposition with each other in space (the space of the performance) at every individual moment and the stage events taking place one afterthe other in the course of time cannot be sublated. The resulting nervousness cannot be put to rest, not even when the theatrical signs are put to the service of the dramatic action and hierarchically subordinated to language. This tension, too, is constitutive of the structure of the theater and of the experience of the theater. In Stein's experience, then-and we can generalize here-the theater of drama is "emotionally" overburdening in a double sense: first, due to the tension between what is representing and what is represented (a tension that is fu ndamental to all theatrical signs) and second, due to the tension between the spatial simultaneity of the various theatrical signs and the temporal course of the events on stage. But both structural elements of the theater overburden the spectator only when he attempts to obey the demands of traditional dramatic theater, that is to say, when he attempts to focus on the action repre sented to such a degree that the time of the staging converges with the internal temporality of the experience ofthat staging. Now, we can argue against this notion of an overburdening that it is based on a mis apprehension of the theater as an aesthetic phenomenon. For to attempt to do justice to the dramatic action's demand for presentness means, as we objected to Cavell's claim, to efface an essential aspect of what makes the theater an aesthetic phenomenon: the double structure of aesthetic signs and-as we can now add-its fundamentally open referential context. If the engagement with Cavell and Fried showed, moreover, that the ethical necessity to overcome these structural mo ments is based on false premises, then there is no good reason why the theater should not in fact highlight them-instead of marginalizing them, as traditional dramatic theater does. This is precisely the issue that Stein's aesthetics of the theater brings into play. While Cavell proposes an ideal spectator who is in "emotional" synchrony with the action represented on stage in order to transform the aesthetic phe nomenon of the theater into an ethical one, Stein's discovery of her nervousness in the face of this overstraining demand leads her to a

149 INTERMEDIALITY different, "post-dramatic" theater. Nervousness in the theater is not inevitable, says Stein. You only have to stop trying to narrate a dramatic plot, or indeed any story at all. "Everybody knows so many stories," Stein notes laconically, "and what is the use of telling another story" (P, xliv). Instead of telling yet another story, plays, according to Stein's famous counter proposal, ought to be more like landscapes: I fe lt that if a play was exactly like a landscape then there would be no difficulty about the emotion of the person looking on at the play being behind or ahead of the play because the landscape does not have to make acquaintance. You may have to make acquain tance with it, but it does not with you, it is there and so the play being written the relation between you at any time is so exactly that that it is of no importance unless you look at it. [ ...] The landscape has it fo rmation and as after all a play has to have formation and be in relation one thing to the other thing and as the story is not the thing as any one is always telling some thing then the landscape not moving but being always in relation, the trees to the hills the hills to the fieldsthe trees to each other any piece of it to any sky and then any detail to any other detail, the story is only of importance if you like to tell or hear a story but the relation is there anyway. And of that relation I wanted to make a play and I did, a great number of plays. (P, xlvi-xlviii) Primary among the relations Stein speaks of, however, is that of the individual elements of the theater text to one another-for Stein here refers to how she thinks the plays should be constructed. "Stein's written text," Hans-Thies Lehmann writes, "in a way already is a landscape. To a previously unheard of extent it emancipates the clause from the sentence, the word from the clause, the phonetic fr om the semantic, and the sound from thecohesion ofmeaning."113 By becoming autonomous, divorced fr om dramatic or narrative function,the individual elements of the texts enter into a spatial rather than a tem poral interrelation. The organization of the text invites a reading that sets into motion a discontinuous play of crisscrossing fo rmations

113 Ibid., 63.

150 Spatial and Time-Based Art of interrelation between its various elements. Still, even when typographical stylization, as in Mallarme's Un coup de des, highlights the spatial arrangement of a text on paper, the text-by stipulating the act of reading-refers toward its translation back into time. "Writing is timeless as an image of the temporal," says Adorno (RMP, 70). This, by the way, is one of the senses in which the term "writing" (and, complementarily, "reading") has come to be used widely in the discourse of visual art. It refers to the temporality of all spatial art, which is immanent to its dependence on interpretive processes. It comes as no surprise that this relation has not remained unexamined in the visual arts. Lawrence Weiner's wall texts, for instance, can be understood as a quite literal reflection on the spatial quality of literature, but also as an implicit reflection on the latent temporality of all spatial art. Not unlike visual art, Stein's textual landscape, and this would seem to be the decisive point, is temporal only in the sense of the processuality of the aesthetic experience itself that sets this landscape in motion-and no longer in the sense of a temporal course of action represented in the text. So there is no more reason to be nervous, right? Now, the point of departure of Stein's reflectionswas not the situation of the solitary reader. For the latter always has the option of a discontinuous reading at his disposal, even if his text is a tradi tional drama. He has no difficulty relating the representation (the text, or rather its elements) back to what is represented (the plot) by going back and rereading such that no tension need arise with the anti-te leological internal time of his "emotions" (his interpretive process). In this sense, literature is never entirely reducible to the temporal sequence of its elements-it always also has a spatial quality in the sense that its elements also stand literally next to one another and can, at least in principle, be placed in arbitrary interrelation. Yet un like traditional narrative literature, theater has to do not only with the representation of time 114 but always also with its organization. In

114 On this problem see Mikhail M. Bakhtin, "Forms of Time and of the Chronotope in the Novel: Notes toward a Historical Poetics," in The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University ofTexas Press, 1981).

151 INTERMEDIALITY this sense, theater, like film and music, is a time-based art in the literal sense. It is thus not the reader who has to battle with Steinian nervous ness but the theater audience. For unlike the reader, the audience in the theater is confronted with the real time of the dramatic event on stage. The latter, however, cannot be made to converge with the time of the spectator's experience, Stein explains, because the theatrical means of representation are obviously irreducible to their dramatic function. This is as true of the perception of the actors behind, next to, or in front of the characters they embody as it is of the percep tion of the various theatrical signs that appear in spatial interrelation with each other at every moment of the performance-a perception that exceeds the course of the action, anticipating it, lagging behind it, or more generally distracting fr om it. What is the significance of the transfer of Stein's poetics to the theater in light ofthis situation? "Just as in [Stein's] texts the representation of reality recedes in favour of the play of words," Lehmann writes, "in a 'Stein theatre' there will be no drama, not even a story; it will not be possible to distin guish protagonists and even roles and identifiablecharacters will be missing."m Moreover, Stein's aesthetic aims at a dehierarchization of the means of theatrical representation. Language as a theatrical means becomes the equal of the other theatrical signs such that the audience can produce interrelations between language, set, and the costumes and movements of the actors without their mutual crisscrossing con tradicting the aspirations of the text, which can in this sense indeed be called post-dramatic. So there is no more reason to be nervous in the theater either, right? An initial answer might be "yes, there still is." For to the extent that landscape theater also remains theater and must be performed in time, its structural problems persist. On the one hand, the actors on stage still represent something even if they no longer have to em body identifiablero les. For theatrical signs are never a pure, "literal" material but always already elements of a representational relation. Their relation to what they represent, their relation to their potential

I 15 Lehmann, Postdramatic Th eatre, 63.

152 Spatial and Time-Based Art meaning, remains essential to them, even if they have no single determinable meaning (such as that of the dramatic plot). Still, land scape theater would seem to allay Stein's nervousness regarding the doubling of all theatrical signs into what is representing and what is represented-not, however, because landscape theater would negate the representational function of theatrical signs; but, on the contrary, because, liberated from their dramatic fu nction, these signs can emerge in their multiplicity and pluridimensionality and be related to one another in aesthetic processes of understanding. On the other hand, however, the events on stage still take place in time. While Steinian theatrical action is not teleologically oriented toward the development of a plot, its elements-unlike the elements or a text or a painting-are still subject to change in time, however subtle it may be. This also implies that earlier theatrical images are no more retrievable in landscape theater than they were in dramatic theater. For this reason, too, landscape theater will not entirely do away with Steinian nervousness. Now, "time, by its very nature, cannot he fo rced into identity with space; [ ...] anything organized via tem poral organization is not simultaneous, but successive [ ...] cannot he expressed otherwise than tautologically," as Adornoalready noted rl'garding the tendency toward spatialization in music (RMP,69). Nor does Stein deny this condition; in fact, she reflects on it in the vl'ry term "landscape." For landscapes, as Martin See! has pointed out, are not static. There is always movement in them: "at least [that] or the light, usually also of the air and plants, of animals and people as well as of the implements the latter operate. To perceive them 1s not only to experience the existence and transformation of many thin gs in the space, it is to experience a space that is 'taking ' " 116 place. By transferring the principle of the landscape to theater, Skin thus by no means neglects the dimension of time. Unlike in dramatic theater, however, here, the fo cus is no longer o11 the represented time of a dramatic plot-"Stein theatre" instead rl'llects time in the dimension of representation. Through subtle vari ations and repetitive loops, Stein's plays, "similar to the later

I ll• S.:cl, "Asthetik und Aisthetik," 61--62.

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'minimal music,"'117 seem to make no progress and yet undergo subtle change. "Anyway the play as I see it is exciting," Stein writes, "and it moves but it also stays and that is as I said in the beginning might be what a play should do" (P, Iii). The constellation of theatrical elements thus becomes potentially meaningful, not only in relation to earlier and later constellations, but also in terms of the timing of alterations to and repetitions of it. Of course, this is structurally already the case in dramatic theater. But the temporal organization of theat rical elements comes to the fo re precisely as these elements are liber ated from their fu nction of representing time (for instance, the time ofthe dramatic action). Iflandscape theater thus reduces the Steinian nervousness in this respect as well, it is not because the time of rep resentation, of the performance, is now finallyand fe licitously made to coincide with that of aesthetic experience, but rather because the time of theatrical representation comes to the fo re in the dimension of representation and can be reflected as such in the potentially infinite and structurally anti-teleological temporality of aesthetic experience. Stein's landscape theater is thus altogether an exemplary instance of a theatrical aesthetic that has left behind the dominance of drama and with it also the objectivist ideal of an aesthetics of presentness, according to which the time of the performance should not only, by virtue of the viewer's empathetic concentration on the represented time of the dramatic action, be sublated in the latter, but also thereby be synchronized with the time of the viewer's experience. Unlike installations that integrate time-based arts like cinemato graphic or sound installations (see 2.3.3 and 2.3.4), the problematic of the space-time relation initially appears to be reversed in stage setting-like theatrical installations: if some developments in theater evince what can be called a tendency toward spatialization, then some theatrical installations conversely appear to tend toward temporaliza tion. And it is in this context that the simple observation that the viewer of an installation needs time to walk through the installation gains special significance. I have pointed out several times that it would be a misconception to confusethis time with the anti-teleological and

117 Lehmann, Postdramatic Th eatre, 63.

154 Spatial and Time-Based Art fu ndamentally indefinite time of aesthetic experience--onlythe latter is capable, as I have sketched above, of setting the elements of spatial art, static in themselves, in motion, of bringing them to life, and thus providing them with an index of temporality. If, however, we do not confuse the fu ndamentally indefinite time of the aesthetic experience with the finitetime required to walk through an installation, then attention to the latter can lead us to an important aspect of a particular variety of installation art. This is demonstrated by comparison with the structural problems of the theater I have just discussed with reference to the "Stein theater": if Stein's landscape theater can exemplifythe attempt to reduce the tension between the time of the staging and the time of aesthetic experience reflectively, that is, by fundamentally acknowledging it, then we might conversely say that certain installations, whether in tentionally or not, reflectivelybuild up a tension between the time of walking through them and the time of aesthetic experience.U8 And they do so by power of what we might call their spatial dramaturgy. It is no coincidence that this phenomenon is in particular evidence in the works of an artist who draws much inspiration fr om dramatic theater: the installations of Ilya Kabakov. Kabakov, moreover, lends himself to comparison in our context because he-like Stein-has published theoretical reflections on his aesthetic program.U9

2 The Spatial Time of Theatrical Installation • 3 • 2. (Ilya Kabakov)

In Kabakov's installations-or at least in those that do not integrate music or recorded voices but confront the viewer solely with a spatial arrangement of static elements-the previously discussed

I I X The same can be said fo r the various "maximalist" theater strategies, which try to overwhelm the audience. What the minimalist and the maximalist theater strategies have in common, however, is their sensitivity to these relations of tension, which they explicitly or implicitly make the point of departure of their productions. 119 See Ilya Kabakov, Ober die "totale " Insta/lation-0 totalnoi installatsii-On the "Total" Installation, trans. Cindy Martin (Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz, 1995). Abbreviated in the fo llowing as TI.

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tension initially appears to have been cancelled. For the elements of the installation ostensibly do not change over time; there is thus also no development that might produce a relation of tension with the internal temporality of the aesthetic experience. In fact, Kabakov's installations are reminiscent of a theatrical stage "when the viewer goes up onto it during the intermission" (TJ, 246). They recall aban doned stages in two ways. First, in the sense of an abandoned stage: they are clearly identifiablewithin the museum context as set-like staged spaces. Their "falsity," their artificiality, and this is significant for Kabakov, "should not be surmounted" (TI, 246). Second, in the sense of an abandoned stage: Kabakov's arrangements play with the illusion that the space the viewer has entered is a scene that has only just been abandoned-perhaps only temporarily-by its agents. The viewer, Kabakov posits, should have the fe eling "that the place where he finds himself has been inhabited for a long time already, that people lived and live in it, furthermore, that they have just left and will return any minute now" (TI, 276-7). The fact, however, that the viewer of the installation enters the abandoned scene constitutes an important difference from the theatrical stage. Whereas the view . er of a Kabakov installation moves in the abandoned scene, the spectator in the theater-even during intermission-in most cases, at least in traditional theater, looks at it. In this sense, Kabakov's installations might converge with Stein's theater at least with regard to the metaphor of the landscape. 120 Like it, they accentuate an aspect of the experience of a landscape. While Stein's landscape theater accentuates the landscape as a "space that is taking place," a space which the spectator looks at, Kabakov's installation theater landscapes accentuate a different aspect of the experience of a landscape: the viewer of the installation, like the viewer of a land scape, finds himself within it; he moves amid its objects.121 The concept that the viewer ought to be completely incorporated into the artificialworld of the installation rather than look at it fr om

120 It seems almost unnecessary to say, but nevertheless: both fo rms relate only metaphorically to landscapes since neither theater nor installation, being limited in space, are actual landscapes. For landscapes, whether natural or urban, are essentially characterized by breadth and openness. 121 Seel, "Asthetik und Aisthetik," 61.

156 Spatial and Time-Based Art outside-as, for instance, at a stage-is indeed central to the definition of what Kabakov calls "total" installations. Nothing within the "total" installation should remind one of the museum or gallery space in which it has been installed. The space of the installation itself-with its walls, ceiling, floor-is no less subject to artistic manipulation than the arrangement of things within it.122 "In its most general form," Kabakov writes, "the definitionof the 'total' installation looks like this: entirely transformed space" (TI, 256). The "total" installation is comparable to a stage set whose fo urth wall closes behind the viewer a "total" closure that may well fe el quite oppressive. It is accessible only from within; it cannot be viewed fr om some neutral position outside of it.123 The viewer can only gain access to it by moving within it. "Unlike the theater, the viewer behaves in an entirely diffe rent way in the total installation," writes Kabakov, "he does not sit still, but

122 This, by the way, also distinguishes Kabakov's "total" installations from those installations that do not modify the surrounding (museum or gallery) space: for example, small installations "which include combinations of a few objects (for example, the 'shelves' of Steinbach)" or objects "which lean against the wall, taking up the entire wall or part of the floor(as we see in M. Merz)." But the "total" installation differs in this respect also fr om those installations "which fill up virtually the entire space of the dwelling allotted to them (A. McCollum)" (TI, 243). A conception similar to Kabakov's "total" installation has been pursued by the artist Edward Kienholz (see his The Eleventh Hour Final, 1968) and, more recently, Gregor Schneider (Totes Haus u r, 2001). 123 The "total" installation has no outside subject to artistic design as such. In this sense, the museum is not really the outside of the installation, whose outer walls remain in most cases concealed by the architecture of the museum. Accordingly, Kabakov describes what he calls "dual" installations, whose outside view is subject to artistic design--designwhich, moreover, contrasts with that of their interior "life"-as special cases of his idea of the "total" installation simply because "total" installations usually cannot be viewed fr om outside. An example of a "dual" installation would be his installation The To ilet, created for documenta IX ( 1992) and installed in the courtyard of the Fridericianum in Kassel, which was meant to be identifiedas a public restroom from the outside, but whose inside surprisingly and oppressively proved to be a mise-en-scene of a private home, "abandoned for the moment." Also treated by Kabakov as an exception to the rule of the "total" installation, whose insular world normally does not even integrate a window with a view to the outside, are "open" installations that open up to the area immediately around them. One example of this fo rm would be the installation The Red Pavilion, which Kabakov produced for the 1993 Ve nice Biennale. See the discussion of the "dual" and "open" installations as modifiedcases of the "total" installation, in TI, 327-37. For a more precise description and discussion of The To ilet and of The Red Pavilion along other lines, see also the conversations between Boris Groys and Ilya Kabakov in Ilya Kabakov and Boris Groys, Die Kunst der Installation, trans. Gabriele Leupold (Munich: Hanser Verlag, 1996), esp. 100-37.

157 INTERMEDIALITY moves about fr eely around inside of it, findsnewer and newer points of examination, viewing either details, or the whole thing, being governed, so it seems, only by his own whim and choice" (TI, 275). Kabakov's installations, something I will come back to in a moment, always permit only a relative view of the whole. Yet something else, it seems, is important to Kabakov at this point: the fact that it only seems as though the viewer of the "total" installation is governed "only by his own whim and choice." For the installation is in fa ct meant to govern the viewer as much as possible. This would also be one reason why Kabakov, not without some irony, speaks of a "total" installation. (This is at least how I read the quotation marks in the title of his programmatic essay, "On the 'Total' Installation.") In the "total" installation, Kabakov writes, "the viewer, who has so far fe lt rather fr ee, like he does when viewing paintings or sculpture, finds himself controlled by the installation when he is near one, in a certain sense, he is its 'victim."' But Kabakov qualifies this assertion: "he is simultaneously both a 'victim' and a viewer, who on the one hand surveys and evaluates the installation, and on the other, fo llows those associations, recollections which arise in him, he is overcome by the intense atmosphere of the total installation" (TI, 245). That, we should hasten to object, is of course structurally the case fo r all art. The viewer of painting and sculpture, too, is, if you will, fr ee and not free,viewer-agent and victim alike: his production of meaning in relation to the work of art is likewise always a response to the latter that he cannot completely control. And any judgment about art is at least partially determined by the experience one makes with it. But what Kabakov seems to aim at beyond such generalities is the idea of dictating the viewer's movements and perspectives as much as possible through the design of the installation itself. Wemig ht object, again, that every installation "directs" its viewer in a certain sense: materials or objects obstruct his passage in more or less calculated fashion; the space of the installation is confinedby the architecture, structured by partitions or objects, or open to the surroundings in selected places. Still, the design of an installation can either dramatize or downplay the way the installation directs the viewer. Kabakov makes maximum use of the possibility of such dramati-

158 Spatial and Time-Based Art zation, particularly in his multi-room installations. For, in contrast with installations in which the viewer is confronted by an arrangement of materials seemingly scattered in a single space, however configured, Kabakov's multi-room installations are in part about explicitly in corporating the viewer's trajectoryinto the artistic calculation. This, of course, does not mean that he assumes that he can completely con trol the viewer: "There is no such thing as an abstract viewer, nor will we findtwo viewers who behave exactly the same way inside the in stallation" (TJ, 311). And even the viewer's trajectory cannotreally be predetermined. "Everythingappears not at all this schematic" (TJ, 87). Still, the architectonic layout of the installation at least enables Kabakov to literally prescribe the direction of the viewer's movement. Kabakov's installations oftenhave only one possible entrance, and after the viewer has entered, he must fo llow the unknown architec ture fr om situation to situation through corridors and/or rooms set up in sequence for quite some time until he is finallyled to the exit. Interestingly, the artistic reflection on the viewer's movement through the installation here also explicitly becomes the point of depar ture for a construction and design that simultaneously reflects on the temporalquality of this movement. Kabakov accordingly stresses that "total" installation comes close to theater not only with respect to the ater's representational character, but also with regard to its character as a time-based art (TJ, 311). For although, of course, the installation itself does not move or change, there is a subject of movement in the instal lation: the viewer, a subject whose movement is, according to Kabakov, "lwhat] creates that temporal-spatial aspect of the total installation's existence which [ ...] we will call its drama" (TJ, 311) . Especially the "passage from one space of the installation to another," he writes, creates that special dramatic effect which allows a series of similar transitions to be played out as a type of unique play, where the viewer and his impression wind up being entirely diffe rent at the end of the installation than they were in the beginning. A com parison with a well structured dramatic play here is very appro priate, although what changes in a play occurs along a temporal scale, and in the installation it occurs with the movement fr om one space into another. (TJ, 247)

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What would indeed seem to approximate the spatial logic of the installation to the temporal logic of the theater is the fact that the view er must pass through the individual spatial situations consecutively. The individual elements of the installation acquire their meaning by virtue of their arrangement in the space, but now no longer in the general sense according to which it always matters where an element is located in the totality of a work of (installation) art, but also in the sense that it makes a difference where it is located along the viewer's trajectory-in other words, when it appears to the viewer in relation to what he has seen before and will subsequently see. A spatiotemporal before-and-after effect is generated in the mul tiple-room installation particularly because such an installation never appears before the viewer's eyes in its totality. Of course, we have to walk around a sculpture to see all of it; and in a one-room installation we have to tum around and move in it to gain access to its totality from various perspectives. Still, the elements of these works of art are, in the situation in which one finds oneself with them, immediately accessible. The multiple-room installation is quite different: the fo rmation of interrelations the viewer performs on the work will here necessarily always refer also to elements that the viewer either has already seen or is yet to see. But, however, they are, like theatrical tableaux in a theatrical performance located in the temporal past or fu ture, literally not immediately accessible unless the viewer goes backward or fo rward, or passes through the installation a second time, which, however, does not solve (but only raises once again) the problem that his gaze captures the installation never in its entirety but always only parts of it in sequence. In analogy to the tension that arises in the theater between theatrical signs un fo lding in spatial juxtaposition on stage and theatrical events that occur in temporal sequence, Kabakov's multiple-room installations engen der a tension between the spatial juxtaposition of the elements of the installation on the one hand and the succession of the encounter with these elements directed by the spectator's own movement on the other. Even the most carefuland time-consuming inspection will not resolve this tension but in fact probably even heighten it. Kabakov himself, however, seems to be virtually unaware of this

160 Spatial and Time-Based Art tension. Instead, he aims to tell a story by way of spatial dramaturgy. A prerequisite for such storytelling is that the viewer, "having entered the installation," ought to "immediately understand its plot, what is going on here, what it is about" (TI, 316). That the subject of the installation is easily determined-for example, a library, a school, a living room, an orphanage-should then also explain all the other details and arrange them to form a narrative. "We have already said," Kabakov writes, that the immobility of objects [in the installation, as opposed to the theater] is compensated for by the movement of the viewer be tween them, hence we can say that they, the objects, according to this movement, "arise" before the viewer, beginning suddenly to "resound," rather distinctly and loudly to declaim, to "pronounce" their monologue. I have not misspoken. Where there is a plot, a story already exists, a hidden narrative. Objects in the installation, connected internallyby the plot, already exist in it in such a way, that it's as though there is a "text" behind them that explains and provides for their presence. Often it's as though this text floats to the surface, like salt from an oversaturated solution, and is present in the "total" installation in the most varied appearances: separate pages--explanations; pages-commentaries written on small plaques, textual objects in the fo rm of a screen; handwritten and typed books; merely inscriptions. (T/, 293) Now, the function of text in Kabakov is by no means always compa rable to that of a playbill, providing the spectator with the plot that, as it were, may have occurred or may still occur on the "abandoned stage" of the installation. Yet even in such a case, text will never be able to completely "explain and guarantee" the role of the objects in the installation.124 And this is the result of general reasons concern-

124 The problematic notion that the works can be translated into a certain text-one that moreover corresponds to what the artist himself intended-is also suggested by Kabakov in a collection of materials bearing a title that is, in this respect, rather programmatic: The Te xt as the Basis of VisualExp ression. The same text, he writes, "which was clearly fo rmulated in the very 'beginning' [of artistic production], can clearly be 'seen-read' in the finished work." Ilya Kabakov, Der Te xt als Grundlage des VisuellenI The Te xt as the Basis of Visual Expression, ed. Zdenek Felix, trans. Cynthia Martin (Cologne: Oktagon, 2000), 237. This volume also includes a collection of texts from Kabakov's oeuvre as well as a detailed description of how they were employed in the installations.

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ing the relation between text and text, between the "text" of possible interpretations and the text as a component of the installation. The "text" that may be suggested by, among other things, the subject of a given installation, that is, the text that exists only in the subjunctive status of an "as if'-it is, Kabakov himself has said, as ifa text stood behind the elements of the installation "explain[ing] and guarantee[ing] their presence"-this "text," which exists solely in the interpretive performances of the subjects of aesthetic experience, is structurally incapable of being fixed. It is fo rever being written and rewritten, to extend the textual metaphor, in the processes of aesthetic experience. For the discourse of interpretation finds no objective footing in the objects of the installation. It slips off the installation's figurative economy in sometimes embarrassing ways as much as it is incited to new eloquence by this economy. The "text" (in quotation marks) of this "delirious"125 discourse-delirious because it is structurally overflowing- is therefore also never identical to the actual text (without quotation marks) that may be in cluded in the installation. Such accompanying text may circumscribe a horizon of possible meaning around the installation-and it would seem to be in this sense that Kabakov speaks of, for example, under standing text as "one of the many colors in the overall picture of the total installation" (TI, 319). Yet it cannot prescribe the roles that the elements of the installation will play in the processes of aesthetic ex perience. By contrast, that the text in the installation may "[float] to the surface, like salt fr om an oversaturated solution," quite precisely indicates (if we understand this image not as tautologically as it seems to be suggested by Kabakov in this passage126) the "supple mentary" status, as Derrida would call it, of such an accompanying text.127 Text as part of the work-like a color in the total image of

125 See Sarah Kofman, "The Melancholy of Art," in Selected Wr itings, trans. Jennifer Bajorek (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2007), 215. 126 As cited on the previous page, Kabakov writes: "Objects in the installation, connected internally by the plot, already exist in it in such a way, that it's as though there is a "text" behind them which explains and provides for their presence. Often it's as though this text floats to the surface, like salt fr om an oversaturated solution" (TJ, 293; italics added). 127 See Derrida, "Parergon."

162 Spatial and Time- Based Art the installation-may in fact overflow the entirety of the installation and engender an effectof meaning in relation to the whole installa tion. Yet at the very moment when it plays a role that is essential or constitutive of meaning, the text as a supplement immediately un dermines this role, presenting itself as a mere addition, a minor element in the installation. This might in tum have the effectof highlighting not so much the text's narrative content but its spatial arrangement, a fe ature that is never absent. Text can never have the function of completely explaining the presence of the various elements in the installation; it instead becomes one element of the installation among many, and as such it enters into the aesthetic play.128 In a similar fashion, however, the other elements of the installation likewise lead a representational life of their own that is irreducible to the representation of narration, or more generally to the setting of a particular scene. Fried, as we recall, had described this uncanny life of aesthetic objects as "theatrical" precisely not because they are limited to the function of symbolizing a narrative or dramatic meaning, hut rather because they persistently resist any such symbolization, being doubly legible as things and as signs. Neither does the aesthetic obj ect immediately merge into meaning nor can it be reduced to its own literalness, its thing-like quality, or its objecthood. This is what displaces Kabakov's scenes-at firstglance so ordinary-from the realm of reality, the sphere of first-orderob jecthood. In their aesthetic dual presence as things and signs, the deceptively ordinary objects of Kabakovian scenes disfigure what would otherwise be simply de terminable or identifiable: for example, a library, a school, a living room, an orphanage. As objects of art they are, as Sarah Kofman has pointed out, peculiarly undead, disturbing doubles, doppelgangers or ghosts of objects in the real world.129 This is the structural cause

12� This is, in a particular way, even the case when the text takes up a central position within the installation; for example, in Kabakov's installation TheCorridor (My Mo ther s Album) (1988), in which the viewer is led through a long labyrinthine, dimly lit, shabby corridor, in part by going from text to text, chronologically reading the life of a mother. The monotonous hanging of the highly similar collages in which the textual sections are integrated aside, the only thing to be seen here are inconspic uous details in the design of the corridoritself . Kabakov 's The Te xt as the Basis of Vis ual Expression (369-72) gives a comprehensive description of the installation. 1211 Kolman,"The Melancholy of Art," 207-10.

163 INTERMEDIALITY for the anxiety that Kabakov's oddly morbid theatrical realism some times triggers: the confrontation with Kabakov's "mute scenes" causes anxiety not because, in their ordinariness, they gesture toward an absence of potentially present persons and their actions but because this ordinariness itself always "reveals itself," in viewing these scenes, to be "something not of this world, as belonging to an inac cessible elsewhere."130 This is also the direction in which we can read Kabakov's almost Heideggerian claim that the meanings and roles of the objects in the installation, their "name," as he says, "is extraordinarily concentrated, is exacerbated. In a table on display, its 'tableness' is magnified, in a closet, its 'closetness" ' (TJ, 292). If we read this passage in the sense not of a hermeneutic magnification (for example, of the table toward its tableness), but of a magnifica tion by virtue of which the table becomes dissimilar to itself-larger than life, so to speak-then this genuinely aesthetic disfiguration effectapp lies not only to the individual objects in the installation but also to their grouping in a scene: "At the same time, along with the magnificationof the meaning of each object individually," writes Kabakov, "it's as though an emptiness fo rms allaround it, objects exist individually, not 'adhering' to one another like 'in real life.' That's why in the conditions of the total installation the 'interval' between objects, the tense emptiness between them becomes so important" (TJ, 292). The objects of the installation, then, do not develop certain dramatic qualities because they become part of a dramaturgy of scenes and as such thus refer representationally to a plot, as Kabakov suggests with his idea of a narrative decipherability of dramatically arranged scenes. They do so, rather, because they never permanently fo rm into a scenic totality, and in fact inevitably disfigure themselves time and again vis-a-vis such a totality. The anxiety that is sometimes caused by Kabakov's installations is thus a consequence not primarily of their depiction of disturbing stories, but of the fact that they continually subvert any narrative "explanation" of the objects in a disturbing way. Going from room to room, one can indeed imagine what might have taken place, and perhaps these individual spatial

130 Ibid., 208.

164 Spatial and Time-Based Art situations in this sense-like the changing sets of a play-even refer to the temporal course of a plot. We can imagine that firstth is happened here, then that there, and so on. As in a hallucination, the viewer is called upon to substitute the staged scenes with a real scenario; in Kabakov's case, it's always a Soviet drama, in which the actors are called into the changing sets one afterthe other. In view of the provocatively patient stasis of the objects collected in the in stallation, however, any idea of time represented in or through it inevitably proves quite clearly to be a projection. Narrative interre lations are constantly rejected by the stubborn persistence of the objects in the installation, relations that nonetheless seem to be implied by the arrangement of these objects in the framework of a spatial dramaturgy. Because the meaning of the individual elements in the installation can never be traced back to a narrative meaning that might conclusively explain their place in the totality of the installation, the spatiotemporal synthesis performed by the viewer, which gathers past and fu ture moments (seen further back or to be seen fu rther ahead) of the installation into meaningful interrelations, will inevitably always also prove to be contingent. The viewer is thus once again referred back to the elements of the installation and hence also to new possibilities of spatiotemporal association. The consequence is a specificallyaesthetic uncertainty, unsettling not only the viewer's relation to the individual objects in the instal lation but also that to the space of the installation itself. For not only the objects of the installation are potentially meaningful for the viewer, their "interval-like" arrangement in space is as well-intervals may suddenly appear as, for example, a "tense vacuum," distances as long or short. Like the objects in the installation, the space of the installation is neither simply a factual given, as in, for example, the literalness of its floor plan, nor on the other hand is it easily resolved into a succession of identifiable scenes-rather, the processes of aesthetic experience set it in a motion that does not come to rest either in a positivistic determination of spatial dimensions nor in one par ticular meaningful coherence. This event-like quality of the space of installation is "dramatic" not so much because its dramaturgical organization can be related representationally to the course of a dra-

165 INTERMEDIALITY matic plot but because it dramatically exceeds this possibility. And this is why the effect ofKabakov's installations is more than the stale spectacle a visitor to a haunted house ride experiences, which can be calculated based on the floor plan. Instead, his installations yield at times uncanny effects because the viewer's experience fe els entirely unplanned. These effects, and not a "directing" of the viewer (which is, in any case, possible only to a very limited extent), con stitutes the aesthetic point of what Kabakov sometimes calls the "repressive" aspects of the experience of his "total" installations. In fact, even the movements of the viewer, which potentially constitute meaning, will inevitably prove to be contingent. On the one hand, this is the reason for the latent disorienting effect of the in stallation, for the viewer's sense of having lost his ability of pragmatic orientation in space, or rather, for the vague impression that this ability will get him nowhere in aesthetic terms. On the other hand, however, it is also the reason why the viewer will tend to lose his sense oftime while in the installation (TI, 316). Because the viewer's movements cannot be synchronized with the time of any imagined plot, a tension inevitably arises between the limited real time of walking through the installation and the fundamentally indefinite time of aesthetic experience. The unease that frequently results from this tension-of not having seen everything, of having paid too much attention to the wrong things in the installation, of having tak en in the general atmosphere rather than fo cusing on a few details at odds with the atmosphere, or, in general, of having walked too fa st-reflectsthe fact that the time of the aesthetic experience can only be limited by an uncompelled decision to leave, that its end will inevitably be arbitrary. That the temporality of aesthetic experience, even if we fo cus as much as possible on the represented time of the dramatic events, is irreducible to the time of theatrical performance was the point of de parture for Gertrude Stein's aesthetics of theater. A similar-though, in a sense, inverse-phenomenon is reflected, as we have seen, in Ilya Kabakov's installations. Whereas Stein's critical analysis of the tensions between these three modes of temporality in dramatic the ater marks the point of departure fo r her own aesthetics of theater,

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Kabakov's installations exhibit a tension between the time of the aesthetic experience and the time of walking through an installa tion-and precisely where we assumed that he seriously intended to sy nchronize them by evoking a dramatic plot. We have seen, more over, that Stein's and Kabakov's media-reflective strategies are functional complements precisely because they refer to drama in op po site ways: whereas Stein's landscape theater provokes intensified refl ection on time as a means of representation by, among other factors, 110 longer representing a dramatic plot, Kabakov's theatrical instal lation landscapes provoke reflection on the representational potential of the installation space because, among other factors, their stage set-likeness on the one hand and their dramaturgical organization on the other suggest a dramatic plot with its represented temporality. Stein's and Kabakov's strategies thus prove to be reflective in rela tion, among other things, to the structural problems of their own art ge nres (visual arts, theater) precisely in their attempts to explicitly ( Kabakov) or implicitly (Stein) move toward the other genre. The difference between an explicit, intentional transgression of the boundaries between the arts and an approximation to another art im plicit in the logic of the particular art an artist specializes in was, how ever, central to Adorno'sdi stinction between legitimate fraying and illegitimate unification. If we set aside the problem that another central component of Adorno'sconception of art is the artistic production of aesthetic coherence, which Stein's landscape theater conspicuously and specificallyundermines, Stein would here come to stand on the side of legitimate fraying, as she derives the concept of landscape theater li·otn an engagement of the structural problems of theater itself, whereas we would have to locate Kabakov on the side of illegitimate unification because he attempts to imitate another art, that of dramatic theater, by 111eans ofvisual art. The legitimate critique of the basis of this dis- ! i net ion in Adornonotwithsta nding, the question ultimately needs to he addressed-with regard to a dimension of the notion of the "total" installation we have not yet discussed-whether it is, as a distinction, l'lll irely without critical relevance. For the notion of the "total" in stallation-and this is obviously perfectly intentional in Kabakov ( /'/, 17 , 26}--also suggests the association with the gesamtkunstwerk.

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But Kabakov is not interested in dissolving the boundaries between art and life-his installations are marked as ontologically distinct spaces, as spaces of art even when they allude to sites of ritual (TI , 338-42) or open up to their real surroundings (Tl, 330-7). Nor does Kabakov really pursue the project of a "unification" of all arts. Instead, his incorporation of other arts and art genres (painting, music, spoken or written literature) into the "total" installation always takes place under the aegis of traditional theater. The latter has always proven to be especially capable of such incorporation. It is not by chance that it has often been taken as the point of departure for the idea of a gesamt kunstwerk. Like traditional theater, however, Kabakov's installations, due to their aspiration to totality, have only a limited ability to inte grate; as such integration comes at the cost of suppressing individual arts. The paintings we sometimes see in "total" installations, for ex ample, are not "real." They appear to be citations of painting, theatri cal props-and they do not claim to be anything else. Music is different. Due to its reproducibility, it is employed, as it were, "as such." Like painting, however, music is ultimately also expected to fitinto the uni form impression made by the "total" installation. Whereas the con certed arrangement of music, visual art s, and performing arts indramatic theater takes place under the authority-though such authority is never complete-of the drama, or rather of the dramatic plot, Kabakov's installations, and this is the decisive difference, only suggest dramatic action. This has the effect that the individual arts-literature, music, visual arts-become in part independent from oneanother and exhibit their structural differences even where their functionis to integrate themselves into the atmospheric total impression of the installation.131

131 Accordingly, the coaction of visual and musical or sonic components in his installations engenders, as Kabakov himself notes, a tension in the viewer's economy of attention: musical elements can come to the fo re and then retreat again; spoken text can double and/or thwart written text; musical and visual elements can elicit different interpretations, linking the "fastidious pair-sound

and visuality-in a continually functioning 'figure 8.' [ . ..] The viewer swings back and forth on this pendulum of meanings, the 'figure 8' tracesnewer and newer loops" (Tl, 310). Yet the "total" installation can be the "synthesis" of this "system" of"theses and antitheses," as Kabakov suggests (Tl, 310) only to the extent that it does not suspend the antagonisms between the latter in favor of a homogeneous totality but instead involves them in an engagement whose indefiniteness is suggested by the "figure 8" once it is rotated ninety degrees.

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Against the tendency toward controlling, directing, and repressing the viewer, toward narrative closure and an integrative suppression of the individual arts-a tendency which no doubt resonates in the notion and conception of the "total" installation-! think we ought to understand the aspiration of this installation to totality as decidedly ironic: to take the failure of the "total" installation to live up to this aspiration seriously as an aesthetic phenomenon. For then we see that it is precisely by virtue of this fa ilure that the "total" installation plays quite an ironic game with dramatic theater's aspiration to totality, to which it alludes in order to exhibit its ultimate structural impossibility. Because drama cannot have a more than supplementary status in the installation, the "total" installation highlights those aspects that in traditional theater already work against the experience of an exclusive presentness of the dramatic events: the dual structure of aesthetic signs and the tension between the simultaneity of differ ent theatrical signs on the one hand, and the dramatic development on the other. The latter is even heightened by the fact that theatrical development is replaced in the installation by a literal "course" directed or navigated by the viewer himself. To this extent one might say that the structural problems of the dramatic theater emerge precisely as the latter is adapted by another art form. In this sense, Kabakov's installations can indeed be taken to exemplifythe reflec tive potential of an art that gains its strength from working on the structures of another. And this with regard not only to their ability to reflectivelybring out the structural problems of dramatic theater by means of visual art but also to the fa ct that the adaptation of dramatic theater via visual art has engendered a new hybrid art genre-that of the "total" installation-that simultaneously exhibits a structural aspect of this visual art with unusual clarity: the representational potential of the space of exhibition or, rather, installation. Because the reflectionon the exhibition space is generally a central charac ' teristic of installation art, I will discuss this set of issues in more detail in part 3. In the present context, the "total" installation is exemplary of not least a type of installation art fo r which the diagnosis that installation art is to some extent particularly theatrical is in fa ct correct. Something

169 INTERMEDIALITY similar applies to the stage-like installations of artists ranging fr om Paul Thek, Mike Kelley, and Paul McCarthy, to Cosima von Bonin and Kai Althoff-the list could go on. The same could be said, if in a different way, fo r all those installations recognizably rooted in the di verse practices of Happening and performance artists. The group of artists to whose work this applies to some degree ranges fr om Robert Rauschenberg, Alan Kaprow, Rebecca Hom, Joseph Beuys, Nam June Paik, and, again, Mike Kelley and Paul McCarthy, to Jonathan Meese and John Bock-this list, too, could go on. And certainly there are diverse intersections in many of the artists whose names I have mentioned between stage-like installations (some of them in clude figures arranged as "actors," as in Thek's and Althoff's work) and installations built fr om the remnants or traces of a Happening or performance piece. In all these (otherwise unquestionably very dis tinct) cases, the elements of the installation evoke a past or future factual or fictional event, in relation to which the event character of the installation itself, constituted solely by the viewer's aesthetic pro cesses of understanding, nonetheless inevitably becomes indepen dent. For this character is constituted only in and through the engage ment of the viewer. This feature, I hope, has become particularly clear in the example ofKabakov's spatial dramaturgy. We can gener ally note, then, that theatrical installations develop their strength in latent reference to, and in necessary distinction from,the time-based art of the theater. Things are quite different, of course, in installations that integrate or exhibit a time-based art, such as cinematographic or sound in stallations. But as we will see, these art fo rms likewise labor against a conception of aesthetic experience based on the aesthetics of presentness and mediated by an objectivist notion of the synchronicity of the receiving subject and the work. I will demonstrate this first for cinematographic installation.

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2 Cinematographic Installation • 3 • 3. (Boris Groys, Walter Benjamin)

In the late sixties, the moving image fo und its way into institutions dedicated to the visual arts. These days, one would be hard pressed to find a museum of contemporary art without a darkened room showing one of the many and varied works that could be called cinemato graphic in the broadest sense, or a museum in which the white cube, the traditional exhibition space, is not accompanied by at least one black box. In the fo llowing I will refrain from discussing the undoubt edly significant media-technological and media-historical diffe r ences between film and video as well as the vast variety of related artistic practices. Instead, I will restrict my remarks to a few consider ations regarding what I would like to call cinematographic installa tion in general; an art fo rm fo r which presentation in the black box is especially important. This fo rm of installation has its most significant point of reference not in the television screen but in the cinema-and this concernsthe conditions of its presentation as well as those of its reception. Unlike theatrical installation, which, as it were, borrows the problems of the theater, cinematographic installation has its very origin in film or,more precisely, in experimental film. The development of cinematographic installation therefore stands in the context of a movement in which "a new claim was advanced [ ...] for the right of film,as of poetry or painting, to break away fr om both realism and didacticism, from documentary and fiction, in order to refuse to tell a story [ ...] and even to create fo rms and movements instead of copying them fr om nature."132 In contradistinction, however, to the significant role the respective avant-garde movements have played in painting and literature as a whole, the filmic avant-garde has always been considered a marginal phenomenon.133 For what seemed most

132 B. Jacques Brunius, "Experimental Film in France," quoted in Siegfried Kracauer, Theoryof Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), 181. 133 For an extended discussion ofthis see, for example, Kracauer, Th eory of Film, I 75-92, 300-303; and Cavell, The Wo rld Viewed, 216-7.

171 INTERMEDIALITY important about film was not so much its potential artistic quality but the fe ature that constitutes it as a cultural-technological phe nomenon: the ability to make a world in motion appear. This ability has been seen as the genuine possibility of the new medium, if we think of, for example, Kracauer's materialist definitionof film as a means of rescuing extra-aesthetic reality,134 ofPanofsky's dictum that the substance of film is the moving image, its material being ex ternal reality as such,135 or of Cavell's definitionof the medium of filmas a "succession of automatic world projections."136 Seen from

134 Kracauer, Th eoryof Film, 300-3 12. 135 Erwin Panofsky, "Style and Medium in the Motion Pictures," in Three Essays on Style,ed. IrvingLavin (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997), 128. While Kracauer draws the conclusion that filmas a means to save outward reality is possible only if the camera, without an intention of its own, immerses itself in what Kracauer repeatedly refers to as "nature in its raw state," Panofsky assumes that film can never be a mere recording instrument of the sort Kracauer imagines. Assuming a necessary link to reality in the photographic medium of film,Panofsky accordingly argues that it is the problem and task of film"to manipulate and shoot unstylized reality in such a way that the result has style" (ibid.). For an explicit critique of Kracauer on this point see also AaA, 386. Bela Balazs writes that the "reality film," taken to its finalconsequence, even turnsinto its opposite, or "absolute film."Bela Balazs, Early Film Th eory: Visible Man and The Spirit of Film, ed. Erica Carter, trans. Rodney Livingstone (New York: Berghahn Books, 20 I 0), 159. An interesting example of how the principle of aesthetic stylization can be strengthenedby radical application of the notion of film as a "recording instrument" is Dziga Vertov 's concept of the so-called "Kino Eye." See Dziga Vertov, "Kinoks: A Revolution," in Kino-Eye: The Wr itings of Dziga Ve rtov, ed. Annette Michelson, trans. Kevin O'Brien (Berkeley: University of CaliforniaPress, 1984), 11-20. 136 Cavell, The Wo rld Viewed, 72-73. Because of the specific conditions of the medium of film, which enable producers to render a world visible or project a world from which the viewer is at once also excluded in an entirely "mechanical" way, Cavell sees no ethical problem in the case of film,as he does in that of the theater, in the passive position of the viewer in relation the film's events: The fact that I am invisible and inaudible to the actors, and fixed in position, no longer needs accounting fo r; it is not part of a convention I have to comply with; the proceedings do not have to make good the fact that I do nothing in the face of tragedy, or that I laugh at the fo llies of others. In viewing a movie my helplessness is mechanically assured: I am present not at something happening, which I must confirm,but at something that has happened, which I absorb (like a memory). In this, movies resemble novels, a fact mirrored in the sound of narration itself, whose tense is the past. Ibid., 25-26. Yet the fact that film, according to Cavell, resolves the pseudo-problem of "theat rical" voyeurism in a virtually mechanical fa shion demonstrates merely that the identification of voyeurism with aesthetic consciousness (which, as we saw in the firstchapter, is systematically misleading) also provides the background to his theory of film.Accordingly, his view of classical Hollywood cinema is defined by an aesthetics of presentness: the moviegoer, claims Cavell, does not witness the events on the screen the way the spectator in the theater views the dramatic

172 Spatial and Time-Based Art this perspective, experimental filmcould not but occupy a marginal position. For it was obviously not bound to the task of making a world in motion appear-indeed, it shunned this task in favor of free artistic command over the means of film. Still, it would be misleading to suggest that a reflection on the cinematic means of representation, highlighting the latter at the expense of what they represent (the world in motion), has been a fe ature of experimental film and its reception alone. It is probably not by chance that since the fifties, fe ature films by directors such as Michelangelo Antonioni, Alain Resnais, lngmar Bergman, or Orson Welles have often been called "art films."In the context of phenomena in film reception and distribution-such as "European film,"the emergence of"art house filmtheaters ," the dis course of the "seventh art," and the so-called politique des auteurs the term "art film"was meant to distinguish such work not only from commercial Hollywood cinema. Rather, it also designated, whether intentionally or not, an impulse to leave the primacy of motion and the linear narrative mode it privileges behind in favor of increasing reflectionon, or denaturalization of, cinematic representation. 137 This impulse, which Gilles Deleuze associated with modem cinema in general, already also implies a tendency toward "fraying": toward an increasing spatialization of the time-based art of film,which, until then, was largely defined in terms of a recording of empirical move ments; and toward a growing mutual independence of sound and image, as well as a growing independence of the individual shot as opposed to its integration into the larger meaning of, for example, a storyline. Moreover, the relative independence of the individual shot and the associated heightened significance of the interval between the individual images imply an increasing reflection on time,

events but instead "absorbs" them almost automatically. (Let us not forget that for Cavell's fr iend Fried, "absorption" is the positive antonym of"theatricality.") In his theater and filmtheory alike, then, the dual structure of aesthetic representa tion, that is, the aesthetic tension between what is representing and what is represented, is marginalized in favor of a "presentness" of what is represented. We should concede, however, that film itself, due to its illusionary capability, tends much more strongly than traditional dramatic theater to produce such a marginalization. I will come back to this point. 137 See Kerry Brougher, "Hall of Mirrors," in Art and Film Since 1945: Hall of Mirrors, ed. Kerry Brougher (Los Angeles: Museum of Contemporary Art and Monacelli Press, 1996), 76-77.

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which here no longer appears as merely derivative of movement, as time represented indirectly, but comes to the fo re in the dimension of representation itself.138 In experimental film of the sixties, the reflection on the cinematic means was stepped up one degree: it now extended not only to the cinematic means of representation, but also to the cinematic forms of presentation.139 The entire cinematographic apparatus was no longer to be concealed in service of the story but, on the contrary, to be ex hibited and made available for increased reflection on it-and, im portantly, to an audience no longer "hypnotized" by its immersive illusionist effects but instead actively interested in its means. It was necessary to expose the entire cinematic apparatus: this meant exhibit ing, and reflecting on, not only its means of representation (camera, light, editing, and so on) but also its fo rms of presentation (dark room, projection on a vertical screen, frontal arrangement of seats). By denaturalizing these fo rms, their conventionality could also become thematic. This was the birth of cinematographic installation. It sought to transform the black box of the cinema, a magical space, into an exhibition space; to release the conscious activity of the audience from its illusionist, spellbound latency-and, at least potentially, to unleash it into the productivity of an aesthetic experience: cinema was to become art. Cinematographic installation breaks with cinema and its fo rms of presentation in the firstplace simply by abandoning it in favor of an art institution. And one might think that this operation alone lends the filmmaterial presented in the installation the aura of art. Indeed, cinematographic installation seems to have enabled a tangible aura tization (in the sense at least of one definition of "aura" offered by Walter Benj amin in his fa mous essay on the work of art 140) precisely

138 See Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 2: The Time-Image, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Robert Galeta (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989), esp. 34--43. 139 For a survey of the world of experimental cinema fromthis period including a wealth of materials, see Gene Youngblood, Expanded Cinema (New York: Dutton, 1970). 140 Walter Benjamin, "The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproduc ibility," in Wa lter Benjamin: Selected Wr itings, vol. 3, trans. Edmund Jephcott and Harry Zohn, eds. Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 101-33. Abbreviated in the fo llowing as WA.

174 Spatial and Time-Based Art of what, according to Benj amin, is more than anything else symptomatic for the decline of the aura in the twentieth century: film. For the decline of the aura, according to Benjamin, is a consequence of the tendency among the masses, fo stered by the technology of repro duction, to take control of the world ofthings, to make them available to the subject: "the desire of the present-day masses to 'get closer' to things, and their equally passionate concernfo r overcoming each th ing's uniqueness by assimilating it as a reproduction" (WA, 105). It:for the moment, we set aside the fact that Benjamin recognizes above all a legitimate call fo r more participation in art and culture in this tendency, then, we might be tempted to see-albeit more in line with Adornothan with Benj amin-an expression also of instrumental reason in this demand for availability. Precisely to the degree that we, along with Benj amin, might recognize the decisive cultural agent of this development (which is in any case ambivalent) in film, the cinematographic installation appears, at least in one respect, as its counteragent: against the mass dissemination and universal availabil ity of film(and, even more so, of video), cinematographic installation po sits its singular presentation in the exhibition space. Of course, the aura the museum installation thus confers on filmremains external to the latter-for the technological reproducibility of film is an inalien able fe ature of this industrial medium. Still, despite this reproduc ibility, installation restores to film, if not the quality of genuineness or originality, then at least an auratic uniqueness. This holds true even when a few reproductions of the same work circulate: the material presented in the cinematographic installation is not available to the viewer other than in the here and now of its current installation on site. But even with respect to the criterion of uniqueness, this auratization of film through installation has certain limits. For on the one hand the uniqueness of a cinematographic installation no longer has a religious or cultic foundation-as was the case for artworks with an aura in Benjamin's sense-and on the other hand, museums, too, have largely become democratically accessible places. If in this context we wish to s peak of aura at all, this would be an aura emancipated from the "para sitical subservience to ritual" (WA, 106), one that has, over the course or history, become autonomous and largely democratically accessible.

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But even to put it this way is misleading, since the quality of unique ness would be precisely no longer decisive fo r such an art. Art is not founded on simple opposition to mass culture. The possibility of an art that would be auratic in a post-metaphysical sense is not predicated on recovering the uniqueness of the work of art against the condi tions of its technological reproducibility. The uniqueness of the work of art may, in a way we will examine more closely in a moment, be a particular aesthetic possibility of the cinematographic installation; it is not a required criterion for an art that would be auratic in a post metaphysical sense. For characteristic of the latter is not so much the quality of uniqueness but rather, as I have argued, a specifically aesthetic withdrawal of the aesthetic object, however reproduced it may be, in the interpretive processes that constitute aesthetic experi ence. From the perspective of a theory of experience, the concept of aura would then also not be tied to an elitist limitation of its acces sibility. Instead, we would have to distinguish categorically between accessibility in the sense of democratic participation and accessibility in the sense of complete comprehensibility. Nonetheless, this inter pretation of the auratic "apparition of a distance, however near it may be" (WA, 105), presupposes a conceptual liberation of the aura from its significance in Benjamin's philosophy of history. For a post-metaphysically auratic art-and this has to be noted in the present context-is not in fa ct something the Benj amin of the "Work of Art" essay would describe as desirable; according to him, an aura under secularized conditions would be possible only on the basis of an escapist theology that would divest art of all social function and would ultimately serve the ruling classes as a vacuous beautiful semblance, I 'art pour I 'art. Consequently, according to Benj amin, the response to the declining bourgeois fo rm of aura must also be avant-gardistic destruction. This perspective, at any rate, determines Benjamin's assessment of the transformation of the concept of art entailed by technological reproducibility. For technological reproducibility not only emancipates the work of art "for the first time in world history [ ...] from the parasitical dependence on ritual" (WA, 106) but-with its possibilities for a democratic mass culture replaces a religious or cultic basis of art with a political one.

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The most important symptom of this shift-which Benj amin regards with considerable revolutionary hope-is that the "exhibition value" of a work of art loses its dependence on its ritual-organized "cult value." "The scope for exhibiting the work of art," Benj amin writes, has increased so enormously with the various methods of tech nologically reproducing it that, as happened in prehistoric times, a quantitative shift between the two poles of the artwork has led to a qualitative transformation in its nature. Just as the work of art in prehistoric times, through the exclusive emphasis placed on its cult value, became first andfo remost an instrument of magic which only later came to be recognized as a work of art, so today, through the exclusive emphasis placed on its exhibition value, the work of art becomes a construct [ Gebilde] with quite new functions. Among these, the ones we are conscious of-the artistic function may subsequently be seen as incidental. This much is certain: today, film is the most serviceable vehicle of this new understanding. (WA, 106-7) For Benj amin, the fa ct that exhibition value becomes independent is not merely the precondition of a secularized art fu lly emancipated !"rom ritual; it is at the same time an indication of a dialectical rever sal of this emancipation into its opposite-into the abolition of the autonomy art had just recently gained in favor of a new social function of art, which, precisely because of the loss of its aura, once again approximates it to the cultic function. In the example of film, Benjamin ex plains, we can recognize a transformation of the fu nction of art. It no longer simply exists for its own sake and fo r the sake of the co ntemplative experience of it, which, as Benj amin writes in the wake of the Fascist usurpation of a "traditional" notion of art (WA, I 02), "became a breeding ground for asocial behavior" "as the bourgeoisie degenerated" (WA, 119). Instead, art should now take on a fu nction similar to the one cultic art had served in "prehistoric times." Following the model of film,the art of the fu ture ought to render people resistant to the demands of a society now thoroughly shaped by technology. "The function of .film," Benj amin writes, "is to train human beings in the apperceptions and reactions needed to deal with a vast apparatus whose role in their lives is expanding

177 INTERMEDIALITY almost daily" (WA, 1 08). The rapid succession of images in film creates a "shock effect" that "seeks to induce heightened attention" (WA, 132). Film, he concludes, is thus "the art form corresponding to the pronounced threat to life in which people live today. It corre sponds to profound changes in the apparatus of apperception changes that are experienced on the scale of private existence by each passerby in big-city traffic, and on the scale of world history by each fighter against the present social order" (WA, 132). However today's ideological critique might judge this highly ambivalent assessment of the cultural-political function of the me dium of filmas an instrument meant to simultaneously serve both habituation and resistance to the circumstances of modem life, if we consider the bulk of commercial film production or of subsequent pop-cultural phenomena such as, most recently, the computer game, it is probably clear that the great revolutionary hopes that Benja min-in a variation on certain Brechtian motifs-associated with filmhave not been fu lfilled. But it is also clear today, and this is sig nificant for our context, that film,particularly in and of itself, has not served as the vanguard for a more general change in the fu nction of art that Benj amin diagnosed. The fact that exhibition value has become independent has not led to the sublation of art into cultural politics but, at most, to a new fo rm of art: installation is one deci sive response of an art liberated fr om the externalpur poses of reli gion or cult-a fu nctionally autonomous art-to the condition of its nearly universal capacity to be exhibited. This response takes the fo rm of an art that is itself essentially exhibition. I will discuss this connection in greater detail later (3.2.1 ). In this line of argument, however, art is conceived in a way that neither fe tishizes it as beautifulsembla nce nor absorbs it into life in a cultural-revolutionary sublation. Here, art is founded neither on a religious or cultic nor on a political basis. Nor is its concept depen dent on specific qualities of the object-not on that of duration or on that of fleetingness; not on that of originality or on that of reproduc ibility. The restitution of the value of uniqueness in installation art, th en, does not in itself ensure the artistic character of the film mate rials presented. This quality, I have argued, is ultimately rooted

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purely in the judgment implicit in an experience whose object proves elusive time and again in a way that is constitutive of this ex perience. In this conceptual perspective, Karl Kraus's aphorism, "The closer the look one takes at a word, the greater the distance from which it looks back,"141 which Benjamin often cited in the context of his concept of aura, describes an aspect of elusiveness of the work of art that resists all political or otherwise instrumental service. In this sense, however, filmcan be auratic, too. For this understanding of the aura need not be traced back to religious or cultic elements; it requires only an explication of the specifically aesthetic experience the filmmaterial may occasion. The cinematographic installation, whose particular qualities are at issue here, has, in contrast to cinema, different ways of bringing out what constitutes the aesthetic potential of film. It possesses these other means because it radically changes the conditions of the pre sentation of moving images. Supported by the electronic image, 142 among other factors, the installation fo rmat enables an engagement of the cinematographic order of space that treats it as one convention among many. The moving image in the installation is not tied to any particular presentation format. It is dispersed across several monitors or screens; it appears on the floor, across a comer, on the ceiling, in the middle of the room; it enters into relation with other objects in the room; it can be minuscule or overwhelmingly large.

14 1 Karl Kraus, Half-Truths & One-and-a-HalfTr uths: Selected Aphorisms, trans. Harry Zohn (M ontreal: Engendra, 1976), 67. 142 Concluding his book on modem cinema, Gilles Deleuze remarks on the consequences of new image technologies: [The new electronic images] are the object of a perpetual reorganization, in which a new image can arise from any point whatever of the preceding image. The organization of space here loses its privileged directions, and firstof all the privilege of the vertical which the position ofthe screen still displays, in fa vour of an omni-directional space which constantly varies its angles and coordinates, to exchange the vertical and the horizontal. And the screen itself, even if it keeps a vertical position by convention, no longer seems to refer to the human posture, like a window or a painting, but rather constitutes a table of information, an opaque surface on which are inscribed "data." Correspondingly, the verticality of the screen loses its importance for the cinemato graphic image and becomes a matter of pure convention "when it ceases to make us see a world in movement, when it tends to become an opaque surface which receives, in order to disorder, and on which characters, objects and words are inscribed as 'data."' De leuze, Cinema 2, 365-6.

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The concept of cinematographic installation thus refers to the funda mental conditions not of the technical medium but, as I have already indicated above, to those of the cinema. As early as the seventies, filmartists developed installation as a fo rm that allowed for critical reflection on the apparatus of cinema-that is, the constellation of darkened room, frontal positioning of the audience, vertical screen, film, and projection. Furthermore, the defamiliarizing exhibition of the cinematographic means of presentation not only leads in most cases to the anti-illusionist domino effect by which a reflectionon the filmic means of representation is also entailed, but at the same time poten tially prompts the viewer to engage in a self-reflective, performative, that is, aesthetic relation to the (objects of the) installation as well. The cinematographic installation, however, particularly invites such relation not only because it breaks with the conventional fo rm of presentation fo r moving images, but also because the viewer of the installation, unlike the cinematic spectator placed in front of the screen, can usually move freely in this installation. Seating is in fa ct usually very limited or not present at all, and so the viewer finds himself in various positions in relation to the moving images-as well as to the technical apparatus, which is oftenpart of the exhibi tion. The art theorist Boris Groys concludes that such art helps over come a fo rmerly passive attitude toward the moving image. At least since the sixties, the idea of a passive audience "manipulated" by the immersive illusionism of conventional narrative cinema has in deed motivated many filmic art practices to take critical counter measures. 143 But the literal, that is, the physical immobilization of the spectator in the cinema, which Groys believes inevitably leads to intellectual immobility, 144 is the smallest problem in this context.

143 As the annalist of the era's experimental cinema, Gene Youngblood, in his legendary book Expanded Cinema, writes: "The viewer of commercial entertain ment cinema does not want to work, he wants to be an object, to be acted upon, to be manipulated. The true subject of commercial entertainment is this little game it plays with its audience." Youngblood, Expanded Cinema, 60. 144 Groys argues rather boldly that it is only the ability to move around in film installation that creates the circumstances in which the viewer can take an analytical approach to filmat all. In texts of film theoryand criticism, he writes that one generally does fe el confronted with a language that was born out of a specifically filmic experience, a language that would be "about film"-and

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For the possibility of an activity of consciousness liberated fr om latency into the productivity of an aesthetic experience is not tied to the individual viewer's freedom of physical movement. It is obvi ously also available in cinema, at least in principle, as is exemplified by, but not limited to, experimental or art film. Even in classical narrative cinema, the activity of the spectator's consciousness may in principle be heightened, to the point where the cinematic experi ence finallyunder goes a qualitative shift away from the dreamlike state of entertainment toward a diffe rent experience: an aesthetic one. I will come back to this point later. But installation art has its own specificmea ns to bring out the generally self-reflective, performative character of an aesthetic (film)experi ence. For the viewer of the installation creates relations with it, between its elements, and by virtue of his own physical activity-that is, by moving inside it and regarding it from various perspectives. Like Minimal art, filminstal lation, too, seems particularly capable of highlighting this fundamental fe ature of aesthetic experience. The transformation of the cinematographic conditions of reception in installation, then, seems to me to be a matter not so much of the purely physical mobilization of the viewer but rather of the individu alization of his filmicexperi ence. The spectator in cinema is part of an audience; the viewer of cinematographic installation, due to the physical freedom of movement as well as a condition of presentation that is constitutively unfamiliar-because it is different in each case, that is, individual-is leftto his own devices. He will reflecton the fa ct that the installation does not assign him a definedposition. This

not originally about something else. The filmas such therefore remains in the zone of speechlessness. But why this speechlessness, why this discursive

fa ilure? [ . . . ] The visitor to the cinema [ ... ] is placed into a situation of absolute powerlessness, of paralysis, of immobility. And this also means, into a

situation of powerlessness in relation to language, to discursive praxis. [ ... ] The ability to move freely in space is a necessary precondition for the emergence and further development of a thinkingthat can be put into language.

In a typical film screening, however [ . ..] it is the filmicimage that moves, that unfolds in time, whereas the viewer remains passive. So the movement of the filmic image supplants the movement of thinking and language in the viewer. [ ...] A film installation in a museum, by contrast creates the ideal space for an analytical and linguistic engagement of the filmic image. Boris Groys, " ... in der Autonomie des Betrachters. Zur Asthetik der Filminstal lation," Schnitt, no. 22 (2 001): 13 .

181 INTERMEDIALITY constitutes a crucial difference from the cinematic spectator. For in contradistinction to theater, the individual seating position in cinema holds relatively little significance. The spectator does not watch what takes place within the fr amed space of the stage from a particular (more or less privileged) distanced position, but is instead positively "drawn along"-together with everyone else in the audience-by the dynamic space of the film'saction !45 Whereas, then, the cinema spectator tends to fo rget his position by virtue of assimilation into the dynamic space of the filmaction, the visitor to the filminstallation will in most cases, at least in the aesthetically more interesting ones, reflect on his position in space. And he will do so with regard also to the machinery, which is more or less explicitly exhibited: the screen, the light, the projector, and their arrangement in space. Like the Min imalist situation, cinematographic installations are particularly inclu sive in that, among other reasons, they remain emphatically open as to what qualifiesas part of the aesthetic object and what does not. So the viewer-like the viewer of Minimalist arrangements-will expe rience cinematographic installation in an important sense as his situ ation, even if he should happen not to be alone in the installation at any given moment.146 This is because he, and he alone, must decide what he does in the installation and for how long. He will reflecton his productivity in the creation of interrelations with/within the in stallation among other reasons because here-unlike in cinema-it is not clear, even in purely spatial terms, what the object of his ob servation should really be, what it is all really about.

145 'The camera takes my eye along with it," writes Bela Balazs. "Into the heart of the image. I see the world fromwithin the filmicspace." Balazs,Earl y Film Th eory, 99. And, moreover, Panofsky writes: In a theater, space is static, that is, the space represented on the stage, as well as the spatial relation ofthe beholder to the spectacle, is unalterably fixed. [ ...] With the movies the situation is reversed. Here, too, the spectator occupies a fixed seat, but only physically, not as the subject of an aesthetic experi ence. Aesthetically, he is in permanent motion as his eye identifies itselfwith the lens of the camera, which permanently shifts in distance and direction. And as movable as the spectator is, as moveable is, for the same reason, the space presented to him. Not only bodies move in space, but space itself does, approaching, receding, turning, dissolving and recrystallizing. Panofsky, "Style and Medium in the Motion Pictures," 93-94. 146 See 1.2.2.

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Furthermore, however-and this is the truly interesting point in the context of our considerations on the installation-style exhibition of time-based arts-the viewer's freedom of individual movement brings the distinction between the temporality of his experience and that of the film material into especially clear relief.This is so fo r a reason just mentioned: in cinematographic installation not only the filmmaterial but also the spatial aspect of the arrangement of the installation can become the object of aesthetic experience. But the distinction between experiential time and that of the material also shapes the viewer's confrontation with the filmmaterial itself. In this confrontation, cinematographic installation proves with particular clarity to be a hybrid between visual arts and cinema: it is neither one nor the other but both at the same time. Not only does the viewer findhimself surprisingly confronted with a time-based art upon entering the white cube-a setting traditionally reserved for the visual, that is, fo llowing Lessing, spatial arts. Cinematographic installation, unlike cinema, at the same time also leaves it up to the viewer to decide how long this encounter with the film material will last-quite as though it were another work of spatial art. But since the object at hand, the moving filmimage, is nonetheless changing in time, the museum or gallery visitor can no longer come to his ob ject and then walk away without incurring the uncomfortable sense of having missed something significant. "With the introduction of the moving image into the museum," Groys writes in his reflections on the film installation already cited above, "the situation changes [ ...] drastically, fo r moving images begin to dictate the time of the viewing experience-and rob the viewer of his usual autonomy."147 The viewer, according to Groys, faces the alternative of either sub mitting to the temporality of the filminstallation or walking away but in the latter case he is no longer competent to pass judgment on the work. "A film installation has a fu ndamental tendency," Groys writes, "to elude any aesthetic judgment, because the complete and clear viewing of an artwork,which alone could legitimate a conclusive judgment of this artwork, in the case of the filminstallation is radically

147 Groys, " ... in der Autonomie des Betrachters," II.

183 INTERMEDIALITY called into question. "148 From the perspective of a theory of experi ence, the notion that a "complete and clear viewing" is a precondition of aesthetic judgment would seem problematic even in the case of painting. Still, Groys zeroes in on an important aspect of the viewer's experience of cinematographic installation (and this is the point I am interested in here): his insecurity with regard to how long he ought to remain in the installation. This insecurity applies in particular to those cinematographic installations whose organization is calculated to create an "incomplete and unclear viewing." The respective spaces produce a fe eling of being overwhelmed in the viewer via projecting a variety of film material scattered through a room. Whichever position he adopts, he can never keep all the projections in the room in sight at the same time. Such strategies of overwhelmment are comparable to maxi malist theatrical aesthetics that, precisely by using an abundance of very diffe rent processes taking place at the same time, seem to call on the viewer, or rather the spectator, to relate them to one another, to do justice to their spatial simultaneity. This lends a profile or, as it were, plasticity to the tension (which is generally-if often only latently-operative in the reception of filmand theater) between what develops in juxtaposition on the screen or stage and what happens consecutively over time. Consequentially, in tum, the tension be tween the fu ndamental inconclusiveness of an always selective and contingent formation of significant interrelations with/within the work, on the one hand, and the temporal development of each work or part of a work, on the other, can also become thematic in reflection. Yet the viewer's insecurity-we might also say, by way of Gertrude Stein, his nervousness-with regard to the duration of his stay in the cinematographic installation cannot in all cases be traced to a "physical inability imposed by temporal constraints to view the material form of the artwork in its entirety."149 Many installations confront the viewer with only one projection showing a very short piece of film in an endless loop. An initial insecurity in view of such works, which would seem to lend themselves to a "complete and clear view-

14 8 Ibid., 12. 149 Ibid.

184 Spatial and Time-Based Art ing," arises fr om the fa ct that a visit to a cinematographic installation is not bound to the temporal unit of the work in question. What causes insecurity, then, is the fact that, in contradistinction to a visit to the cinema, which is structured by the time of the screening, the time of a visit to an installation is not strictly dictated by the instal lation itself. One enters it at a certain point in time and leaves at what is inevitably an arbitrary point in time-at any time. In my opinion, we ought to speak of installations only in cases where the work operates with this structure of temporal openness, that is, work that reflects on the specificconditions of its presentation and reception; and not-as has unfortunately become quite common where a film is shown in a specially darkened museum or gallery space or a video is shown on a monitor set up on a pedestal or pro jected on a wall. (In fact, it should become customary to show such works only at scheduled times.) Because such a reflection on the conditions of presentation and reception is a significant aspect of cinematographic installation, I will now discuss procedures used to organize filmicmate rials that reflect the conditions of reception in installations (which might be one of the reasons why installation artists use them quite frequently): the loop, hyper slow motion, and duration. But the fa ct that their use is so wide spread, as is that of multiple projections and split screen, with which they are oftencombined, is not the primary reason why I am interested in them. I will discuss them individually and in detail because they stand as examples for a number of possible ways of organizing filmic materials that perform an artistic reflection on the tension between the temporality of film and that of the experience of it, which gener ally arises when the experience of film is emancipated from the compulsion to synchronize itself with the events presented: when it becomes an aesthetic experience. Theloop. Because endless repetition denaturalizes filmicpresenta tion, film loops have become a virtual embodiment of anti-illusionism in film, allowing fo r heightened reflectionon this means of presentation.150

150 Referring to the "quasi-realistic episode" from Femand Leger's Ballet Mecanique (1924), Kracauer already speaks of an "emasculation" of the real-life shot by virtue of its stubborn reiteration. See Kracauer, Th eory of Film, 184--5.

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The indefiniteness of the loop also confronts the viewer in a particu lar way with the time of his own, experience vis-a-vis the time of the film orvideo. This is the case especially when looping is not merely used by a museum to enable visitors who enter a space aftera filmhas begun to see it in its entirety without having to wait for the filmto start anew. In such cases, the uninterrupted repetition of the filmicaction merely has the same significance it has in porn theaters or that it had in the early days of cinema before the introduction of scheduled screenings, when visitors simply showed up whenever they liked: repetition here marks the point when a viewer has "seen everything" and can leave. But in these cases the infinite loop is not an interesting means of cinematographic installation art. The infinity of the loop becomes interesting only when the repetitive structure of the loop is itself part of the structure of the work, inviting the viewer to stay in the installation rather than being a sign telling him to leave. I would like to draw on two examples for a brief illustration of this effect of the loop in installation art. In Bruce Yonemoto's film installation The Time Machine (1999) two lilies appear projected on a screen, one real and one artificial; both bloom and fa de in endless repetition. The real lily is filmed in time lapse-that is, shot every couple of hours-while the artificial lily, made of clay, is altered through animation, frame by fr ame: a di rect citation of a classic of filmhi story, George Pal's filmadaptation of H. G. Wells's The Time Machine (1895). Pal's The Time Machine (1960) is a science fictionfilm whose main special effects (later appropriated by Yonemoto)-time lapse and claymation-serve to visualize the machine's travel through time. Yonemoto's version of The Time Machine introduces these effects to thematize the techniques enabling the representation of time in film;it does so not least by means of looping. The infiniterepetition of the extremely accelerated cycle of life and death-in which the two lilies bloom and fade denaturalizes the filmicrepresentation of time, enabling a heightened reflection on the means of this representation. While the looped life cycle ofthe lilies thus refers to the dimension of time represented, the projector, which is set up in the same room as the filmic image it projects, mechanically presents the linear time of filmic representation. The

186 Spatial and Time-Based Art projector steadily runs the endless 16 mm loop through its apparatus. Yet, besides enabling a reflective thematization of the double time of film-the time it represents and the time of that representa tion-an exhibition of such has a second effect. For between these two modes of time-the time represented and the time of represen tation-another time enters that makes itself fe lt more strongly the longer an installation is viewed, a time that does not coincide with either of the other two: the time of aesthetic experience. Viewing the lilies endlessly bloom and fade, accompanied by the mechanical whirring of the projector, we gradually lose any sense of an accor dance between the two times of the machine (its own and that repre sented by it) on the one hand, and the time of the viewing on the other. The indefinite identical repetition of the loop does not corre spond to the potential infinity of an experience that sees-that must see-the blooming and fa ding newly and differently over and over again; of an experience that is constitutively non-mechanical. Like traditional dramatic theater, conventional narrative cinema implies the idea that the time of the audience should converge, by virtue of empathic identification, with the time of the dramatic events-that the time of aesthetic experience should come to coin cide with the time of the filmscreening as the viewer fo cuses on the action represented (and less on its representation). In comparison with the theater, narrative cinema would seem to come significantly closer to realizing this ideal thanks to the illusionism enabled by the technology of the "dream factory." The influence of the moving camera would seem to minimize our ability to perceive individual shots as tableaux or images, whose internal complexity might emerge from the course of events. And even the internal tension of the double structure of aesthetic signs-the theatrical actor, as we saw, is a vivid example of this tension-would seem to be reduced to a minimum in film:in some respects, film amalgamates the actor and his role more closely than the theater ever could. As a rule, the role does not exist independently of the actor; there are no charac ters in the theatrical sense, only types that are first and fo remost de finedby the stars that are "cast" to play them once. That is also why stars, in contradistinction to stage actors, are essentially non-ex-

187 INTERMEDIALITY changeable.151 Of course, aesthetic tensions-between the individual shot and the larger narrative, between star and role, or in general, between a representation and what it represents--<:an never be entirely suspended. But they can emerge in varying degrees and labor against the ideal of synchronizing the filmic experience with the represented plot in different ways. I now tum to my second example, in which the structure ofthe loop is used in the context of an anti-illusionist revision of narrative cinema and the modes of its reception. In Stan Douglas's video installation Wi n, Place or Show (1998) a veritable narrative plot seems to return every six minutes; but the work undermines the certainty that recognition connotes-that every thing has been seen and is over and done with. There are, of course, the usual recognition effects when, aftersix minutes, the action begins to repeat. But this "loop," unlike that ofYonemoto's The Time Ma chine, does not repeat the action identically: it displaces it with every repetition. Bob and Donny, the two protagonists in Wi n, Place or Show, become embroiled in a fight-which, at a certain point, inevitably culminates in a brawl-about news, radio, conspiracy theories, and horse races; but this fight changes slightly with each repetition. A computer selects the shots based on a random generator such that the same sequence is unlikely to return before 20,000 hours, or more than two years. It would of course be impossible, not to mention undesir able, to wait for this moment. In the end, we would probably not even recognize it when it does take place. Something else is obviously at stake in this work, which, given the potential for digital intervention, also does not permit a "complete and clear viewing." To begin with, Douglas's practice should surely be described as anti-illusionist. This is true also with regard to the fact that Wi n, Place or Show consists of a double projection that divides the movie screen in the middle along a blurred line. More importantly, the action was filmedfr om different camera perspectives, and so the individual shots composed in the double projection by the random generator are sometimes more and other times less compatible. This undermines any illusion of a face-to-face confrontation between the two protag-

15 1 See Cavell, The Wo rld Viewed,25- 29.

188 Spatial and Time-Based Art onists (shot and countershot sometimes clearly shooting past one another) or a homogenous space of action. The work obvi{)usly ex hibits cinematic narrative techniques in order to avoid any kind of illusionist effect and to render identification with/ofthe plot impossible in favor of a reflection on the various dimensions of the representation (the actors, the postwar modernist set, the lights, the camera position, the editing). Yet Wi n, Place or Show plays not only with the viewer's capacity to recognize the individual shots in ever-new contexts but simultaneously also with his ability to create interrelations between the shots. Douglas's anti-illusionist method shows precisely that the viewer's active creation of interrelations is inevitable. Even what we would call the pre-aesthetic filmicexperience is essentially tied to this activity. This is already demonstrated by the fact that we not only see filmsdiff erently after time has passed, but that every individual sees films differently than anyone else, and even with each viewing. As banal as it may sound, the constitution of a "filmic world" is tied to what constitutes the "world" of a filmfor the spectator, that is, to what appears significant to him at any given time.152 In this sense, the cinematic illusion is based not-as is often assumed-on a passivity but on a certain activity on the part of the viewer. And whereas the activity of fo rminginterre lations in conventional narrative cinema tends to remain in service of the story and is thus kept in latency, Douglas's anti-illusionist practice heightens this fo rmation in ways that ultimately aims to transform it into a qualitatively dif fe rent, self-reflective, performative, productivity: into an aesthetic experience. Very quickly-even as the action recurs for the first time-we are no longer certain what we actually saw earlier. Is this a new se-

152 It is not by accident that Stanley Cavell's book about the dramatic worlds of early Hollywood cinema draws from his own personal memories of specific films. Indeed, this is the very starting point of his reflections on film theory. See Cavell, The Wo rld Viewed,esp. ix-xxiv. For the same reason, most interpreta tions from before the era of the video recorder that have become classics in film studies are fu ll of obvious errors, with misremembered formal and narrative details. But such errors do not indicate an all too human shortcoming on the part of the various interpreters as much as they suggest that experiences of film are not mechanical in structure and that the interpretation of filmsis irreducible to an objectivist enumeration of technical fa cts.

189 INTERMEDIALITY quence or simply deja vu? Where does a new sequence begin and where does it end? Wi n, Place or Show creates a dreamlike effect in actu. Whereas Yonemoto's installation gives rise to a tension be tween the two times of the machine (the represented time of the lil ies and the time of the loop) and the time of aesthetic experience, Douglas's installation dissolves our sense of the time of the video (six minutes per repetition)-and hence also of the time of the ac tion presented in variations-into the indefinite time of aesthetic ex perience. It becomes increasingly difficultto recognize the varying repetitions as such; the diffe rent variations of the fight become in creasingly a single endless fight, which nonetheless never consoli dates into a narrative but time and again falls apart into its individual elements. The individual shot becomes independent of its possible narrative context without, however, ever quite being able to move beyond this horizon. Because the viewer's active creation of inter relations can obviously not be brought to rest in some narrative meaning, a tension will inevitably arise also between the fundamen tally limited time of his stay in the installation and the, in principle, unlimited time of aesthetic experience. There is no objective end to this experience. We can only put an arbitrary end to it by leaving the installation and ceasing to think of it. Duration/hyper slow motion. The spectator is confronted with the time of his own experience in relation to the time of the video or film in a diffe rent way than in looping when the moving image ap proximates the unmoving image. In the case of so-called duration pieces, an almost unchanging object is recorded over a fa irly long time. Examples fr om the world of experimental film would be Andy Warhol's eight-hour filmEm pire (1964), which shows a static shot of the Empire State Building, and his film Sleep ( 1963), itself six hours long, which presents diffe rent shots of a sleeping man each of which is repeated again and again. In the case of so-called hyper slow motion, the movement of a filmed object is slowed down by technical means such that the image barely changes-that is, it changes only very slowly. Examples include Bill Viola's The Quintet of the Unseen (2000) and Douglas Gordon's 24 Hour Psycho ( 1992). Gordon uses video technology to stretch a screening of Alfred

190 Spatial and Time-Based Art

Hitchcock's Psycho to twenty-four hours, not only removing the original sound but also suspending all suspense: the classic movie dissolves into a succession of individual images. Bill Viola's video work The Quintet of the Unseen, presented on a wall-mounted flat screen, shows fivepeople in a theatrical arrangement, a kind of tableau vivant. All five barely change their facial expressions (duration), and these minuscule changes are moreover extremely slowed down by technical means (hyper slow motion). Viola's work, perched be tween filmsti ll, tableau vivant, and portraiture-its presentation on the wall being an obvious allusion to the traditional painted panel demonstrates perhaps most clearly that both duration and hyper slow motion, as well as their combination, take the tendency implicit in the time-based arts toward spatialization to its utmost consequence. The film or video images tend to appear as a succession of individu al images (Gordon) or as variations on one unmoving image (Viola). Still, such procedures will not give rise to any serious insecurity on the part of the viewer about whether he is regarding a moving or an unmoving image, as Boris Groys thinks.153 On the contrary, the point of these works is in part that they emphasize the very fundamental difference between the moving and the unmoving image precisely by their mutual rapprochement. Any pointed gaze that lasts longer than the blink of an eye will register this difference in the small changes of the moving image, no matter how slowly it is moving. The elements ofthe filmor video image-unlike the elements of a painted panel-are subject to change in time. Bringing them closer to the spatiality of the unmoving image inevitably entails a gesture back toward the temporality of filmicrepresentati on. Only to a very superficial beholder, then, will the duration piece seem to permit a viewing "complete and clear" enough that it makes no appreciable difference if we temporarily leave the installation. Drastic changes do indeed contradict not only the principle of duration, but in a certain way also that of hyper slow motion. (This is so even in the case of Gordon's 24 Hour Psycho, which is about stretching a source material that the general viewer is assumed to be familiar with.) But the con-

153 Groys, " ... in der Autonomie des Betrachters," 13.

191 INTERMEDIALITY cept of what drastic change can mean in relation to filmicmateri al gradually changes in the course of our viewing. Precisely because change is reduced and/or slowed down, even the tiniest changes be come potentially significant; the mere fact of change gains an enormous dramatic quality by virtue of the procedures of hyper slow motion and duration. We stand spellbound, but not because we are tracing a plot the work represents-and be it even as suspenseful as that of Hitchcock's Psycho-but because we are observing the smallest changes in time of an otherwise relatively static representation. When a cinematic installation employs the procedures of duration and hyper slow motion, seeing the work in its entirety is not the primary point. Such work is in most cases either already so long or so inconspicuously looped that capturing and/or questioning the temporal unity of such a work in the framework of the temporal economy of a visit to the museum cannot be our firstinterest. Unlike in the cinema, where similar works may well be about the imposition of their duration on the viewer, in the installation fo rmat they are about the imposition that the viewer must determine their duration fo r himself. But unlike with repetitive-loop works, whose point is in part that the indefinite experience of the viewer is confronted with an infinitelyrepeated material that permits a more or less "complete viewing," the viewer cannot really anticipate the end of a duration or hyper slow motion work. Once he leaves such an installation, he does in fa ct miss something-further changes, however minimal, the film image undergoes over time. This interplay between filmicmate rial and open fo rm of presentation is obviously not so much about my perception of the internaltemporal ity of my aesthetic experience vis-a-vis the temporality of the work but rather about a reflectionon the temporal constitution of the work within the time of that experience. I have discussed both repetitive loop and duration/hyper slow motion in part as devices that more or less explicitly labor against the ideal of a synchronization ofthe viewer's time with that ofthe film or video, thus opening up the respective materials to an aesthetic ex perience. But my arguments against a conception of aesthetic expe rience based on an aesthetics of presentness, here laid out on the ex ample of artistic developments in and between various aesthetic media,

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should not be mistaken, in particular in the context of a discussion of film,as arguments infa vor of a "distracted attention"-at least not if"distraction" is understood in Benjamin's sense. For what Benjamin's "reception in a state of distraction" has in common with the reception in perpetual presentness is the annulment of the aesthetic distance between receiving subject and aesthetic object. It is indicative that architecture, even more than film,is the paradigmatic object of what Benj amin describes as reception-in-distraction. The reception of architecture, like the subsequent reception of film-due to the physical, tactile shock effect caused by its succession of im ages-is marked, according to Benj amin, not only by optical percep tion, but also by tactile use. And the dimension of the tactile, ofun mediated use, even definesthe role distracted reception plays for the new social function of art: "such reception," Benj amin writes, cannot be understood in terms of the concentrated attention of a traveler before a famous building. On the tactile side, there is no counterpart to what contemplation is on the optical side. Tactile reception comes about not so much by way of attention as by way of habit. [ ...] Under certain circumstances, this fo rm of reception shaped by architecture acquires canonical value. For the tasks which fa ce the human apparatus of perception at historical turning points cannot be performed solely by optical means-that is, by way of contemplation. They are mastered gradually-taking their cue fr om tactile reception-through habit. (WA, 120-2 1) As Jonathan Crary has demonstrated, there is no type of attention that is in itself aesthetic. Neither concentrated nor distracted percep tion is limited to the field of the aesthetic; both are, in fact, fixed com ponents of respective "disciplinary regimes." This much is indicat ed, albeit with an inverse distribution of value, in Benjamin's hopes for the historically new function of film.Co ntrary to Crary, the l�1ct that there is no type of attention that is in itself aesthetic does not imply that the difference between aesthetic and non-aesthetic perception or experience is invalid or irrelevant.154 For aesthetic ex-

I 54 Jonathan Crary, Suspensions of Perception: Attention, Spectacle, and Modern Culture (C ambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999), esp. 7.

193 INTERMEDIALITY perience, as should have become clear, cannot be correctly described either as a self-presence of the fo cused spectator in the theater who discerns his ethical reflection in the presentness of the dramatic events, or as the reduction of that viewer to a passive, habit-forming automatism in the cinema. What makes these two descriptions so similar is precisely the annulment of the subject's aesthetic distance from the object. That is why Cavell's reflections on theater system atically converge with those on cinema in the motivation behind such an annulment-and we need not discuss here whether his the ory does more justice to cinema, with its particular illusionist poten tial, than to theater. What is at stake in the present context are the concepts of art and aesthetic experience, concepts whose specificity, I think, is systematically lost when aesthetic distance is annulled whatever moral uprightness or cultural-political revolutionary spirit may motivate such annulment. Against the motivations of this annulment in Cavell and Fried, aesthetic distance, as I have already shown in part 1, must not be mistaken for the distance of an asymmetrical relationship in which the subject exercises command over the object. One can speak of aesthetic distance only when the subject's hermeneutic approach to the object is blocked in a specificallyaesthetic way, that is, by virtue of an irreducible tension between what is representing and what is rep resented. Because the subject's hermeneutic approach to the aesthetic object is thus fu ndamentally unsettled, the subject will reflecton its own productivity in the creation of interrelations on/within the object. This self-reflectiveperf ormativity of the aesthetic experience can obviously not be described correctly either in terms of a (however fo cused) subject reconstructing or mentally duplicating the construc tion of an objectivity of the work said to be "present" as such, nor in terms of a (however distracted) habituation to the work's objective effects. From the perspective of a theory of aesthetic experience of the sort I propose here, concentration and distraction conceived in such fa shion would seem to be merely two modes of non-aesthetic recep tion. The artwork is indeed generally submerged in theoretical "waves" (WA, 119) whenever the aesthetic distance between subject and object that arises in communication with the object is annulled

194 Spatial and Time-Based Art or sublated: be it in the fa lse "presentness" of an object reified into a quasi-subj ect, as in Fried, Cavell, and Adorno (as we will soon see once again and more precisely in an analysis of a few ofthe latter's music-philosophical theses); or be it because the aesthetic object is put to the service of cultural politics, as in Benjamin. If the concept against an ethics of aesthetic attention and that against a cultural politics of aesthetic distraction is here dubbed "aesthetic experience," it should nonetheless not be confused with either the notion of"composed recollection," which serves to con firm the bourgeois ideal of introspective profundity, nor with that of "contemplation," used nearly synonymously by Benjamin. Both terms not only seem obsolete today, as Benjamin already rightly noted, but have also led to a systematic confusion-above all when they were used as synonyms. I have already noted in previous chapters, and should like to repeat once more in the present context in order to avoid any misunderstanding, that the subject of aesthetic experience by no means exercises complete control over its self-reflective and performa tive activity. The subject experiences itself as performative or produc tive in its relation with the aesthetic object, but the powers at work in it are incapable of being objectifiedor even controlled. In this sense, a concentrated focus on specificdetails and the "distraction" effected by other details that may unexpectedly "gaze at" or otherwise "con front" the receiving subject-that is, concentration and distraction are two equally constitutive components of aesthetic experience. My argument up to this point should have made clear that cin ematographic installation, given its anti-illusionist potential, among other aspects, very much lends itself to such an experience. At any rate, its widespread and rapid appearance on the stage of contempo rary art is not, as the art critic Benjamin Buchloh put it in reaction to the 2001 Venice Biennale, drawing on Walter Benjamin's terminol ogy, a symptom of the displacement of exhibition value by a new kind of"spectacle value." "Exhibition value," writes Buchloh, "the condition of the secularized modernistwork as fu lly emancipated from cult value and myth-has been replaced by spectacle value, a condition in which media control in everyday life is mimetically in ternalizedand aggressively extended into those visual practices that

195 INTERMEDIALITY had previously been definedas either exempt from or oppositional to mass-cultural regimes."155 We will leave aside the question of whether Debord's concept of the spectacle has a reliable explanatory force for an analysis of mass culture today beyond the suggestion of cultural decline it implies: even in Benjamin, exhibition value is, as we have seen, not merely the condition of a completely secular ized and historically autonomous art. It is, in Benjamin, simultane ously the firstsymptom of a profound shift in the fu nction of art: art, Benj amin expects, will not only become mass culture but will like wise also take on the fu nction that Buchloh trusts only an art under the sign of "spectacle value" capable of fu lfilling-to train people, to adapt them to the social realities. This happens, however, with an inverted distribution of value: Buchloh 's diagnosis is one of cultural decline, not of a pre-revolutionary situation. But neither filmnor the cinematographic installation can in itself be taken to represent such a "shift" in the "function" of art-which would be tantamount to its abolition. On the contrary, like experimental, "art house," or great Hollywood film,cinematographic installation, as I hope to have shown, has the potential to become the object of an experience in which various technological and media conditions break free from, and become immune to, their subjection to any ideological fu nction it has the potential to be art. Cinematographic installation, as Gertrude Stein's theater and the "theatrical" installation discussed previously, demonstrates that this concept of art is tied to a concept of aesthetic experience according to which the vestigially metaphysical idea of a synchronization be tween this experience and the course of the filmic ordramatic plot is precisely mistaken. For this idea of a synchronicity between aesthetic experience and the temporal process of the various time-based arts corresponds to an objectivistic conception of art against which many forms of installation art, not only those I have discussed so far, labor implicitly or explicitly. The tension between the time of aesthetic experience and that of the temporal process of the concrete work of art has been an object of musical production at least since the late

15 5 Benjamin H. D. Buchloh, "Control, by Design," Artforum 40, no. I (2 001): 163.

196 Spatial and Time-Based Art sixties. Even more clearly than cinematographic installation, sound installation seems to have originated in an avant-gardist engagement of precisely this problem. That is why I will conclude my reflections on the interrelations between the trends toward spatialization in time-based arts and thespatial art of installation with an examination of sound installation.

2 Sound Installation • 3 • 4. (Theodor W. Adorno, Stanley Cavell)

In his essay on King Lear, Stanley Cavell introduces the idea of "continuous presentness" via a small excursion into the realm of musical perception. The experience of tonal music-like that of dramatic theater-is inseparable, according to Cavell, from a certain unpredictability of its progression, which nonetheless pursues a pointed course. The audience is thus kept in a state of continually present attention fo r each individual moment of the process.156 Like Cavell's concept of aesthetic experience grounded in an aesthetics of presentness, the one Adornodevelops in his music-philosophical writings is based on the ideal listener who reconstructs the music in an attentive and present mind, sublating the time of the aesthetic experience into that of the time-based art of music. And even more pronounced than by Cavell, Adorno sees this ideal, and therefore his conception of music (that is, of music as art), threatened by the then-recent developments in music, particularly the rising trend toward its spatialization.157 With a view to musical developments after 1945-to works by Karlheinz Stockhausen, Pierre Boulez, and John Cage-Adorno writes in his 1961 essay entitled "Vers une musique informelle": Nevertheless, my reactions to most of these works is qualitatively

156 See Cavell's reflections on the analogy between drama and "tonal" music. AL, 320-22. 157 Although such parallels should not be overestimated, there are interesting similarities between Adorno's ideas (e specially with regard to the role composition plays for a conception of music, which I will address shortly) and those Cavell develops in his "Music Discomposed," in Must we mean what we say?, 180-212.

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different from my reaction to the whole tradition down to, and doubtless including, Webem's last works. My productive imagi nation does not reconstruct them all with equal success. I am not able to participate, as it were, in the process of composing them as I listen, as I still could with Webem's String Trio, which is anything but a simple piece. But what I am tempted at firstto register as my own subjective inadequacy may tum out not to be that at all. It may well prove to be the case that serial and post serial music is fo unded on a quite diffe rent mode of apperception, in so far as music can be said to be based on apperception at all. In traditional listening the music unfolds from the parts to the whole, in tune with the flow of time itself. This flow-that is to say, the parallel between the temporal succession of musical events and the pure flowof time itself-has become problematical and presents itself within the work as a task to be thought through and mastered. (VMI, 271) According to Adorno,th is task can be "mastered" only by a music that subscribes neither to the ideal of the organic, like, exemplarily, that of Wagner, nor to the belief in the pure material, like that of John Cage. Whereas Wagner produces a semblance of a virtually natural organicism through half steps that effortlessly flow into one another, thereby concealing its construction-the fact that this music is made (VMI, 306-7)-Cage's musical positivism, according to Adorno, outdoes itself by eliminating not only the semblance of the organic but the entire idea of musical construction made by subjects. What replaces such construction here are tonal relations governed exclu sively by ostensibly objective relations whose fo undation is either "esoteric" (Cage) or "mathematical" (writing in 1961, Adorno may also be thinking of Iannis Xenakis) .158 Although Adornoshares the critique of the organic work of art, he cannot accept such radicalism. For something else is given with the principle of thorough composi tional organization, something that is fo r Adorno anes sential part of the concept of music: the idea oftemporal dynamism in musical

158 See also Theodor W. Adorno,"Musi c, Language, and Composition," in Essays on Music, ed. Richard Leppert, trans. Susan H. Gillespie (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 12 1.

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coherence. The temporal sequence, the interrelations between subse quent sounds seems, for Adorno,to remain externalto these sounds in works that are merely calculated; they appear in unconnected juxtaposition and hence tend toward the static. "For preference they would like to do away," Adornowrites about the composers leading the most recent developments of his time, with everything covered by the term "tendency" in musical pein ture, that is to say the idea that a musical expression left to itself would like to proceed to the next and go on from there. This may well explain the overall static complexion: the image of a music essentially alien to time. It attempts to make do without strong categories. But, against its own intentions, this just deprives it of objectivity and makes it incompatible with the medium of time to which as music it inevitably belongs. To neglect time means nothing less than that music is fa iling to concern itself with one of its specific materialpr econditions. (VMI, 310) "But in music," Adornowrites programmatically, nothing has the right to fo llow something else unless it has been determined by what precedes it or conversely, unless it reveals ex post facto that what has preceded it was, in reality, its own pre condition. For otherwise the concrete temporal unity of music and its abstract temporal form will break asunder. What demands to ap pear just now, neither sooner nor later, fe eds parasitically on time, since it automatically enters the chain of succession. If a musique informelle is expected to absorb thematic, motivic composition into itself, despite its rejection of it, this only means that music should resolve the dilemma of how to reconcile tem poral fo rm and musical content. (VMI, 297) For Adorno,the relation between musical "contents" and musical "'form"-that is, in Adorno,between the "musical individual shapes" and their "integration in time"159-makes all the difference, that is, the difference between music and mere sound material, between art

159 Theodor W. Adorno, "Form in the New Music," trans. Rodney Livingstone, Music Analysis 27 (2 008): 608.

199 INTERMEDIALITY and objecthood.160 Yet, according to Adorno, only composition can safeguard this relation in music. Only composition, or more precisely, the synthesis achieved by the composer in establishing a dynamic interrelation between directly or indirectly subsequent elements, can, for Adorno, liberate the sound material into the "process of a growing unity between parts and whole" that is more than a mere "subsumption of the details" (VMI, 307). Precisely "if the musical substance is to develop organically," he concludes, "the intervention of the subject is required, or rather, the subject must become an integral part of the organism, something which the organism itself calls for. If appearances do not deceive, it is upon this that the future of music depends" (VMI, 307). With respect to an informal music, liberated from the musical linguistic idioms of tonal relations in the broadest sense, this cannot but entail, fo r Adorno, that thematic work, which safeguarded musical coherence in traditional music, must be replaced by work on succes sion. The latter, Adornowrit es, "must perform what was once done by thematic work, even if its methods-identity, variations, surface connections between motifs-are ruthlessly cut away" (VMI, 314 ). Such a work on succession, however, like thematic work, is possible only, according to Adorno, in and by virtue of the fixed image of written music-the score. "The complex fo rms by means of which succession is internally organized as such would be inadequate for any improvised, non-written music-making" (VMI, 295). Elsewhere, he writes even more explicitly: "Without writing [ ...] [there is] no highly organized music; the historical distinction between improvi sation and musica compos ita coincides qualitatively with that between laxness and musical articulation" (RMP, 70). If we leave aside the enormous aesthetic ignorance implicit in the rejection of all improvised music as lax-as many critics have noted, it defines Adorno's fa ilure to engage jazz-what this rejection once again reveals is Adorno's notion of the musical work of art. For compositional construction is

160 On the ethical ramifications of the critique of a music whose elements are not integrated into a temporal-dynamic relationship but appear in an almost spatial relation ofjuxtaposition see Theodor W. Adornoand Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment: Philosophical Fragments, trans. John Cumming (N ew York: Seabury Press, 1972), 180, where spatial relationships are characterized as merely extrinsic-and the conclusion is this: "Space is absolute alienation."

200 Spatial and Time-Based Art no less than the very heart of this work. Only on the basis of the score, the compositional construction fixed in writing, claims Adorno, can music be constituted as a time-based art in the emphatic sense; only here does musical time proper take shape. For only here is each of its elements given a specific function in the musical totality. Only by virtue of the compositional production of such totality can music transcend the empirical time in which it unfolds-to become art. Yet the fact that the score assumes such a central role for Adorno implies by no means that the musical work must merely be made audible as the objectively complete work of art as that which al ready exists in the score. Even Schoenberg's meticulously detailed modem scores, as Adornonotes elsewhere, are not so unambiguous as to render interpretation unnecessary. 161 Only critical interpretation can render musical synthesis concealed beneath written notes and simple tempo indications visible, as well as, subsequently, audible. Accordingly, Adornouses a visual metaphor to describe the analytical interpretation of the written score required for a successfulperf or mance. The "true interpretation," Adorno writes, in conveying insight into structure of the musical phenomenon resembles an "x-ray image

161 The score, of course, guarantees a work's identity such that all performances are performances of a work when they meet all the stipulations set by the score. But a score leaves many fe atures of a performance unspecified-and it is precisely this interpretive leeway, that is, the significantcontri bution interpretation makes to the production of a musical work of art, that is of concernhere. In this context, Adorno also speaks of a "zone of indeterminacy." See the section titled "Draft," in Theodor W. Adorno, To wards a Th eoryof Musical Reproduction, ed. Henri Lonitz, trans. Weiland Hoban (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2006), esp. 163-2 14. Graphic notational systems developed since the fiftiesby Earle Brown (fo r example, Four Sys tems, Folio I, or Event: Sy nergy 11), Roman Haubenstock Ramati (the various versions of his Graphic Mus ic), or CorneliusCardew (Treatise) offeran interesting case in this context. These address precisely this issue-the constitutive role of interpretation in the production of the musical work-in the medium of notation. Even this phenomenon of fraying, then, arises out of an anti-objectivist impulse directed against a pre-critical understanding of the musical work. The graphic delimitation of zones of indeterminacy opened notation up to quite varying interpretations and therefore very different realizations, explicitly turning the performing artist into a (co)producer of the work in question. These graphic notations, then, intentionally resist doing what Nelson Goodman considers the primary duty of a notational system, namely providing the means to enable the identificationof a work from performance to performance. See Nelson Goodman, Languages of Art: An Approach to a Th eorv of Sy mbols (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1968), 179-92, esp. 188-92.

201 INTERMEDIALITY of the text."162 The fact that such interpretations are themselves his torically mutable does of course not in itself justifyto Adorno's mind an interpretive relativism. For interpretation must meet the same demands in relation to its text that composition faces in relation to its material. Just as composition must not indulge in a belief in the pure material nor, on the other hand, circumvent the problem of mu sical coherence through a recourse to traditional solutions/63 interpre tation must not simply abide, in positivistic fa shion, by "what the score reads," nor simply adopt traditional interpretive suggestions. Musical interpretation, then, also exists under the demands of aesthetic progress; the latter being understood in this case as progress within the understanding of the structure of the musical work-as "prog ress in [its] transparency."164 Such progress, however-j ust like the progress of aesthetic production--canbe achieved only on the basis of the "most advanced state of composition-technical insight, and thus [of] compositional technique itself.""For it is [ ...] the unfolding of the means of [(partial) musical totality], that the light which reveals ever-renewed contexts shines upon the texts."165 The ideal of an interpretation based on the most advanced insight into compositional technique aims at as precise an articulation as pos sible of all individual musical events such that the latter become manifest in their functionin the musical context as a temporal dy namic. Generating this coherence-findingthe "central thread of suc cession"166-according to Adorno, should be the goal of the critical immersion in the text. He leaves no doubt that he considers such an exegesis of the text, directed toward its temporal-dynamic coherence, as an indispensable prerequisite for a successful realization of the sound material of a musical work. "The quality of the performance does not mean that there will be more or less musical meaning," Adornowrites in this context; "rather, there will be a qualitative

162 Adorno, To wards a Th eoryof Mus ical Reproduction, 202. 163 See 2.2.1. 164 Adorno, To wards a Th eoryof Mus ical Reproduction, 198. 165 Ibid., 206. The translation misreads Zusammenhang, or (partial) totality, as "musical contextualization."-Trans. 166 See Theodor W. Adorno, "New Music, Interpretation, Audience," in Sound Figures, trans. Rodney Livingstone (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999), 30.

202 Spatial and Timc-13ascd Arl rupture: if the meaning is not wholly realized, if every aspect of the work is not related to it and bearing its stamp, then, in critical cases, all will be lost."167 The interpretation, which pursues the "central thread of succession" in the musical totality, is, for Adorno,not only a requirement for any adequate performance of a work, but simulta neously also a prerequisite for the work to be "understood" by the audience. This understanding, however, also requires an aestheti cally educated audience. The work composed at the most advanced level of compositional technique and then interpreted accordingly seeks an appropriately-that is, sufficiently-advanced ear. Such an ear dwells precisely not-and this, according to how I understand Adorno and Cavell, fu ndamentally distinguishes the for mer's critical fr om the latter's empathetic ear-on every "now" of the musical event but, as it were, listens through this now to hear the "central thread" of the musical process. It hears the musical mean ing that transcends empirical time and in so doing constitutes the musical time proper, the time-based art. "The more completely the musical meaning is present in the appearance," Adorno writes, "the less that appearance is mere presence-or put more drastically: the more completely it is polarized according to its temporal horizon, its protentionality and retentionality, and the less it exhausts itself in the moment of its mere existence."168 For Adorno,to hear means to hear construction, to participate in the composition by creating in terrelations that reach fo rward and backward in time. The aesthetic experience according to Adorno is thus synchronous not in fact with the process of the musical work in empirical time but, as it were, with that which is musically represented in this time: with what Adorno calls "musical meaning." Still, this too, I think, is an ideal of synchronicity between work and receiving subject, albeit perhaps a second-order synchronicity. For in the musical work of art, that is, where there is musical coherence or meaning, "the 'mathematical' time recognized in its quasi spatialized objectivity tends to coincide with the lived experience

167 Ibid., 30. 168 Adorno, To wards a Th eory of Musical Reproduction, 202.

203 INTERMEDIALITY oftime."169 This means nothing other than empirically measurable time ought to be sublated by virtue of the compositional-interpretive achievement in the musical coherence. Yet, according to Adorno's historico-philosophical argument, given the "real diremption of subject and object,"170 such a mediation of the subjective time of experience with objective time can succeed only under precisely defined condi tions: when the technical "productive fo rce" of the empirical composer or interpreting performer, by virtue of a critical self-transcendence of the command that compositional technique exercises over the mate rial, becomes subservient to the latter171 and, as it were, abandons itself to an experience of the non-identical in the material.172 Then, however-and that is to say, under the conditions of aesthetic prog ress-the subjective productive fo rce of the composer or performer is endowed with a universality that, fo r Adorno, transcends this fo rce. It constitutes a musical meaning that is as different "from pro jections which are purely subjective" as from "thing-like objectifica tions" (VMI, 321 ). What thus emerges, Adorno writes in the Philos ophy of New Mu sic, is "a musical subject-object"173-that is, the second objectivity of autonomous art. Regardless of what one thinks of the potentially mystifying image of a kind of production that, as it were, interpassively fo llows the "mimetic impulses" of the material, the actual problem-as we have already established in our discussion of Adorno's dialectical con struction of aesthetic spirit174-concernsAdo rno'sclaim that the

169 Adorno, Philosophy of New Music, 145. 170 Ibid. 171 This is to be accomplished, according to Adorno, by the attempt "to wring its own separate language from the material [following its impulses]" and "to treat [the conventional] language [of music] itself as material and make it self-reliant." Adorno,"Music, Language and Composition," 125. 172 "The logic of artistic technique," writes Adorno, is always authentic control and as such it is also its opposite, the education of the subjective sensibility to respond to the impulses of whatever is not the subject. It is comparable to the assertion that someone has mastered a language, an assertion which only possesses a meaning worthy of mankind if he has the strength to allow himself to be mastered by that language. [ ...] If the subject was the embodiment of rationality, it is now both negated and salvaged. It ceases to mould the material, nor does it furnish it with arbitrary intentions. But the acts in terms of which all this takes place remain those of a spontaneous listening. (VMI,319 ) 173 See Adorno,Philoso phy of New Music, 145.

204 Spatial and Time-Based Art mediation thus conceived between construction and material, between the time of subjective experience and objective "mathematical" time, can be objectified in "musical meaning,"175 such that the latter "would legitimate itself in terms of its adequacy to its own material if the most progressive ears could respond to it at every moment as if it answered their own desires" (VMI, 321). Yet a critique of this connection concernsthe core of Adorno's aesthetic theory. For it is here that what Adorno describes as the second objectivity of the work of art-which must be strictly distinguished from objecthood is constituted: it is not, like the commodity, for the listener but it stands, like a subject, on its own. "The concept of the musical subject," Adorno writes, "should be differentiated. It has absolutely nothing to do with potential listeners, and everything to do with the human right to what Hegel termed 'being present' [Dabeisein]. It is the right of subjectivity to be present in the music itself, as the power of its immediate performance" (VMI, 320). This idea of musical experience as being present to, participating in, reconstructing, and acknowl edging the quasi-subjectivity that-according to Adorno and Cavell176- is the autonomous (time-based) artwork, is problematic not, for instance, because of the elitism implied in the idea of the aesthetically advanced audience. I do not think that Adorno's argu ments for an aesthetic (including production-aesthetic) education of the audience pose a problem in and ofthemselvesP7 His conception of musical experience is problematic rather because it reduces an aesthetic experience to participation in the construction or recon struction of a particular structural relationship that is ultimately read directly fromthe score. Yet how the musical work of art is made and it is for good reasons that this is a fundamental problem in music scholarship-isnot the same as what it is. Adornowas quite right to object to the fetishization of the indi vidual note in the ideology of musical positivism ("Ce n'est pas le

174 See 2.2.1. 175 The existing translation, see VMI, 321, is hobbled by a misunderstanding: musikalischer Sinn is not "musicality."-Trans. 176 On the quasi-subjectivity of the artwork, see Cavell, "Music Discomposed," 189. For a critique of this idea, see also 3 .2.3. 177 See esp. Adorno,"New Music, Interpretation, Audience."

205 INTERMEDIALITY ton qui fait Ia musique" [VMI, 299]), and to point out that the indi vidual note in its musical context is always more than merely just that, and is only perceived in such a context-in a relationally con stituted musical "configuration [Gestalt]" (VMI, 299). But the cre ation of musical coherence as it takes place in composition and inter pretation is structurally diffe rent from the creation of coherence accomplished on the part of aesthetic experience. For the latter is in fact irreducible to the understanding of certain structural relations that, according to Adorno,are simultaneously its meaning. Just as it would be an aesthetic mistake, as we have seen in the case of dra matic theater or film,to reduce the experience of such works to a mental reconstruction of the dramatic events, it would be an aesthet ic mistake, in the case of music, to reduce the experience of it to a participation in the construction, or a reconstruction, of fo rmally comprehensible structural relations. In both cases, what is effaced from the phenomena is what constitutes them as aesthetic in the first place: the tension between what is representing and what is repre sented. This marginalizes, in the case of dramatic theater, the dimen sion of representation, and in the case of music, its latent relation to the world. Yet the tension between what is representing and what is represented is constitutive of all aesthetic experience. Accordingly, we ought not to identify, as Adorno does, musical meaning with structural coherence (the latter ought not be charged as such with content). Instead, given the fundamentally irresolvable tension be tween what is representing and what is represented, the musical work of art, too, creates an open horizon of possible formations of interrelation and hence also of meaning, including meanings relat ing the work to the world. These fo rmations, however, and this is decisive here, cannot terminate in a constellation of the whole and its parts, be it that this constellation is defined in fo rmal terms or with regard to a meaning.178 From this perspective, Adorno's(and Cavell's) idea of the listener obliged to "ubiquitous immediacy, permanent presence" (VMI, 283) must seem problematic as well, and not only because the authoritarian

178 See Wellmer, "Das musikalische Kunstwerk," 133-75.

206 Spatial and Time-Based Art tendency implicit in it.179 For this obligation, according to Adorno, does not brook any "ego-weakness" of the kind that he-again not unlike Cavell-believes he recognizes as the driving motive behind Cage's aleatory practices (see VMI, 283). This idea is problematic more importantly because musical elements may fulfill a variety of functions in the temporally forward and backward reaching interre lations created in aesthetic experience. For the receiving subject (at least of an aesthetic experience) there is no single musical coherence that would perfectly define every moment of the work. This means, however, that not all elements of a musical work of art can be equally "present" to the listener. In this context, a remark by the composer Herbert Eimert, cited by Adorno as an example of the positivist be lief in the material, might take on a diffe rent meaning. "The notes," Adorno writes, quoting Eimert, "do not fu nction, they exist. Not that psychology in music is to give way to physics. The sums don't work out as neatly as that. The acoustic process is the product of the inter course between perception and the state of the object" (VMI, 285). Eimert, unlike Adorno, does not reduce the musical elements notes and sounds-to their position in functional interrelation. Nor, however-and it is indicative that Adornowould fail to note this does he reduce them to their physical natural qualities. They attain their possible meaning(s) for the "acoustic process," the musical work, only in the "intercourse between perception and the state of the object." Art, as we have argued, can generally not be objectified independently of the performative perspective of the subjects of aesthetic experience. But the constitutive role aesthetic experience plays fo r the concept of the work of art, once again, by no means implies that the aesthetic object is "surrendered" to the subject. Because of the indefinite structure ofthe aesthetic experience, its resistance to closure, and because of the constitutive unsettling of the hermeneutic

I 1'1 As seen clearly in a statement by Brian Femeyhough, a composer whose ideas resemble Adorno'sphilos ophy of music: "I would like to keep the listener in a continuous state of nervous receptivity so that he findshimself in a dilemma: he either fo llows the work on the level of engagement it demands, or tunes out and slops fo llowing the work at all." Cited by Jean-Noel von der Weid, Die Musik des 20. Jahrhunderts: Vo n Claude Debussy bis Wo lfgang Rihm, trans. Andreas ( i inhold (Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 200 I), 17.

207 INTERMEDIALITY approach to the aesthetic object that is constitutive of this experience, it instead entails a specificaesthetic op ening of the subject-object relationship. Now, the interminability of aesthetic experience implies, in the case of the time-based art of music, a structural tension between the time of the empirical process and that of aesthetic experience. For the processuality of the aesthetic experience cannot be objectified as an aesthetics of the work, or of production, would have it-in terms of time as organized by a piece of music. The extent to which the processuality of the time-based art of music is paradigmatic for Adorno's concept of the processuality of aesthetic experience in general, is particularly evident when, in the Philosophy of New Music, he disparages painting because it is not endowed with the processuality of time-based art. "All painting," he writes, "even the most abstract, has its pathos in what emphatically is; all music presupposes a becoming."180 But all art is processual-contrary to Adorno'sinterpretation of aesthetic processuality-because the relations in the work, its coher ence, can never be conclusively evident to the subject of an aesthetic experience of it. This, if anything, emancipates the elements of the work of art into a process in which they may develop productive as well as destructive impulses with respect to any particular context in which they are placed. Yet with regards to the musical work of art, this means that its temporal process, however dynamic it may be, ought not to be identifiedwith the processuality of aesthetic experience itself. The time of aesthetic experience can hence also not coincide with that of the work-unlike the latter, the former is indefinite due to the, in principle, infinitepossible interrelations of form and meaning. "Musical time," conceived as genuinely aesthetic time, is not identical to the objective time of its chronometric duration; nor, however, can it be confinedto a coherent formal structure. It is unleashed, time and again, in the subjective processes of aesthetic experience. If this is correct, if aesthetic processuality is internallytied to the perspective of aesthetic experience, and if the latter should therefore also not be confused withthe sequentiality of musical elements in time, no matter

180 Adorno, Philosophy of New Music, 141.

208 Spatial and Time-Based Art how dynamic the latter is conceived, then Adorno'spreference for a certain type of music that unfolds dynamically in time can no longer be an issue of decisive importance to the question of the autonomy of art. Instead, the fact that Adornoelevates this preference to a matter of philosophical principle reveals an objectivist idea not only of aesthetic experience, but ip so facto also of the musical work of art. In music as in the other arts, anti-objectivist insight into the con stitutive role that the subject of aesthetic experience plays fo r art in general has been reflected in a particularly conspicuous way in a wide variety of productions since the sixties. Yet the same insight, I would argue, already underlies the modem tendency toward spatial ization in music: in analogy to the tendencies toward spatialization in the other time-based arts, time, which no longer appears as a mere derivative of musical dynamism, increasingly emerges in the dimension of representation by virtue of spatializing tendencies. The reduction of what occurs in music (repetitive loops and subtle varia tions, the atomization of sounds vis-a-vis construction, of intervals vis :1-vis the transitions between them, and of rhythm vis-a-vis melody} in short, everything that to Adorno's mind constitutes the parasitical" relation to time in evidence in works being produced contemporane ously-allow for a reflection on time as, among other things, a mu sical means of representation. Yet, since this reflection will take place in the indefinite and structurally anti-teleological time of aes thetic experience, this will inevitably bring the structural incongru l'nce between the temporal development of the music and the inter nal time of its experience to the fore. Counter to the objectivist idea ol' a musical subjectivity that objectifies itself in the construction of "musical time" and "would legitimate itself in terms of its adequacy to its own material if the most progressive ears could respond to it at every moment as if it answered their own desires," the tendency to ward spatialization attests to an idea of music that does away not only with the obligatory subjective expression but explicitly also with tIll· objectivist idea of a coincidence of the temporal course of the works and the time of subjective experience. And it does so in favor ,,ra n explicit musical "objecthood," whose autonomy from and con tradistinction to the world of objects is based not in its mere form

209 INTERMEDIALITY but in its dynamization in a particular form of experience. "There is a line of development in modem music," as Albrecht Wellmer has noted, which links Debussy with Stravinsky, Messiaen, and Ligeti. It is a line of development that Adorno, who was preoccupied with the German-Austrian tradition of dynamic, expressive construc tivism, never really came to terms with. [ ...] It is characteristic of the music of the other tradition, however, that there we do not find, in Hegel's terms, the "sphere of subjective inwardness," ex ternalizing itself in sound, but that things themselves are given acoustic expression, that the world is transformed into a realm of sound. By contrast with the finality of a subject-centered tempo rality, the color, rhythmic complexity, and spatiality of music are foregrounded in an object-like form that is no longer final}81 And some aspects, such as the astonishingly consistent privileging of sound, sonic surfaces, and rhythm in relation to notes, pitches, and melodies in twentieth-century music from musique concrete to fr ee jazz to ambient and minimalist techno, even suggest that for the concept of aesthetic modernity we should ultimately consider this line to be the more influential tradition.182 At any rate, what Adorno castigates as the "pseudomorphosis to ward painting" (RMP, 67), namely the tendency, which has been in creasingly self-propelled since Debussy, to emancipate sound via construction, is in no way a sign of a reversal of art into objecthood or spiritlessness or "crass infantilism" (see RMP, 68), as Adorno judges on the basis of fu ndamental philosophical decisions. In "On Some Relationships between Music and Painting," Adornowrites (and we can certainly agree): "If painting or music were simply lacking

181 Albrecht Wellmer, "Adorno, Modernity, and the Sublime," in Endgames: The Irreconcilable Nature of Modernity, trans. David Midgley (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998), 179-80. 182 This is the argument of David Toop, Ocean of Sound: Aether Ta lk, Ambient Sound and Imaginary Wo rlds (London: Serpent's Tail, 1995), esp. 13-35. We can observe a certain degree of preferential attention to tone colors over the "grammar" of sounds, and an interest in the object-like quality of certain sounds, even in composers whom Adorno placesin the tradition of dynamic-expressive constructivism like, for example, Beethoven. See the section on the peculiar case of Beethoven's "battle piece," We llingtons Sieg oder die Schlacht bei Vi/Ioria, in Bettine Menke, Prosopopoiia: Stimme und Te xt bei Brentano, Hoffmann, Kleist und Kafka (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2000), 332-57.

210 Spatial and Time-Based Art the expressive element, the element of an expression without anything concrete to be expressed, the work would no longer intend toward something that is not its own phenomenon and that cannot be hidden in symbolic unity, either within it or anywhere outside it. The work would regress [ ...] to a preartistic state; it would no longer crackle with electricity" (RMP, 72). The fact, however, that such a representa tional potential of sonic material need not be tied to any particular, say, expressive-dynamic method of organization, as Adornobelie ved because of the premises we have discussed, is evident even more clearly than in the tendency toward spatialization in music precisely where, fromAdorno 's perspective, it would be impossible and probably indeed misleading to speak of music at all: in sound installation. In sound installation, there is usually no musical construction that could be "composed along while listening" because there is neither a composition nor a performance nor even the reproduction of one: there is only sound in space. And this sound knows neither beginning nor end and hence no dynamism and no dramaturgy of development. < >f course, sound installations inevitably present themselves as events in time, and reflectivelyexhi bit time by virtue of the extreme reduc t ion of what happens within it as well as- and in this they resemble the cinematographic installation-their open temporal structure, that is, the unspecifiedduration of the visitor's stay in the installation. But I he sound installation, driving the tendencies toward spatialization in music to an extreme, is not so much about the temporal dimension of the acoustic event but rather about its spatial dimension. It thus l"ulf1 11s all the criteria that define,in Adorno'smind, an art sliding into prc-artisticness, spiritlessness, objecthood. Whereas Adorno definesthe necessary relation of music to space against these tendencies primarily on the basis of the relationship helween music and notation, which he presumes to be constitutive of the former (see RMP, 69-70), sound installation, a hybrid situated hl'lwcen visual art and music, is obviously about something else: the ··onstitutive relation of the acoustic phenomenon to space. Not only

211 INTERMEDIALITY the acoustic phenomenon, (co)c reating it or transforming it. The fact that spatial conditions can thus become an integral part of the acoustic phenomenon is of course a matter of interest not only in sound in stallation but was already of importance to those compositional ex periments of the early sixties that had been the subject of Adorno's concern fo r the "future ofmusic.''183 This relation has been engaged with regard both to the discovery of space as resonating space184 and to the acoustic articulation of spaces, or more generally, of environ ments; and the latter in tum in two respects: concerningthe creation of acoustic spatial atmospheres, and in a reflection on the acoustic "spaces" or "landscapes" that surround us every day. Today, both re spects can be associated with the term "ambient." It refers, on the one hand, to music explicitly dedicated to the creation of an acoustic atmospheric background for a particular spatial mise-en-scene. This aspiration calls to mind-the association is probably not unfair-the genres of acoustic environmental design derided as elevator music, sound carpets, or Muzak, which aim at a reception of a kind that seems to fitquite well with Benjamin's concept of reception-in-distraction,

183 See for instance Karlheinz Stockhausen, "Musik im Raum," in Texte zur elektronischen und instrumentalen Musik (Cologne: DuMont, 1963), 152-75. 184 Alvin Lucier is considered one ofthe firstcomposers to have realized that the acoustic qualities of a space can be more than a mere support for musical instruments, that they can also be employed as instruments in their own right. His famous piece I am sitting in a room (1969), for instance, begins with his base material: a male voice reads out the concept for what will be heard during the approximately fo rty-five minute piece-this text is repeated thirty-two times in one and the same space. I am sitting in a room different from the one you are in now. I am recording the sound of my speaking voice and I am going to play it back into the room again and again until the resonant frequencies of the room reinforce themselves so that any semblance of my speech, with perhaps the exception of rhythm, is destroyed. What you will hear, then, are the natural resonant frequencies of the room articulated by speech. I regard this activity not so much as a demonstration of a physical fact, but more as a way to smooth out any irregularities my speech might have. Using a microphone, a speaker, and two tape recorders, Lucier recorded the acoustic influencethat (resonant) space exercises on the original material played in the space and then replayed the recording in this space, in tum recording the result, and so fo rth. This gradually amplified those frequencies that resonated in the space while the remainder of the frequency spectrum gradually vanished until nothing but a peculiarly melodic fragment remained, behind which nothing but the rhythm of the words (if even so much) is recognizable as the driving fo rce. See the liner notes by Nicolas Collins for Alvin Lucier, I am sitting in a room (New York: Lovely Music, 1990).

212 Spatial and Time-Based Art especially keeping in mind the aspect of passive acclimatization, and which we would therefore no longer call aesthetic. On the other hand, however, as Diedrich Diederichsen has pointed out, ambient may sometimes refer to an "engagement with the background that is always already there-be it 'natural' or 'cultural' in character."185 What might initially seem to be a contradiction in terms is resolved if we comprehend both aspects in an aesthetically ambitious conception of ambient as fo llows: "If ambient," Diederichsen writes, "means to design music so that it remains in the background on the one hand and turnsthe already-existing background-environmental sounds and acoustic byproducts-into the fo reground on the other, then the concept is rooted in a dialectical play with the fact that what is open and pure atmosphere or mood draws exactly on the getting-out-of hand and becoming-unfamiliar of that which is something in a very precise sense, namely, an everyday sound."186 As the introduction to a sound art anthology notes programmatically: "Noise-your lover's voice, a factory floor, the television news-is ripe with meaning and content distinguishable from the meaning and content of musical expression. It is this content that constitutes any possibility of an art of sound."187 Sounds have meaning in multiple ways-unlike the medium of music, they are related to the world in a quite direct way. Yet as John Cage has exemplarily shown,l88 even the everyday sound, as an aesthetic phenomenon, is irreducible to its denotative fu nction-it gets "out of hand" in a specifically aesthetic way, be coming sound, atmosphere, or mood, white noise. An aesthetic experi ence of the acoustic material can neither sublate it in a particular meaning nor grasp it as such, as "mere being." Material and meaning, as we have already seen in the example of the presumed objecthood of Minimal art, exist only in dynamic-conftictual interrelation in the aesthetic experience.

I XS Diedrich Diederichsen, Der lange Weg nach Mitte: Der Sound und die Stadt (Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch, 1999), 157. IX6 Ibid., 164. IX7 Dan Lander, "Introduction," Sound by Artists, eds. Dan Lander and Micah Lexier (Toronto: ArtMetro pole, 1990), II. lXX Cage unleashes the everyday sound more radically than musique concrete, which still uses it as a material for composition.

213 INTERMEDIALITY

Like ambient music, the sound installation is constituted as an acoustic phenomenon in the "dialectic of meaningless meaningfulnessand meaningfulmea ninglessness."189 But what is specificto sound instal lation is that this dialectic does not, or at least not primarily, refer to the acoustic-musical phenomenon itself but occurs between the sound and the concrete space in which it is installed, that is, exhibited. The concrete space may indeed also take on an important aesthetic fu nction for the performance of such work, but it is of particular aesthetic significance in the installation because, as I have said, there is no performance: there is only the occurrence of sound in space. The sound lends atmosphere to the space, furnishes it with an acoustic background-as, conversely, the space exhibits the sound, moves it to the fo reground, enables us in the firstpl ace to consciously hear it. It should be noted that the sound can work against the space as well as with it. The sound can acoustically evoke a space quite different from the one in which it is installed (as in Bill Fontana's Harmonic Bridge [2006]), or it can amplifythe sounds that may already have existed in the space (as in, fo r example, certain works byMax Neuhaus, the "inventor" of sound installation). In both cases neither the sound nor the space can be defined as foreground or background. This movement, which continuously shifts the significant object of attention between sound and space, between acoustic and visual phenomenon, is one aspect of the aesthetic potential of sound instal lation. Many installations heighten this potential by including sound that is altered by the hearer/viewer's own movement within the installation. Unlike all the other types of installations we have dis cussed so far, many sound installations are indeed interactive. The listener/viewer triggers sounds and/or alters them. Yet the fact that the listener/viewer's movements in space seem to set this space itself in motion, dynamizing space itself in its acoustic as well as its visual representational potential, is an effect not so much of the physical movement of the viewer within it but rather of his self reflective, perforrnative relation to it. Sound installation clearly emerged from the tendencies in music

189 Diederichsen, Der lange Weg nach Mitte, 165.

214 Spatial and Time-Based Art toward spatialization and a growing independence of the sound and, as it were, marks its pinnacle. At the same time, however, sound in stallation is already about something qualitatively diffe rent. It is no longer primarily about a reflection on the representational dimension of time and hence of the time-based art of music in (tense) relation to the internal time of the experience of it. It is instead about a dou ble reflection on space: on the spatial quality of acoustic phenomena on the one hand, and on the acoustic quality of spaces on the other. This is one reason why our discussion of sound installation concludes the present chapter. Because the experience of sound installation aesthetically reflects on the question of whether the particular space is one in which or as which the installation is presented, it once again delineates a particularity of installation art that, as the example of Kabakov's "total" installation already suggested, is precisely no longer specific to the installational integration or exhibition of time based arts: the reflection on the representational potential of the space of exhibition or installation. To conclude this chapter, we can summarize: there are neither purely spatial arts nor purely time-based arts. On the phenomeno logical level, time-based arts always contain (at least) one spatial ele ment, even if, as we have seen, they do so in very diffe rent ways. And spatial arts are constituted in the processes of aesthetic experi ence-their internal structure is temporal. Yet we should not con clude from the constitutive processuality of works of art that "essen tially all arts are time-based arts, even if they do not successively unfold to perception in time."190 It is true that "by virtue of the pro cessual interaction of their components [ ...] in aesthetic percep tion," the spatial arts evince "a non-linear temporality they share with the arts whose works unfold in time."191 Yet precisely if spatial and time-based arts share a non-linear temporality inherent to them by virtue of their internal relatedness to the processes ofthe respective experience of them, we should not, as I hope to have demonstrated in this chapter, identifyth is temporality with the temporal unfolding of time-based arts. I have shown that the latter does not coincide

190 See!, "Asthetik und Aisthetik," 50. 191 Ibid.

215 INTERMEDIALITY with the former. This is of course particularly manifest in those pro ductions that explicitly make the incongruence between the temporal development of time-based arts and the internaltime of the experience of them their subject. The fact that this incongruence has become an important theme in contemporary artistic production in general and of installation art in particular simultaneously distinguishes such art as reflecting a post-metaphysical conception of aesthetic modernity. For it explicitly or implicitly labors against the high modernistideal of a synchronicity between the temporal development of time-based arts and the internaltime proper of the experience of them. Like the ideal of an instantaneous comprehensibility of the work of spatial art, that of a synchronous reconstruction of the work of time-based art is expressive of an aesthetic of presentness and based on an objectivist concept of art. And an opposition to this concept of art is, I believe, the primary motive behind moderntendencies toward the fraying of art genres that, as we have seen, reach their most pointed manifestation in the hybrid art of installation. Furthermore, this part has shown that such fraying does not in validate the discourse on the specificqual ities of various aesthetic media; but these qualities do not in themselves prove a solid foun dation for aesthetic autonomy or even clearly defined boundaries between art genres. On the contrary, because aesthetic media cannot be "observed" independently of artistic formal creations, the wide variety of often hybrid works of art today inversely manifest aspects of the respective media that may be as "specific" as they are novel to the concept of these media. This is true also with respect to the light that installation art has shed in sometimes quite literal ways if we think for instance of Dan Flavin's fluorescentlig ht installa tions-on one of the decisive "media conditions" of painting and sculpture: the exhibition space. A reflectionon the literal sites of art is in most cases tied to a reflection also on its social site. And no form of art has indeed been more explicitly associated with sociopolitical content than that of installation. This association, however, should also be seen in relation to the diminishing significanceof the traditional genres for the concept of art. "Under the pressure of an intensifying nominalism," Adorno

216 Spatial and Time-Based Art writes in his Aesthetic Theory, "the ever present yet latent social character of art was made increasingly manifest. [ ... ] The influxof experiences that are no longer fo rced into a priori genres, the require ment of constituting form out of these experiences, that is, from below: This is 'realistic' in purely aesthetic terms, regardless of content [Inhalt] . No longer sublimated by the principle of stylization, the re lation of content to the society from which it derives at firstbecomes much less refracted."192 In fact, the irruption of the social layer into the level of content already plays an explicit role in all the types of installation I have discussed so far. For beyond the formal-structural problems that have been at issue in the preceding chapters, a sig nificant question fo r all these works is which sort of semantic content can be brought into the play of aesthetic experience-and this is as true for the mute scenes of theatrical installation as it is for the moving images of cinematographic installation or the sounds in sound instal lation. The next part, entitled "Site Specificity," will be dedicated to installation art's reflection on its dual site. Yet in closing the present chapter and as a transition to the next, I would firstlik e to returnonce more to the difference between installation strategies and the tradition of the gesamtkunstwerk. I believe we should distinguish firmly between the installation productions of contemporary art and the ideology of the gesamtkunstwerk not only because that which is aesthetically relevant in them is precisely irre ducible to the fiction of a (compulsory) union of all arts, but above all because we should presuppose an aesthetic difference even where, since the historical avant-gardes, the artistic movements themselves have time and again programmatically and in ever new ways "trans gressed" the boundaries between art and life. Surprisingly enough, the endeavor to suspend the aesthetic difference in fact unites the sup porters of the gesamtkunstwerk and the critics of the theatrical. It is not by chance that the fe stival serves as a paradigm for both the critics of theatricalityl93 and the ideology of the gesamtkunstwerk.194 In its

192 Adorno,Aesthetic Th eory, 225. 193 See, once again, Rousseau, Politics and the Arts, 124-5. 194 See, for example, Johann Georg Sulzer, "Schauspiel," in Allgemeine Th eorie der schonen Kunste, vol. 4 (Hildesheim: Olms, 1994), esp. 260-6 1; Richard Wagner,

217 INTERMEDIALITY ambition to defend aesthetic difference against its fa lse sublation into the spectacle of a culture (which is aestheticized in the firstpla ce by this sublation), and to do so also and precisely with a view to contemporary art, the present argument deliberately fo llows Adorno despite the disagreements we have mentioned with respect to the question of how this ought to be achieved. Yet these disagreements imply another theoretical difference: such a defense no longer requires a perspective circumscribed by a phi losophy of reconciliation. Unlike Adorno's, my defense of aesthetic diffe rence is no longer put fo rward in the name of a utopian final reconciliation, and it is thus no longer directed merely against a sub lation of art into life, which would be fa lse because it would be inad equate to present historical conditions. Instead, my defense of aesthetic difference is undertaken in the name of a structural autonomy of the aesthetic in relation to the spheres of moral-practical and theoretical scientific reason; it is thus directed against the idea of a sublation of art into life as such. Though programmatic declarations issued by artistic avant-gardes to this day have often emphasized this idea, transgressive phenomena in art indeed never worked to conclusively transcend art toward life-in fact, that would amount to a self-abolition of art. Rather, such phenomena aim and continue to aim at a particular opening of arttoward its concrete historical contexts-an opening, that is, within the medium of art.195 More than any other art, an art whose concept can no longer be derived froma priori definitionsof genre and in which the society in which it is embedded has, as it were, irrupted into the level of content calls for a conceptualization that unites the self-transgression of art and its autonomy. Such a conceptualization, as I hope to demonstrate more conclusively in the next part, requires a post-metaphysical and anti-objectivist understanding of art and aesthetic experience.

"Art and Revolution," in The Art Wo rk of the Future and Other Wo rks,trans. W. Ashton Ellis (Lincoln: Univeristy of Nebraska Press, 1993), 52. For a more extensive discussion see the anthology Szeemann, ed., Der Hang zum Gesamt kunstwerk. 195 For a related critique of Adorno, see Wellmer, "Adorno, Modernity, and the Sublime," 191-2.

218 219 Site Specificity In art praxes of the last decade, the concept of aesthetic autonomy has played virtually no role. It has been relevant, if at all, only as the epitome of everything from which artists have sought to .distance themselves.' The autonomy, however, from which recent movements direct successors to the classical and neo-avant-gardes-have sought to distance themselves, is forever only the pseudo-autonomy of the organic work of art of aestheticism, presumably independent of context, self-contained and self-sufficient. By contrast, if installation art has a common denominator, it is that these are, in the broadest terms, works that open themselves quite literally toward their visible and invisible contexts or even render them explicitly thematic. Installations are context-sensitive with regard not only to the interior or exterior space in which they are exhibited but also to the social frameworks that influencethe reception of art in generaJ.2 Installation art thus engages society not from a sphere presumably untouched by it and in this sense autonomous; it also always addresses its own social dimension. Yet as the art historian Alex Potts correctly notes, the double sensitivity of installation art to context has led neither to an abolition of the traditional work of art nor to fundamentally new conditions of reception. Instead, installation art has quite fu ndamentally and polemically-that is, also with regard to traditional painting in a frame or sculpture on a pedestal-rejected the idea of context-independent art as ideologicaJ.3 For any experience of a work of art, as Adorno already saw, "depends on its ambience, its function, and, literally and figuratively, its locus."4 Today, artin general cannot avoid this insight. Not only have curatorial questions increasingly moved into the scope of artistic production, but the relatively new appearance of the

See, for example, the tenor of the contributions to an anthology on the art of the nineties in Kontext Kunst, ed. Peter Weibel (Cologne: DuMont, 1994). 2 See Anne Rorimer, "Context as Content, Subject as Object: Installations in Chicago Since 1967," in Art at the Armory: Occupied Te rritory (Chicago: Museum of Contemporary Art, 1992), 24--45. "The move to installation certainly has not resulted in a complete dissolution of the sculptural object, nor the distinctive structures of response elicited by a traditional sculpture. Rather it has entailed a progressive abandonment of the assumption prevalent in much nineteenth- and twentieth-century aesthetics that the authentic art object has to be completely self sufficient, its significanceunaffected by the circumstances of its display." Potts, "Installation and Sculpture," 6. 4 Adorno,Ae sthetic Th eory, 350.

221 SITE SPECIFICITY figure of the curator and the establishment of curatorial studies pro grams are likewise effectsof the growing awareness that the double contextualization of art touches upon the sphere of the artistic phe nomenon itself. That is why advanced art today always has something of the installation to it; and a lack of contextual awareness is not in frequently a sign of provinciality. This nexus is quite evident in the field ofpainting . The most interesting contemporary German paint ers display a sensitivity to the rhetoric of hanging (as, for example, Michael Krebber and Albert Oehlen quite clearly do), if not more over to the social site of their paintings (just as clearly visible in the work of Lukas Duwenhogger, Jutta Koether, and Andreas Siekmann). Under the title of"site specificity," installation art sharpens the reflection onthe double localization of art by expressly mediating between its two poles: site-specific installation art aims to thematize the interwoven literal and social sites of art. It reflects on the institu tional, social, economic, political, and/or historical conditions that frame it by intervening fo rmally in a given architecture or landscape. But it is in no way clear on which concept of site any particular consideration of site specificity in art is based. The same goes for the concept of space, which is always implicitly at stake when we speak of site-specificart, as the latter opens up to its concrete environment the space surrounding it. Taking up and critically engaging Martin Heidegger's proposal for the manner of theorizing the interrelation be tween art and space, I will firstargue that the phenomenological def inition of the relationship between site and space constitutes a nec essary if insufficient basis for an aesthetic conception of site-specific phenomena (3.1). This will once again also raise the question of the interventionist, critical, and political potential of site-specific instal lation art (3.2). For the reflection on the social site of art, if it occurs in the medium of art at all, is as irreducible to sociological defini tions of its site or fu nction as the reflection on the literal site of art is to the phenomenological concept of situatedness. Particularly for art that thematizes its double context, the simple reference to the con crete and social context in which the work stands is insufficient to explain its specific context-reflectivity. Instead, we will have to criti cize those critical endeavors that conclude that art is nothing but a

222 social fact from the insight that it is a social fact. Concerningsite- spe cificin stallation practice, what is wrong-and I can in fact state this with Adomo---"is not social reflectionon artworks [ ...] but rather the subordination of artworks to abstract social correlations determined from above."5 For such subordination means to pit ostensibly objec tive truths against subjective experience. I would argue that neither the critical point of early institution-critical site-specificworks of the seventies nor that of installation art of the nineties, which posi tioned itself in larger social, cultural, economic, and political con texts, can be understood without recourse to said subjective experi ence. And understanding here means understanding such art as art. The critical momentum of site-specificworks, as I will show, is not directed against, but on the contrary proceeds in, the mode of their aestheticity. The contextual reference of art exhibited by site-specific installations should thus be understood not as contrary to the auton omy of the aesthetic object but rather as one of the essential aspects defining this autonomy. To say so, however, means once again to de tach the concept of aesthetic autonomy fr om its definitions of pro duction or work aesthetics and to relate it instead to the specifically aesthetic structure of engagement with aesthetic objects, that is, to the specificqualities of aesthetic experience. To the extent that the concept of the work of art is thus internally tied to that of aesthetic L�xperience, the social relation of art that is essential for its con cept-and this is what I believe the best installation art makes mani lcst-is not so much the "immanence of art in society" but rather "the immanence of society in the artwork"6 (even ifthis is also quite dif- 1\:rent from what Adorno means). We will return to this question. I will first tum,wi th and against Heidegger, to a problem that at lirst glance might seem more concrete, that of the references instal lation artmakes to its immediate spatial surroundings: the problem or the relationship of art and space.

I hid., 242. r, I hid., 232.

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