Introduction: Shadows of Enlightenment

S OF PROJECTION SCENE Recasting the Enlightenment Subject

Jill H. Casid

University of Minnesota Press Minneapolis | London

umpCasid.indd 3 7/29/2014 2:02:16 PM An earlier version of part of chapter 2 was previously published as “His Master’s Obi: Machine Magic, Violence and Transculturation,” in The Visual Culture Reader, ed. Nicholas Mirzoeff (New York: Routledge, 2002), 533– 45.

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umpCasid.indd 4 7/29/2014 2:02:16 PM CONTENTS

Introduction Shadows of Enlightenment 1

1 Paranoid Projection and the Phantom Subject of Reason 35

2 Empire through the Magic Lantern 89

3 Empire Bites Back 125

4 Along Enlightenment’s Cast Shadows 159

5 Following the Rainbow 195

Conclusion Queer Projection: Theses on the “Future of an Illusion” 225

Acknowledgments 245 Notes 251 Index 307

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SHADOWS OF ENLIGHTENMENT

Foucault once said something quite beautiful about this. He said that historical research was like a shadow cast by the present onto the past. For Foucault, this shadow stretched back to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. For me, the shadow is longer. There is no great theoretical difference between my work and Foucault’s; it is merely a question of the length of the historical shadow. — Giorgio Agamben, “Papst ist ein weltlicher Priester: Interview with Giorgio Agamben”

Space may be the projection of the extension of the psychical apparatus. No other derivation is probable. Instead of Kant’s a priori determinants of our psychical apparatus. Psyche is extended; knows nothing about it. — Sigmund Freud, “Findings, Ideas, Problems”

Scene of Projection 1: The scene of projection is an apparatus of power that produces its subject.

Let me open this book on the recasting of the subject in the shadows of enlightenment not by shedding light to banish the menace of what the subject will not admit but by setting the scene of projection with the device of a dream that might seem readily dismissed.1 The dream begins: “In one dream, which I had in October 1958. . . .”2 Recounted in Memories, Dreams, Reﬂections (1962), the biography of C. G. Jung published in English two years after the Swiss psychiatrist’s death, the dream is already articulated in the familiar but distancing “I” voice of

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the past tense as a dream that is already over, one that has passed into history as a processed lesson.3 Set concretely in the colonial, Cold War past, October 1958 was the month of geopolitical and extraterrestrial flights in which French Guinea declared its independence as the Repub- lic of Guinea (which marked the beginnings of the repressive regime of which the concrete and barbed wire of Camp Boiro may well be the lasting diagrammatic sign); Pan- American World Airways began its transatlantic jetliner service between New York and Paris; and NASA, the newly constituted U.S. government agency of aeronautics and space administration, officially launched itself with the failed lunar mission of the Pioneer 1 space probe that never reached its destination. The dream may thus appear dated in every sense. And yet, the curiosity and telling absurdity of the dream are its uncanny substitutions. The opening line that sets the stage of the dream text continues: “. . . I caught sight from my house of two lens-shaped metallically gleaming disks, which hurtled in a narrow arc over the house and down to the lake. They were two UFOs” (323). In place of the retreating flights of colonial powers, the traversals of transatlantic jetliners, and the lunar trajectories of unmanned space probes, the dream sets in motion two “UFOs,” the dubious figures and strange attractors that so readily concresce Cold War paranoia into immediately legible signs, the flying saucers of cultural mass hysteria so easily boo- meranged back not as agents of alien contact but as the affective vectors of feverdreams of overactive fear.4 The subsequent identification of two more such “metallically gleaming disks” only intensifies the strangeness. Flying directly toward the dream’s narrator who views them from the enclosure of the domes- tic space of the house, the iconic signs of a dated and even nostalgic version of paranoia not only are lens- shaped but, as they come closer, resolve into not identifiable flying machines but scientific instruments of projection from the hallowed seventeenth- century beginnings of what has been retrospectively enshrined as the “Scientific Revolution”: the telescope and the magic lantern. Let me quote the dream- text’s description in full:

Then another body came flying directly toward me. It was a perfectly circular lens, like the objective of a telescope. At a distance of four or five hundred yards it stood still for a moment, and then flew off.

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Immediately afterwards, another came speeding through the air: a lens with a metallic extension which led to a box—a magic lantern. At a distance of sixty or seventy yards it stood still in the air, pointing straight at me. (323)

These devices for casting an image on a wall, screen, or other surface function as dense condensation points in Jung’s dream, concrescing the historical with the psychoanalytic, the analogical and metaphorical with the material, not as a departure from but focused on and through the features of the technical. So let’s get technical for a moment. The more familiar version of the telescope (the celebrated optical tube fitted with an eyepiece and an objective lens) points up at the stars and planetary bodies in the night sky. But the projecting version of the telescope was used from the seventeenth century onward— most famously in the work of Galileo Galilei and Christoph Scheiner— to capture sunspots and planetary transits across the sun as images cast onto a surface for observation.5 A complex philosophical instrument of seventeenth- century optics in its own right, the magic lantern, like the projecting telescope, depends on a light source and lenses to cast an image.6 The basic elements of the magic lantern device consist of a metal or wooden body or box, an illuminant, an objective or condensing lens, and a focusing lens. In its simplest setup, the magic lantern produces a cast image by light sent from a light source (most often a lamp), gathered by a mirror or lens (the so- called objective), and passed through glass slides painted or containing specimens for projection and inserted upside down into a tube. The result- ing image is altered by an additional lens that magnifies, focuses, and “rights” the orientation of the projected image.7 These devices were further modified to introduce obvious media- tions between the world outside the aperture and the beholding subject. With prisms, smoke, artificial light sources, live or preserved specimens on glass, painted images on transparencies, wooden sliders with multiple images or specimens that could be rotated or moved back and forth, these devices were also used to project images in such a way that they would seem to come to life, appear out of nowhere, or dissolve into one another. Such effects gave the illusion of bridging the gap between the here and the over there, the real and the imagined, the intangible and the material.

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Both the projecting telescope and the magic lantern do not just take place in a darkened enclosure or room but adapt the optical principles demonstrated by the philosophical instrument known by the Latin name for the dark room: the camera obscura (Figure 1).8 An experimental device described as early as the eleventh century in the work on optics by Ibn al-Haytham (Latinized as Alhazen), the camera obscura became one of the principal machines for the demonstration of how the eye was supposed to operate. A room or box with a small hole or aperture often fitted with a condensing lens, the camera obscura was also a simple projector, showing how light from outside the wall or room could be directed through a hole in the wall to cast an inverted image of the world outside on the opposite wall or screen. Besides the scene-setting devices of enclosure and surrounding darkness to intensify the illumi- nation, the central feature all projecting devices share is the use of an aperture to condense and redirect the light rays that cross from top to bottom and bottom to top to form an upside-down image. Without an additional lens to “correct” the inversion, the projecting telescope, the magic lantern, and other projective devices that took advantage of the dark room demonstrate the laws of optics and the ostensible physiol- ogy of vision as machines of projective inversion. Taking advantage of this technically embedded metaphorics for top/bottom relations of power and agency by inversion to extract a lesson from his dream of flying instruments of projection, Jung narrates an abrupt and astonished transition from sleep and dreams to a waking dream- state, half in and half out of the dream. It is at this threshold of dream/reality that Jung’s thoughts on the dream- content “pass through his head” as if vectored from a place external to the dream- state. The astonishing reversal of the direction of projection from outside in makes of the head a camera obscura into which is cast the inverted image of the relation of the subject (Jung himself) to its abjured object (the UFO whose reality is denied by the projection)—but with a nonsymmetrical substitution. It is not the unidentified flying object that projects the particular subject, C. G. Jung, but the apparatus of the magic lantern:

I awoke with a feeling of astonishment. Still half in the dream, the thought passed through my head: “We always think the UFOs are projections of ours. I am projected by the magic lantern as C. G. Jung. But who manipulates the apparatus?” (323)

umpCasid.indd 4 7/29/2014 2:02:17 PM FIGURE 1. Camera obscura, in Athanasius Kircher, Ars magna lucis et umbrae (Amsterdam, 1671), 709. Copyright Science Museum / Science and Society Picture Library.

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The dream- text abruptly shifts to the question of who manipulates the apparatus, and it is on this question of the shaping agency of technology that the substitution of magic lantern for UFO is telling and yet also unresolved. The ultimate lesson of the dream narration translates the reversal, making a machine metaphor out of the technical inversion that is the distinguishing feature of the magic lantern’s operation. The magic lantern’s projection of the analyst performs a demonstration of the reversed relation between the ego and the unconscious, the domain of “reality” and that of the “dream” in order to provide an instrument representation for the unconscious as a machine of production—the “generator” of what Jung calls the “empirical personality”:

The aim is to effect a reversal of the relationship between ego- consciousness and the unconscious, and to represent the unconscious as the generator of the empirical personality. This reversal suggests that in the opinion of the “other side,” our unconscious existence is the real one and our conscious world a kind of illusion, a dream which seems a reality as long as we are in it. (324) This thought that comes as if from the “other side” of the subject but experienced in the dream as if traveling toward the subject from the outside (and set off in quotation marks in the dream-text as if the meta- reflection on the dream-thoughts were articulated by someone else) is a way of thinking, a way of knowing, a way of asking questions that the instrumentation of the unconscious as a device of projection that produces the subject and the subject’s “reality” does not resolve. Asking “but who manipulates the apparatus?” raises the vexed issue of agency in the scene of projection that extends well beyond the particular scene of Jung’s dream-text of flying projective telescopes and magic lanterns. The identified and known technologies of projection— not just the projective telescope and the magic lantern but also the practice of psychoanalysis itself— perform another labor in this scene of projection that produces the subject, attempting to cast out lingering anxiety and doubt about an agency over the subject that is not just psychical but also material (as figured in a potential alien encounter with what the subject will not own and what the dream- text and its analysis seek to dispel). We might say that the shadow of the abjured and unidentified flying object lingers in this question of machine agency over not just the psyche but the vulnerable and susceptible material body of the analyst that is nowhere in this scene.

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While the structure of negating substitution and turnabout in Jung’s dream-text of the scene of projection deploys scientific instruments of projection to demonstrate the workings of the unconscious in the casting of the subject, the projection is also a contraption for producing a fantasy subject of discarnate reason who can master the unknown and fear- inducing unidentified mobile object by its conver- sion into known and reassuringly recognizable instruments of projection. These instruments do not only demonstrate the laws of optics and the “correct” way to see, but also a way of knowing— the psychoanalytic practice of projecting the projection—that offers the dream of dispelling the shadow of vulnerability to the disorganizing somatic and affective responses that hollow out the defended fortress ego of rational, disincarnate vision and its fantasy of sovereign agency over the tremulous body and its enmeshed, interdependent precarity. Building on Giorgio Agamben’s reworking of Foucault’s historical genealogy of the dispositif of power in the formation of the subject as that “apparatus” “in which, and through which, one realizes a pure activity of governance devoid of any foundation in being” (in other words, “appa- ratuses must always imply a process of subjectivization, that is to say, they must produce their subject”), Scenes of Projection takes seriously the instrumentation of the unconscious in the psychoanalytic scene of projection as a device for the casting out but also the recasting of what the subject will not admit, a process that points at once to the history of the shaping of the fortress ego by paranoid projection and also offers a way of analytically approaching the difficult question of what other lateral agencies across the scene of projection might be afforded for other forms of being and becoming besides the subjection of the fortress ego and its abject objects.9

Scene of Projection 2: Instrument metaphors for the workings of the unconscious that make use of early modern philosophical instruments, the elaboration of the mechanism of projection in paranoia, melancholia, and psychic life more generally, and the deployment of projection to counter superstition all draw on the history of projective apparatus as devices of subjection but also provide a means of understanding and intervening in the ways in which techniques of paranoid projection produce the phantom subject of rational vision.

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Scenes of Projection sets itself the task of telling the story of image projection as a tale of the exercise of what psychoanalysis theorized as the mechanism and practices for developing and maintaining the fantasy of the fortress ego. In contrast with Jung, Freud’s instrument metaphors for the unconscious were compounded out of an assemblage of devices of recording, projection, enlargement, and writing (the microscope, camera apparatus, camera obscura, photographic positive and negative processes, and the Wunderblock) that refuse to resolve into a simple iconic form or a single shape that might be mistaken for a particular applied machine, whether experimental or therapeutic. This highly theoretical elaboration of citations to actual machines in the concocting of assembled fantasy machines that do not serve direct functions may be understood in terms of the work done on Freud’s ambiv- alent distancing of his treatment practice (the “talking cure”) from those who used machine touch (including genital manipulation) and direct machine experimentation.10 In the published work, one may note the ambivalence, for example, in the relegation to a footnote in the 1919 edition of The Interpretation of Dreams of Freud’s reference to the experimental application of a new time-based variant of the magic lantern known as the “tachistoscope” (literally “quick view”) used by his colleague Otto Pötzl. While distinguishing between “this new method of studying the formation of dreams experimentally and the earlier crude technique for introducing into the dream stimuli which interrupted the subject’s sleep,” Freud nonetheless insisted that the questions raised by Pötzl’s 1917 paper extended far beyond the scope of Freud’s own work on dreams.11 Despite such demurring, Freud’s elaboration of fantasy machine assemblages must also be seen in terms of his own training, life world, and collecting and viewing practices. Freud attended Jean-Martin Char- cot’s lectures on hysteria at the Salpêtrière where Charcot used the magic lantern for experiments in hypnosis (Figure 2),12 and he collected painted lantern slides that remain largely uncataloged in the collection of the Freud Museum but include sliders, for example, featuring views of the homosocial worlds of fraternizing sailors aboard ship (Figure 3). Contemporary artist Susan Hiller’s piece “Curiosities of Sigmund Freud” (2005) calls our attention to a set of eight glass magic lantern slides called “miniature curiosities for the microscope” that

umpCasid.indd 8 7/29/2014 2:02:18 PM FIGURE 2. Jean- Martin Charcot (1825– 1903), French neurologist and pathologist, demonstrating the production of hypnosis with light projected from a magic lantern. Picture drawn from life at the Salpêtrière Hospital, Paris. Engraving from La Nature (January 18, 1879): 104. Courtesy of fotoLibra.

FIGURE 3. Colored magic lantern slide, uncataloged, date unknown. Collection of the Freud Museum, London. Courtesy of the Freud Museum, London.

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Freud collected (now uncataloged at the Freud Museum). Hiller’s prints, made by magnifying projection of the microscopic black dots on the slides, take advantage of the concresced material metaphor for the unconscious in the technical exploitation of magnification to reveal an interlining in the visible, demonstrating the way in which tiny, opaque dots, when projected, resolve ambiguously into apparitions such as the illegible but queerly suggestive intimacies of the bodies just beginning to resolve into view in “Spirits Dark & Fair” (Figure 4). Freud wrote in his letters to his family about seeing popular magic lantern displays when he was in Italy and, as Siegfried Zielinski recounts in the chapter on Giambattista della Porta’s book of Natural Magic in his Deep Time of the Media (2006), was interested enough in the kinds of refracting and reflecting devices described in early modern experiments to have installed a special projecting mirror in his office at Berggasse 19 in Vienna that allowed him to see other parts of the residence such as the bedroom reflected in the glass.13 But the point of assembling these material traces of Freud’s immersion in the culture of projection is not to find a smoking gun or magic lantern aimed at his head. Rather, it is to emphasize the cultural and material embeddedness of Freud’s elaboration of instrument metaphors for the unconscious. To emphasize that the unconscious performed a complex array of functions (receiving, inventing, recombining, negating, inverting, con- verting the libidinal investment or charge, reversing affect, and casting out), Freud elaborated the “instrument of mental function” as a compound device or assemblage with multiple, interconnected systems.14 In The Interpretation of Dreams, he makes it clear that it may be pic- tured as a compound microscope or photographic apparatus, but these examples hardly exhaust the analogy for Freud, who notes that “we should picture the instrument which carries out our mental functions as resembling a compound microscope or a photographic apparatus, or something of the kind” (emphasis mine).15 In his 1912 “Note on the Unconscious in Psycho- analysis,” Freud replaced the photographic apparatus with the chemistry of photography and spoke of the “negative process” and the “positive process” to explain the relation between conscious and unconscious activity, emphasizing that not all negative impressions may be admitted to the positive process and, thus, result in a developed picture.16 In “Resistance and Repression,” Lecture XIX

umpCasid.indd 10 7/29/2014 2:02:18 PM FIGURE 4. Susan Hiller, “Spirits Dark & Fair,” from “The Curiosities of Sigmund Freud” (2005). Nine Iris giclée prints on Japanese handmade paper, based on eight uncataloged glass slides from the Freud Museum, London, and a letter written by Sigmund Freud. Each image 29 11/16 inches / 45.5 x 75.4 cm on paper: 20 7/8 x 32 1/8 inches / 53 x 81.5 cm. Courtesy of Susan Hiller.

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in his “General Theory of the Neuroses” (1916– 17), Freud displaced the chemical aspect of photography and the analogy to the negative/ positive process and returned us to the topography we might infer from the spatialized discussion of the “photographic apparatus” in The Interpretation of Dreams.17 Rather than a single freestanding camera obscura box or room corresponding to the mind and opening directly onto an external reality, in Freud’s work on the neuroses the unconscious is mapped onto a “large entrance hall” and consciousness onto an adjoining “drawing room”:

Let us therefore compare the system of the unconscious to a large entrance hall, in which the mental impulses jostle one another like separate individuals. Adjoining this entrance hall is a second, nar- rower room— a kind of drawing room— in which consciousness, too, resides. But on the threshold between these two rooms a watchman performs his function: he examines the different mental impulses, acts as a censor, and will not admit them into the drawing room if they displease him.18

In what Sarah Kofman calls Freud’s camera obscura model of the subject, the observer is divided within himself and vitally limited in his sight.19 Though adjacent, these rooms in Freud’s model are divided by a threshold whose watchman decides which impulses personiﬁed as “separate individuals” may be admitted to the drawing room. The observer is not only multiplied but also split into individuals who may never pass into consciousness, a censoring watchman, and “consciousness as a spectator” who is, nonetheless, barred from seeing directly into the entranceway and those foreclosed versions of the self who dwell there. Freud qualiﬁes this spatial version of the instrument, insisting that “I should like to assure you that these crude hypotheses of the two rooms, the watchman at the threshold between them and consciousness as a spectator at the end of the second room, must nevertheless be very far- reaching approximations to the real fact.”20 And yet he remarks that “they are not to be despised,” an indication of the fecun- dity and utility of such instrument metaphors for Freud’s dynamic conception of the unconscious, cultural life, and its discontents.21 In addition to this adaptation of the instrument metaphors of the camera obscura and the microscope, Freud’s elaboration of projection

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in “A Seventeenth- Century Demonological Neurosis” (1923) as at once a symptom of modernity’s disavowals (the susceptibility to influence cast backward onto superstitious belief in demonological agency) and a technique of analysis attests not just to the residue of forsworn “primitive” pasts but also to the complex legacy of early modern experiment and enlightenment method in the so-called Scientific Revolution. It is no accident that early modern optics and specifically technologies of projection played a crucial role in Freud’s development of key concepts and techniques of psychoanalysis. When Freud calls projection a “special psychical mechanism” in Totem and Taboo (1913), and in The Interpretation of Dreams famously asks us to picture the psyche—the “scene of action of dreams,” the “instrument which carries out our mental function”— as a device “resembling a compound microscope or a photographic apparatus,” this is not merely a mechanistic construction of the body that has early modern antecedents in the work of Des- cartes and others.22 It is a kind of argument by demonstration, that is, a demonstration lecture that crucially employs instruments to demonstrate the operation of workings of the unconscious and the mechanism of projection in the formation of the fortress ego and its potential undoing. Running throughout these efforts not merely to explain the workings of the psychical apparatus and demonstrate the existence of the unconscious is an analogy to ocular instruments whose medium is the image, whose presentation environment is the dark chamber, and whose function is to stand in for the subject (as an artifactual semblance of human processes) and yet also performatively affect the viewing subject. In this sense, Freud’s recourse to the analogy of optical instruments and technologies of projection is far from arbitrary. Such instrument metaphors allow readers to imagine analysis as a visual operation, an optical spectacle that does not so much represent but act upon the psyche. While drawing on the conventional sense of enlightenment and its operation of illuminating an occluded chamber, the projection of psychic material plays a central role in the elaboration of psychoanalysis— not just in the theory of projection but also as a guiding aim for psychoanalysis, that is, the effort not just to cast light on but to cast back into the psyche what was imagined to have been displaced outward.

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Ultimately, it was Freud’s less discussed and, in many ways, more submerged investment in the religious and scientiﬁc beliefs and practices of seventeenth-century Europe that was crucial to his formulation of the task of psychoanalysis and its recourse to ﬁghting projection with a kind of spectacle of counterprojection. In The Psychopathology of Everyday Life (1901), Freud generalizes projection as a normative feature of everyday life:

In point of fact I believe that a large part of the mythological view of the world, which extends a long way into the most modern religions, is nothing but psychology projected into the external world. The obscure recognition (the endopsychic perception, as it were) of psychological factors and relations in the unconscious mind is mirrored— it is difﬁcult to express it in other terms, and here the analogy with paranoia must come to our aid— in the construction of a supernatural reality, which is destined to be changed back once more by science into the psychology of the unconscious.23

Freud further works out his theory of projection in “Psycho-analytic Notes on an Autobiographical Account of a Case of Paranoia (Demen- tia Paranoides)” (1911), also known as the case of Schreber, and in Totem and Taboo, where Freud articulates the aim of psychoanalysis as a “translation back” or reversal of the mechanism of projection: “owing to the projection outwards of internal perceptions, primitive men arrived at a picture of the external world which we, with our intensified conscious perception, have now to translate back into psychology.”24 But how that transformation or translation back is to be effected is not specified, only that it depends on “intensified conscious perception.” While the use of the possessive “our” makes a claim on the possession of such enhanced faculties, we might also see here a reason for the recourse to the language of optical instruments often understood to precisely intensify perception through focus, magnification, and even alteration such as the change in direction signaled by the repetition of the word “back.” This double move of projecting the projection is, I will argue, not as simple as eliminating the projection, but is rather a way of sustaining an analytic reckoning with those abjected and opaque aspects of the subject and a way of doing history that refuses the triumphalist closure of periods either as a fossilized historical alterity or the homogeneous empty time of a continuous present.

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Scene of Projection 3: The scene of projection is an apparatus of power and metaphor machine that produces its subject by devices of transport that carry the subject out of the tremulous, vulnerable, and material body to produce a fantasy of discarnate, rational vision impervious to transports in the other sense— transports of affect, belief, sensory and cognitive delirium, passion, and somatic response. In their techniques of magniﬁcation and alteration and, most fundamen- tally, the movement implied in the transfer of light and image effects from machine to wall or screen, technologies of image projection— even at their most basic—function as devices of transport.25 In this translation from an over there to a “right” here of the image as it appears on wall or screen, technologies of projection traverse space but can also give the effect of moving across geography and time, making the geo- graphically distant come apparitionally close, the dead or inanimate quicken to a semblance of vivifying life, and the ostensibly passed or surpassed (re)surface in a luminescent presence. But these transports that govern what appears and how do so by an effect of transporting not only off scene but into the dematerialized and even impossible. Much has been made of the ostensible occultation of the device itself— as if the workings of the apparatus are visible or invisible only on the basis of whether or not one can see the machine, its internal workings, and its labor of operation. Yet what I mean here is a rather different effect that is a function of the setup and the action of casting, whether or not the light source, lenses, outlines of the room or box, the world outside the room, and/or the slides can be seen. That is, what the scene of projection promises to pull off is a rather different trick of performative magic than hiding or revealing the levers or the man behind the curtain. Indeed, it is the evacuation of embodied vulnerability and of susceptible precariousness and interdependence in the place of that man and the position of the implied spectator that is the astonishing transport effect of the scene of projection in the production of the phantom subject of reason—an effect that is precisely not represented in the image or on the screen. But if this delusion is accomplished, it is never a once and for all: hence the repetitive tactics for its production and, we might say, its mechanical reproduction through training in its exercise. I deploy the history of image projection and speciﬁcally its use in the early modern period as an experimental and pedagogical device for

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training spectatorship to make the larger argument that technologies for casting an image are teaching tools that do not reform but pro duce— even when not literally employed in a classroom. The scene of projection is a setup that rehearses a scene of education by practice in separating body from cast image and screen, but it is also one that, even as it endeavors to displace spectatorial vulnerability, does not foreclose the possibilities of transformative affect, hallucination, and transporting somatic and material effects. To make this argument for the production of the phantom subject of reason by disincarnating devices of transport, I take seriously and work through pedagogical scenes—and seens— both large and small, showing just how much might be produced from what might seem like the minor case, the close analysis, the mere example. And so, for example, one of the many engraved plates (Figure 5) diagramming the pedagogical demonstration experiments that comprise William Hooper’s Rational Recreations (1774), a four-volume work designed for popular science education, is a plate meant to accompany Hooper’s instructions for how to use the magic lantern (represented as Fig. 5 in the plate) and its phantasmagoria machine variant (Fig. 4 in the plate) that projected its cast images on a screen of smoke. At the top of the plate, two illustrations of magic lantern sliders bear the painted representations of that literal and overdetermined machine of transport, the chrono- tope of the ship of imperial fantasy and naval empire, the cargo hold of the slave ship, and the very shaping of the Atlantic world.26 But the painted sliders are a crucial part of the magic lantern as metaphor machine and transport vehicle in a sense far beyond the iconic register of the charged and embattled boat of naval conquest, trade, and exploration and the “many- headed hydra” of storms at sea, mutiny, and revolt.27 The sliders—one showing open water, the other crowded with sailing vessels— are painted in a rendition of the seas that, by grada- tions, shifts from the visual simulation of still waters to the dramatic movement of a “furious storm.” Hooper provides detailed instructions for how to paint such sliders convincingly and operate them to produce a threatening “tempest.” By superimposing the two sliders in the magic lantern, agitating both sliders up and down, and increasing the motion, one may orchestrate a perfect storm— perfect in the sense of a carefully orchestrated storm of motion that transports the spectator from a state of calm, to violent agitation, and a reassuringly triumphant

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FIGURE 5. Engraving by J. Lodge, “Magic Lantern,” Plate IV in William Hooper, Rational Recreations (London: L. Davis et al., 1774), 2:50. Courtesy of Special Collections, University of Wisconsin– Madison.

resolution. In instructing readers to move the sliders in both directions from calm to storm and then back again, Hooper also provides a ready- made fantasy tale of imperial naval triumph and a fantasy version of the movement of a ﬂattened historical time that makes the storm the ex- ception and the resolution literal in the sense of a return to the implied present state— as if it were both beginning and inevitable end. As Hooper narrates, “As you draw the glasses slowly back, the tempest will seem to subside, the sky grow clear, and the ships glide gently o’er the waves.”28 Though Hooper’s text here devotes detailed attention to explaining how to create a tempest, we should note the equally care- ful speciﬁcations about how to control and even master the scene of

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environmental chaos so vividly produced. Through one technology, the technics of image projection, Hooper conjures the spectacle of threat to another, the ship tossed on an angry sea. Agitating fears of technical failure that the technology of projection promises to allay by resolving the torrent back into calm, Hooper’s “mere example” does the not so small work of attempting to master and control the fears of technologies that are shown to have the power to generate the very threats they are supposed to diminish. But the real work of the transport of the scene of projection would seem to be nowhere in this scene, namely, the transportation of embodied spectators so vulnerable to its effects that they leave no trace—as if the only somatic evidence of the shaping of the subject would be nausea and seasickness from the rocking under- tow of such condensed and recycled imperial narratives. While this entire section of Hooper’s Rational Recreations is gov- erned by the telling example of how to use the magic lantern to steer ships through a storm, Hooper concludes his instructions by citing his otherwise unremarked source for both text and image— the French geographer and physician Edmé- Gilles Guyot’s four- volume Nouvelles recreations physiques et mathématiques (first edition, 1769–70) with a curious qualification: “The instance we here give (says M. Guyot) being intended merely as an example, and to shew that this machine is capable of producing much more remarkable effects than have been hitherto exhibited.”29 What does it mean to function “merely as an example”? If we stay with what is stated and directly figured in this example of how to use the magic lantern, we find an attempt to man- age stormy waters along with real threats and attendant fears of death, of loss of material, animal, and human cargo and of the investments they represent through the orchestration of a spectacle in which nothing is lost and all resolves quickly into calm. And we may note as well that the mere example selected to demonstrate the capacity of the magic lantern is not only the lantern’s rivalrous simulation and management of nature’s powers expressed through the destructive force of a storm at sea, but also its mediation and absorption of the functions of the boat as a vehicle of experience and container of cargo that bridges the distance between here and there. But in calling this demonstration of the lantern’s capacity to rival actual devices of transport “merely” an example, Hooper’s text also conjures the prospect of the machine’s greater powers to produce “much more remarkable effects than have

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been hitherto exhibited.” I shall argue that this disavowed and yet covertly appropriated magical efﬁcacy to affect the spectator, to act on bodies and matter, is the main action of the scene of projection as an apparatus of power for the production of its subject— the discarnate vision that imagines it can be neither seen nor affected and the body susceptible to transports that is carried off scene by this metaphor machine that activates the sense of metaphor as transportation.30

Scene of Projection 4: Technologies for casting an image and technologies of projection and introjection in the psychic mechanism of paranoia, the dynamics of melancholia, and the exercise of the “special agency” that takes the ego as an excoriated and disciplined object shape the fortress ego and produce the phantom subject of discarnate reason, transporting bodily vulnerability, superstition, and susceptibility by a casting displacement that fixes that subject’s antitypes, the “others” of empire at home and abroad. In understanding the scene of projection as an apparatus of power that produces its subject by devices of transport, Scenes of Projection re- thinks accounts of modernization and the formation of the subject as a disembodied and self- contained modern observer by attending to what the scene endeavors to fix in the shadows— those ego- and identity- threatening parts of the subject, those vulnerable aspects of embodiment, those disavowed dimensions of history, those susceptible interlinings of vision, those doubtful, deluded, unpredictable, or, more importantly, unknowable dimensions of cognition, those agency- dispersing depen- dencies the subject will not own— cast out onto those who become the “butt” of the shaping satire of inversion as the abject objects made to carry the burden of the vulnerable, uncontrollably embodied, perverse, impressionable, superstitious, and “primitive.”31 In developing this argument, Scenes of Projection is in direct con- versation with the groundbreaking and widely influential account Tech- niques of the Observer (1990) in which art historian Jonathan Crary elaborates the new observer of a modernity located in nineteenth-century Europe. This modern observer, repositioned outside the fixed relations of interior/exterior, is developed against and out of the rigid spatial structure of what he calls the “juridical model of the camera obscura” from which, he argues, there is a radical break in the nineteenth century.

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Crary constructs the camera obscura as a dominant scopic regime of rational vision by displacing the possibilities of invention and fantasy inherent in the dark room onto the magic lantern. His chapter “The Camera Obscura and Its Subject” splits the camera obscura as model of rational vision from the magic lantern that becomes both the machine metaphor and the container for the camera obscura’s disruptive capacities. While seemingly acknowledging the possibility of haunting and even subversion, Crary’s project asserts a separate development for the magic lantern “alongside” as opposed to within that of the camera obscura. Thus, the magic lantern’s use of the dark room for the pur- poses of projection is reimagined as an invasion from without, the “appropriation” of the apparatus by what Crary characterizes as an alien belief system. I would suggest instead that this foundational chapter for Crary’s larger argument about emergent nineteenth-century disciplinary techniques for regulating vision reinforces the very operations of projection that worked to produce an imperial subject of science and reason by displacing vulnerability to its illusions and effects onto ﬁgures of “otherness.”32 If the camera obscura can be construed as the model of a rational vision exercised by European metropolitan men of science, it is a model that depends crucially on a bifurcation between the camera obscura and the magic lantern and between the subjects of “accurate impressions” and impressionable subjects, one given widely disseminated, stereotyped form in eighteenth- century picture prints that represented the magic lantern as the fantasy machine of desire, wonder, and transformation, displaying its powers at the hands of signifying monkeys for audiences of women and children in the metropolis. Consider, for instance, the satiric print “La Lanterne Magique” (Figure 6) by Jean Ouvrier (published in Paris in 1765 after the painting by J. E. Schenau), where the audience of the magic lantern show is portrayed as a family group of a mother and three children.33 Using the iconography of an eroticized bacchanal of devilish animal-human hybrids, the print ex- ploits the technical capacities of the lantern to create apparitions, alter what it shows, and affect its spectators. The large portable version of the lantern in the darkened foreground casts the projected image of the obverse of the four spectators. In the projected image, the two boys are transformed into magniﬁed and monstrous versions of themselves. The little boy spectator who smilingly peeks at the image becomes a

umpCasid.indd 20 7/29/2014 2:02:19 PM FIGURE 6. Jean Ouvrier, “La Lanterne Magique,” Paris, eighteenth century. Engraving after painting by Johann Eleazar Schenau. Courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum.

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large and triumphant, bare- chested animal- human- devil hybrid, while the boy spectator who raises his hands, as if in surprise or fear, is refig- ured as the visible animal feet of an implied devil- satyr whose hands now pull the rope round the waist of the mother- figure turned captive witch on a broomstick. Yet the projected image not only alters but also reveals occulted and disavowed possibilities of promiscuous disorder. The little girl spectator reappears stripped of dress and cap to expose large horns, volup- tuous breasts, and the animal legs of the small but developed devil-woman she may already be or might become. The projected image converts affect, changing a smile to a frown, an expression of surprise or fear to a gesture of horn- blowing celebration, and a furtive grin into a tongue- protruding display of openly lascivious excitement. And it transposes the relationships of the family group in sexually suggestive, homoerotic, and incestuous ways, shifting the little girl turned devil- woman to a position astride the mother- figure and placing the little boys turned men in postures of leading her from the front and pushing her from behind to a place offscreen and the performance of counter- normative, taboo- defying acts not directly figured but implied. At the same time, the directionality of the projection is crucial to the work the print performs. Its comic representation of the magic lantern show places the illuminated spectators—the woman and three children—so that they face into the projection source and the magic lantern image is cast onto (and, it is implied, into) their bodies, the little girl’s white apron turned screen a double for the white sheet of the makeshift draped screen behind her. The magical capacities of projective machinery to substantially alter the observer are cast out and onto those who are figured as the opposite of the man of reason. In placing these figures of the vulnerable spectator in the path of the projection, the print constructs the space of the viewer of the whole spectacle— the viewing position that encompasses the device, its operator, the figures of the impressionable spectator, and projected image—as the fantasy perspective of the subject of a disincarnated, dispassionate, and ostensibly upright and unalterable reason. It is the magic lantern projectionist depicted as monkey who takes the fall in French printmaker Jean-Baptiste- Antoine Guélard’s plate from his Singeries published in Paris in 1741– 42 (after designs by Christophe Huet) (Figure 7).34 The monkey projectionist proved to be convenient

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FIGURE 7. Jean- Baptiste-A ntoine Guélard, The Magic Lantern, engraving after Christophe Huet, from Singeries, ou differentes actions de la vie humaine representées par des singes (Paris, 1741– 42). Courtesy of the Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (1558- 750).

comedic shorthand, a device adapted by late eighteenth- century French writer Jean- Pierre Claris de Florian (1755–94) for his collection of Fables ﬁrst published in Paris in 1792. The tale “The Monkey who Shows the Magic Lantern” narrates the story of a simian who takes over as projectionist and puts on a great performance involving a full program of slides. However, the spectators see nothing but a blank screen because he has forgotten to light his lantern.35 The monkey projectionist remains in the dark when it comes to not just the fundamen- tal law of the device’s operation but also the dominant trope of casting light as the machine metaphor for the exercise of enlightenment reason. As the fables of Florian went through hundreds of editions over the course of the nineteenth century and the tale became the further subject of popular prints such as the one reproduced in the March 1865 issue of the Magasin Pittoresque (Figure 8), the monkey projectionist became the symbol of the deceptively false understanding at the butt

umpCasid.indd 23 7/29/2014 2:02:20 PM FIGURE 8. The Monkey Who Demonstrates the Magic Lantern. Drawn by Foulquier after painting by Victor Bachereau. Wood engraving from Magasin Pittoresque 33 (March 1865): 81. Courtesy of the Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (93.R.110).

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of what became a commonplace French expression: “oublier d’éclairer sa lanterne” or “to forget to light his lantern,” signifying to overlook the essential point or fact necessary for comprehension.36 Through displacing projection onto such satirical ﬁgures as women and children spectators radically altered by exposure to the lantern’s effects and the monkey who can ape the motions of inserting slides but remains as blank as the screen when it comes to the mechanism of the box, the “performative magic” of the illusionistic and transformative capacities and vulnerabilities inherent in the dark room of the camera obscura were cast out onto the magic lantern and its failed operators, ostensibly transporting the vulnerability and tremulous embodiment of the phantom subject of reason safely off scene.

Scene of Projection 5: As an apparatus that produces its subject, the scene of projection is neither a static diagram of power nor a ﬁxed architecture, but rather a pedagogical setup that operates across a range of sites as an “inﬂuencing machine” of persistent training and repetitive exercise. Though the old creaking “next slide, please” carousel projectors have given way to digital versions of the apparatus, devices that cast an image onto a screen still occupy a central material place in the pedagogies of visual studies, art, and art history. But this is not a tidy history of the fate of the art historical slide lecture. With the incorporation into the classroom of digital projection and 3- D virtual reality technologies placing the viewer inside a virtual spatialization of the object, the slide lecture may further enact the hallucinatory, immersive, and altering effects attributed to the “magic” in the magic lantern—a characteriza- tion displaced onto the device that points indirectly back to the shaping role of the scene of projection as an apparatus for producing its subject.37 At this time, when digital media absorb the functions and techniques of the pedagogical slide show and image projection screens quite literally saturate our everyday, it is imperative that we think crit- ically about the globe-spanning, time- traveling, and world-making effects of projective apparatus, not as the seemingly transparent instrument through which we turn objects into projected images for analysis, but rather as a setup that trains the spectator in acts of losing themselves to constitute themselves, that is, the fantasy enactment of disembodied

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vision as an exercise of reason.38 In developing the argument that the scene of projection is a pedagogical apparatus that persists at this moment of the ubiquity of the screen across sites far in excess of the schoolroom, Scenes of Projection offers a history of the unthought pedagogical method of image projection that traces this technology— which is far from transparent or neutral—to its crucial scenes in and beyond the metropole, including ones of colonial violence and subjection in its many senses. In short, I take technologies of projection seriously as kinds of “influencing machines.” This is not mere light play on psychoanalyst Victor Tausk’s 1919 essay “On the Origin of the ‘Influencing Machine’ in Schizophrenia.”39 While scenes of pedagogical and academic projection practice may seem comfortably distant from the analytic situation of the paranoid or schizophrenic patient, Tausk’s description of the influ encing machine, that “machine of mystical nature” with “marvel- ous powers” to act on the patient in unbidden and unwanted ways, bears important resemblances to the scene of image projection. Besides its ability to create sensations and uncontrolled physiological and motor responses, the influencing machine is both a projected image in its own right and a projector that makes the patient see pictures. Indeed, Tausk writes of this envisioned machine that affects the subjects in question from outside their bodies as a “magic lantern or cinematograph” (187). Tausk’s analysis works with a logic of division between rational and irrational, between normal viewer and paranoid or schizophrenic, and between the actual presence of a device of projection and its conjura- tion. But this logic itself depends on a founding conception of the magic lantern as a figure or, in Tausk’s words, “symbol” for being made to see images, for that is what the device is designed to do. In its own use of the terms of projecting light and images into a dark and enclosed space or room, Tausk’s complex and fascinating rhetoric parallels the scene of projection it sets. As the device that promises in its staging a means to “look inside” and “reveal” or project the projection, the magic lantern emerges as so densely imbricated with the production of rational vision that it seems, as Tausk puts it, “impenetrable”:

It is not necessary to discuss the magic lantern which produces pictures or images, because its structure harmonizes perfectly with the function attributed to it, and because it does not reveal any error of

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judgment beyond the fact of its nonexistence. This rational superstructure is absolutely impenetrable. We must, at the start, use struc- tures less solidly built, the walls of which reveal gaps through which it is possible to look inside. (192)

Tausk’s study thus moves from the impenetrable magic lantern, the most common form of the influencing machine in the larger group of cases he theorizes, to closely examine the case of Miss Nataliya A. whose projected “influencing machine” instead takes human and specifically female form. Tausk uses the deviating and exceptional case of Miss Nataliya A. and her persecutory fantasy of the feminine fleshly influencing machine to make the general argument that influencing machines are themselves paranoid projections of the schizophrenic patients’ own bodies and specifically the estranged organs of their gen- italia. As richly complex as the case of Miss Nataliya A. may be, what interests me here is precisely what Tausk casts out—under the guise of impenetrability— in this scene of peering into the gynormorphic machine: the magic lantern and its “rational superstructure.” “Woman” is penetrable for Tausk; the magic lantern is not. While Tausk’s conclusion that the “influencing machine” is a projected disavowal of the schizophrenic patients’ genitals depends on finding a more obvious, fleshly, and feminine substitute for the lantern, the structure of his further development of the theory of paranoid projection nonetheless recapitulates the setup and mise-en- scène of the magic lantern projection in the darkened room. Tausk’s effort to analyze the particular dynamics of paranoid projection demonstrates the pedagogical exercise of constructing rational vision, including his own, through the devices of casting light and images of “otherness” (often feminine or feminized) into the dark room (and here, via the womb). To go into the lantern or rather its setup and mise- en- scène is to find the disavowed cast onto the overdetermined figures of “otherness,” but the abjected, disavowed, and intensified in such scenes is the substitute or lure for what is thereby cast off: the vulnerable bodily implication of the spectator observing the scene (in this case, Tausk) and the performative magic of the apparatus of the scene of projection in producing its subject not once and for all, but over and over in the training of the exercise of such fantasized exorcism in scene after scene.

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Scene of Projection 6: While the scene of projection as an apparatus of power that produces its subject has a genealogy that crosses the history of psychoanalysis, the history of philosophical and scientific instruments at the heart of the so- called Scientific Revolution, and the history of colonization, “history” is also in the scene of projection as shaping dynamic spatial, temporal, somatic, and affective relations that may be inverted, displaced, or denied but are no less powerfully formative, residual, or haunting for those negations. If the scene of projection is not to be a machine for the production of a flattened terrain for the fortress ego that seeks to remake the world in confirmation and consolidation of its disavowed vulnerability and susceptibility, the scene of projection is necessarily also a scene for doing history for a different future, an apparatus for producing an opening by the tracing of the belied connections in and across precisely those scenes of projection that might seem not only disparate but disavowed in relation to what would seem their geographic or temporal place— that is, the anachronistic, the minor, the backward, the ostensibly surpassed, or the better left behind. Scenes of Projection thinks projection as an apparatus of power for the production of the subject in terms of a psychoanalytic understanding of history as a task of analysis and writing, one that understands history as at once the haunting trace of the disavowed in the scene of projection and a practice of recharging the contacts of forsworn connections and forsaken passionate attachments, including those between the scene of psychoanalysis and the scenes of projective devices in pedagogical demonstration lectures and scientific experiment. In History after Lacan, feminist philosopher Teresa Brennan demonstrates that Lacan develops a history of the citadel ego, what he calls the “ego’s era,” from the optics of the early modern period with its self-referential knowledge, positivism, and empiricist objectification. Brennan elaborates Lacan’s hints at a tactics for circumventing the “mass psychosis” of the “ego’s era” as the labor of making connections that she demonstrates by forging relations across Lacan’s work, a labor that produces a rewriting of history that is even or especially at the “price of self- image” or the loss of the fantasy or mass psychosis of sovereign control and the paranoid delusion that the subject can project what it refuses to admit— as Lacan puts it in “Aggressivity in Psychoanalysis,” the “especial delusion of the misanthropic ‘belle âme,’ throwing back onto

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the world the disorder out of which it is composed.”40 To emphasize, the tactic around the fortifications of the citadel ego of the “ego’s era” that Brennan elaborates from Lacan’s reworking of paranoid projection as a larger process or machine for the production of the subject and the social is the activity of making connections as a rewriting of the subject’s history from which the subject has been severed. But this reattachment is not the same as a practice of historical contextualism; the missing pieces are not the snap-fit of a puzzle in which the intact subject is fitted. Quite the contrary, it is the disavowed in the subject, the self’s own disorganization, volatility, and vulnerability cast out onto the world as alien and threatening, that makes of the subject a fictive consistency of self- sufficient and sovereign will in mirror reflection of a self- confirming reality context. In this insistence on close attention to the uncanny, volatile, and irresolvable at the level of the text or scene, Brennan’s propositions for history as the effect of this labor of rewriting in the practice of reforg- ing and charging connections resonate with the prompts I also take from Michel de Certeau’s “What Freud Makes of History.” Through a reading of Freud’s analysis of a case of paranoid possession by persecutory visions in “A Seventeenth-Century Demonological Neurosis,” de Cer- teau prompts a radical change in praxis for the encounter between psychoanalysis and history: that we can understand psychoanalysis as not a displacing projection of superstition but rather an unfinished process of enlightenment in acts of shedding light that inevitably produce shadows, not shadows to dispel but with which to think and dream in an inevitable going back over the eruptive and recursive return of the repressed within the scene of projection and analysis.41 Drawing on this taking of the scene of projection as a site for the writing of history, the movement within the chapters and the larger arc of this book perform a back to the future movement, shuttling between times and geographies as it thinks psychoanalytically about the complex, dialectical capacities of projection to produce the illusion of the impervious subject of rational vision, and about ways of thinking the abjured and the trace as shadow-histories or archives within the scene of projection as apertures for an opening onto ways of becoming that are imminent in the scene. Let me turn here to sketch the contours of the argument Scenes of Projection makes about the apparatus of the scene of projection as

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a complex and uneasy pedagogy in the formation and recasting of the subject. This reevaluation is carried across ﬁve chapters, each of which is dedicated to relating a particular modality of psychoanalytic projection and the complexly allied process of introjection (paranoid projection, morbid projection, introjection, the “shadow of the object” cast across the ego in melancholia, and imaginative projection) to speciﬁc devices and techniques of projection (the camera obscura, magic lantern, phantasmagoria machine, solar microscope, prism, ingesting auto- mata, spirit possession, shadow- casting, and prismatic projection) across scenes that traverse as they connect centers and ostensible margins, metropole and periphery. Chapter 1, “Paranoid Projection and the Phantom Subject of Rea- son,” is dedicated to developing the book’s core argument that early modern devices for casting an image— the camera obscura, the magic lantern, and their variants— constituted a way of knowing, a method with power- producing effects, that I characterize as “paranoid projection.” The chapter does so via the double move of providing a media genealogy for Freud’s theory of projection and by analyzing such devices as uncertain and incomplete exercises in paranoid projection. It makes the bidirectional historical argument that the theory of paranoid projection was developed from early modern devices for casting an image that also engaged in the very dynamics described by the theoretical concept. The chapter opens with Freud’s writings on projection and introjection. Rather than just rehearse the arguments of the well- known texts in which Freud casts out religion as a form of delusion (“Civili- zation and Its Discontents,” Totem and Taboo, and “The Future of an Illusion”), I focus on the case study of the painter Christoph Haitzmann published in 1923 as “A Seventeenth- Century Demonological Neuro- sis,” setting it in important relation to Freud’s more familiar work on paranoid projection in the case of Schreber. I go on to analyze early modern texts on optics, mathematics, and physics from Johannes Kepler to Willem Jacob ’s Gravesande to argue that the production of the phantom subject of rational vision depended on the vigilant demonstration and subjective internalization of a paranoid version of projection. Chapter 2, “Empire through the Magic Lantern,” approaches the imbrication of psychoanalysis and colonialism in the scene of projection as a way of reopening the question of the seemingly impossible both/ and of psychoanalyzing colonialism while decolonizing psychoanalysis.

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The chapter takes up the psychoanalytic concept of morbid projection to provide an account of the shaping of the fortress ego by its violent abjections. I argue that the psychoanalytic concept of projection takes us not only to an important problematization of the binaries of “self” and “other.” It also takes us to the very techniques, in a material sense, for their attempted production. Through its case studies the chapter elaborates the magic lantern as a ready- made theoretical vehicle and satiric trope for demonstrating the extent to which an “Asia,” “Africa,” or “America” failed to function as a blank screen that stayed safely “over there” because of the ways the device was so fused and infused with what it mediated. In chapter 3, “Empire Bites Back,” I explore how introjection functions as a complex response to morbid projection. The chapter puts pressure on the uncanny similarity between melancholia and introjection in the violent way in which they shape the subject by an internal- ized exercise of a punishing agency. In its case studies, the chapter takes seriously the ways in which the docile subjection to colonial authority resembles the critical melancholia that would seem to be its antidote, an introjection that spectacularly refuses to let go of injury, shame, and the incalculable losses that cannot be mourned because they do not not even count as such.42 The chapter’s consideration of introjection functions as the fulcrum for the book’s general argument about the volatile instability in the scene of projection that spans the sites of metropolitan science (chapter 1) and those of colonial conﬂict (chapter 2). Introjection returns acutely the troubling turbulence in any effort to project the vulnerabilities of embodied witness taken in as the surveilling and punishing superego and cast out onto abject “others” whose violent retaliation the ego endeavors to defend against and dreads. Chapter 4, “Along Enlightenment’s Cast Shadows,” begins with melancholy and the shadow of the object that falls across the ego. I elaborate how technologies of light projection to create shadow pictures form a foundational and persistent part of the history of projection technologies as both colonial regulatory devices for the production of the disembodied subject of reason and as machines haunted by other ways of knowing and becoming. Taking seriously the shaping and transforming potentials of shadow projection, the chapter pursues the argument that bringing the early history of photography back into the

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dark room of devices for drawing with shadow allows us to bring out photography’s relation not only to identitarian ﬁxity but also to volatility, desire, and transformation. The chapter concludes by reconsidering the institution of the photographic archive and its regulatory effects on the body. Thinking through shadow projection enables us, the chapter maintains, to see the body in ways that revolatilize the hardened dif- ferences of race and sexuality as well as galvanize the transformative instability in the universal pretensions of enlightenment technologies: we all cast a black shadow. Chapter 5, “Following the Rainbow,” turns to and with the refracting multiple edges of the prism, that device that is at once a child’s toy and a scientiﬁc device that casts a rainbow of brilliant colors from a beam of white light. Activating the prism as method, the chapter opens an avenue of possibility within the scene of projection in the dark room. Taking up the prism as a device for an analytics of wonder, the chapter pursues the practice of a both/and beyond the current choices of optimism versus realpolitik or reparative versus paranoid reading, a methodology that I term “projective prismatics.” The chapter pursues the argument that this neglected device of projection offers another logic in which the affective transports of wonder and the kinds of transformative effects on matter associated with alchemy are not the opposite of the demonstration of principles but their very vehicle. As an exploration and demonstration of the prism as method, the chapter develops projective prismatics as a vital, queer exercise in projective speculation and its potential materialization.

Scene of Projection 7: Produced by the scene of projection as an apparatus of power, the subject of projection is not an a priori, not a ﬁxed ontological standpoint, not a predetermined body, not a preexisting community. This is the good news. Scenes of Projection is an experiment in analytical double vision that takes as its foci two seemingly disparate but mutually constitutive sets of technologies, the one aimed at constructing the subject of rational vision, the other at making visible the unconscious as an object of sci- entiﬁc knowledge and as a shaping instrument and machine of not just psychic but also material production. In bringing into alternative focus the history of projection devices and the history of psychoanalytical

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projection, Scenes of Projection implicates both the bright white lines that mark off disciplinary territories and historiographical fiefdoms and the temporal arcs that would seem to spring up from an originary darkness toward a pellucid future horizon. While the official lesson of casting an image in the dark chamber is to distinguish between subject and object and the primary effect of the pedagogical exercise of its demon- strations the production of the subject of discarnate vision, the operations of the device also threaten, the palpable traces of their catalytic contact pointing to the volatility of the shaping powers of the apparatus. Taking seriously this performative magic demands the constitution of a new object and, thus, necessarily entails the assemblage of seemingly disparate machines, bodies, texts, and images that return the occulted, the subaltern, and the seemingly minor back into the hegemonic regime of vision from which they were thrown. But pushing projection as a method, rather than reining in its potential trajectories, also promises to open “rationality” not merely to its opposite (the despised and feared “irrational”) but also to other ways of knowing or subaltern and queer versions of reason and ways of becoming.43 That is, while I am committed to the practice of close reading and attention to the particular- ities of specific cases, such close analysis is dedicated to unfolding the implications and potentials implied at the level of the densities and complexities of particular cases that are not ever and only located in the “contexts” (geographic, historical, cultural) to which we so often consign them: history is also in the case as eruptive difference and denied connection. In addition to rethinking the location of the case, I also re- pose the question of the place of the subject by moving, it might seem, outside the perimeters of the scene, to ask: for whom is this occupation of the scene of projection set? While Scenes of Projection is addressed explicitly to those engaged with me in the tasks of visual studies and queer studies, its aims are not identity- based or ego- confirming but, rather, deeply committed to excavating the potentials for transformation and alteration in these technologies for casting an image and for reversing its direction in practices of introjection, a potentially unat- tractive and troubling prospect from a range of positions, including nonnormative ones. And, yet, here is both the bad news and the good. In shuttling back and forth to provide the tensions and bristles of the both/and I am developing—that is, both particular and general, both pedagogical and punishing and providing some possibilities for hope

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and transformation, both located in the folds, interlinings, and crossed shadows of past in present, present in past, and pointing toward an uncertain future— Scenes of Projection opens the scene of projection by tracing disavowed connections between elements in and across scenes to recast the subject, ushering in the becomings and releasing the potentials of the why- not, the not- not here, and the not- not yet.

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Introduction 1. On the task for criticism of reeventilizing the object or “setting the scene,” see Lauren Berlant, “Cruel Optimism, Becoming Event: A Response,” Public Feelings Salon with Lauren Berlant (Barnard Center for Research on Women, April 12, 2011): responses published on December 19, 2012, http:// bcrw.barnard.edu/videos/public-feelings-salon-with-lauren-berlant/ and, for the PDF, http://bcrw.barnard.edu/wp-content/uploads/2012/Public-Feelings -Responses/Lauren-Berlant-Cruel-Optimism-Becoming-Event.pdf. 2. Carl Gustav Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reﬂections, ed. Aniela Jaffé, trans. Richard Winston and Clara Winston (1962; New York: Vintage, 1989), 323– 24. Hereafter, page numbers are cited in the text. 3. See also Lee Worth Bailey, “Skull’s Darkroom: The Camera Obscura and Subjectivity,” in Philosophy and Technology: Practical, Historical and Other Dimensions, ed. Paul T. Durbin (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publish- ers, 1988), 63– 79; Bailey, “Skull’s Lantern: Psychological Projection and the Magic Lantern,” Spring, 1986, 72– 87; and Bailey, “The Bottomless Subject,” in The Enchantments of Technology (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2005), 58– 82. 4. Jung himself wrote on the ﬂying saucer as a “modern myth.” See “Fly- ing Saucers: A Modern Myth of Things Seen in the Skies,” in Civilization in Transition, vol. 10 of The Collected Works of C. G. Jung, ed. Herbert Read, Michael Fordham, and Gerhard Adler, trans. R. F. C. Hull (New York: Pan- theon, 1964), 307– 433. On the UFO as symptom of mass hysteria, see David Clarke and Andy Roberts, Flying Saucerers: A Social History of UFOlogy (Loughborough: Alternative Albion, 2007). 5. On the emerging early modern practice of using a telescope to project solar phenomena, see Mario Biagioli, Galileo’s Instruments of Credit: Tele- scopes, Images, Secrecy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006) and the

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introduction by Eileen Reeves and Albert Van Helden to Galileo Galilei and Christoph Scheiner, On Sunspots (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010). For the problematic distinction between projecting “nature” and artiﬁce or invention, see Michael John Gorman, “Projecting Nature in Early- Modern Europe,” in Inside the Camera Obscura— Optics and Art under the Spell of the Projected Image, ed. Wolfgang Lefèvre, Preprint 333 (Berlin: Max Planck Insti- tute for the History of Science, 2007), 31–50. 6. For general surveys of the magic lantern, see Ernst Hrabalek, Laterna Magica: Zauberwelt und Faszination des optischen Spielzeugs (Munich: Key- ser, 1985); Jac Remise, Pascale Remise, and Régis van de Walle, Magie lumineuse: Du théâtre d’ombres à la lanterne magique (Paris: Balland, 1979); Dennis Crompton, Richard Franklin, and Stephen Herbert, eds., Servants of Light: The Book of the Lantern (Ripon: Magic Lantern Society, 1997); Richard Cran- gle, Mervyn Heard, and Ine van Dooren, eds., Realms of Light: Uses and Perceptions of the Magic Lantern from the 17th to the 21st Century (London: Magic Lantern Society, 2005); David Robinson, Stephen Herbert, and Richard Crangle, eds., Encyclopaedia of the Magic Lantern (London: Magic Lantern Society, 2001); Optisches Spielzeug und Laterna Magicas aus der Sammlung Harald Hansen: Ausstellung im Städtischen Museum Schloss Rheydt, Mönchen- gladbach, vom 25. November 1990 bis 3. April 1991 (Mönchengladbach: Städtisches Museum Schloss Rheydt, 1990); Franz Paul Liesegang, Dates and Sources: A Contribution to the History of the Art of Projection and to Cine- matography, trans. Hermann Hecht (London: Magic Lantern Society, 1986); and Derek Greenacre, Magic Lanterns (Aylesbury: Shire Publications, 1986). 7. Extant examples of early magic lanterns may be seen in the collections of the Science Museum in London, the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C., the Scientiﬁc Instrument Collection at Harvard, and the Werner Nekes Collection; see also the holdings of the Museum Boerhaave in Leiden in the exhibition catalog Magische Optica: Toverlantaarns, kijkdozen en andere vermakeli- jkheden (Leiden: Museum Boerhaave, 1996); the holdings of the Barnes Museum in Cornwall cataloged in John Barnes, Catalogue of the Collection, Part 2: Optical Projection (St. Ives: Barnes Museum of Cinematography, 1970); the collection of the Musée des Arts et Métiers in Paris cataloged in Lanterne magique et fantasmagorie: Inventaire des collections (Paris: Conservatoire National des Arts et Métiers, Musée National des Techniques, 1990); and the Minici Zotti collection at the Padua Museo di Magiche Visioni cataloged in Carlo Alberto Zotti Minici, Magiche visioni prima del cinema: La collezione Minici Zotti (Padua: Il Poligrafo, 2001). 8. For a general survey of the camera obscura, see John H. Hammond, The Camera Obscura: A Chronicle (Bristol: Hilger, 1981). Much of the liter- ature on the camera obscura revolves around interest in Vermeer’s use of the

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device in his painting practice. See, for example, Svetlana Alpers, The Art of Describing: Dutch Art in the Seventeenth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983); Daniel A. Fink, “Vermeer’s Use of the Camera Obscura— A Comparative Study,” Art Bulletin 53, no. 4 (December 1971): 493– 505; Charles Seymour, Jr., “Dark Chamber and Light- Filled Room: Vermeer and the Camera Obscura,” Art Bulletin 46, no. 3 (September 1964): 323–31; Arthur K. Wheelock, Jr., Perspective, Optics, and Delft Artists around 1650 (New York: Garland, 1977); Arthur K. Wheelock, Jr., “Constantijn Huygens and Early Attitudes towards the Camera Obscura,” History of Photography 1, no. 2 (Summer 1977): 93–103; and Philip Steadman, Vermeer’s Camera: Uncov- ering the Truth behind the Masterpieces (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001). See also the papers in Lefèvre, Inside the Camera Obscura, some of which have been published in Early Science and Medicine 13, no. 3 (2008). 9. Giorgio Agamben, What Is an Apparatus? and Other Essays, trans. David Kishik and Stefan Pedatella (2006; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009), 11. On lateral agency, see Lauren Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2011). 10. Karen E. Starr and Lewis Aron, “Women on the Couch: Genital Stim- ulation and the Birth of Psychoanalysis,” Psychoanalytic Dialogues 21, no. 4 (2011): 373– 92. 11. Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams, ed. and trans. James Strachey (1919; New York: Science Editions, 1961), 181– 82. Freud’s Interpre- tation of Dreams was ﬁrst published in 1899. 12. On the use of the magic lantern in Charcot’s experiments and lectures, see Jonathan Marshall, “Nervous Dramaturgy: Pain, Performance and Excess in the Work of Dr. Jean- Martin Charcot, 1862– 1893,” Double Dia- logues 4 (Winter 2003), http://www.doubledialogues.com/archive/issue_four/ marshall.htm. 13. On the letter from Italy, see The Letters of Sigmund Freud, ed. Ernst L. Freud, trans. Tania Stern and James Stern (New York: Basic Books, 1975), 261– 63. On the mirror, see Siegfried Zielinski, Deep Time of the Media: Toward an Archaeology of Hearing and Seeing by Technical Means, trans. Gloria Custance (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2006), 95. On Freud’s arrangement of the mirror, see Peter Weibel, “Freud und die Medien/Freud and the Media: Foto Fake II,” Camera Austria 36 (1991): 3–21. 14. Freud, Interpretation of Dreams, 538. 15. Ibid., 536. 16. Sigmund Freud, “A Note on the Unconscious in Psycho-analysis,” in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, ed. and trans. James Strachey, 24 vols. (London: Hogarth, 1953– 74; repr. London: Vintage, 2001), 12:264.

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17. Sigmund Freud, “Resistance and Repression,” Lecture XIX in “A Gen- eral Theory of the Neuroses,” in Standard Edition of the Complete Psycho- logical Works, 16:286– 302. 18. Ibid., 295. 19. Sarah Kofman, Camera Obscura: Of Ideology, trans. Will Straw (1973; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999), 21–23. 20. Freud, “Resistance and Repression,” 296. 21. Ibid. 22. Sigmund Freud, Totem and Taboo: Some Points of Agreement between the Mental Lives of Savages and Neurotics, ed. and trans. James Strachey (New York: W. W. Norton, 1989), 79; Freud, Interpretation of Dreams, 538. 23. Sigmund Freud, The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, ed. and trans. James Strachey (New York: W. W. Norton, 1989), 330. 24. Freud, Totem and Taboo, 81. 25. For a discussion of the different meanings of projection, see Dominique Païni, “Should We Put an End to Projection?,” trans. Rosalind Krauss, Octo- ber 110 (Autumn 2004): 23–48. The essay is an abbreviated translation of the essay that appeared ﬁrst in the catalog Projections: Les transports de l’image (Paris: Éditions Hazan, 1997). For a different investigation into the meanings of projection, see the recent work of art and media studies scholar Siegfried Zielinski, “Es gebt Bilder . . . / There Are Images . . . ,” trans. Gloria Custance, in Siegfried Zielinski et al., Andreas M. Kaufmann: Here You Are (Cologne: Salon, 2000), 10– 30. 26. Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993). 27. Peter Linebaugh and Marcus Rediker, The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlan- tic (Boston: Beacon, 2000). 28. William Hooper, Rational Recreations, in which the Principles of Numbers and Natural Philosophy Are clearly and copiously elucidated, By a Series of Easy, Entertaining, Interesting Experiments, 4 vols. (London: L. Davis et al., 1774), 2:41. 29. Ibid., 2:42. See Edmé- Gilles Guyot, Nouvelles recreations physiques et mathematiques, 4 vols. (Paris: Chez Guefﬁer, 1772–75), 3:184– 85, pl. 21. 30. On metaphor as device of transport, see Michel de Certeau, “Spatial Stories,” in The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven F. Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 115. 31. See, in particular, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2003); Judith Butler, The Psychic Life of Power: Theories in Subjection (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997); Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London:

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Routledge, 1994); Teresa Brennan, History after Lacan (London: Routledge, 1993); and Félix Guattari, Chaosmosis: An Ethico- Aesthetic Paradigm, trans. Paul Bains and Julian Pefanis (1992; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995). An account of feminist psychoanalytic critiques of the gaze and of the cinematic apparatus is beyond the scope of this project, but see especially Kaja Silverman, The Threshold of the Visible World (New York: Routledge, 1996), particularly 125– 61. 32. Jonathan Crary, “The Camera Obscura and Its Subject,” in Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cam- bridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1990), 33. 33. David Robinson, The Lantern Image: Iconography of the Magic Lan- tern, 1420– 1880 (London: Magic Lantern Society, 1993), 27, fig. 52. See also the first of a series of planned supplements, David Robinson The Lantern Image (London: Magic Lantern Society, 1997). 34. Ségolène Le Men, ed., Lanternes magiques: Tableaux transparents; 18 septembre 1995–7 janvier 1996, musée d’Orsay (Paris: Editions de la Réunion des musées nationaux, 1995), 27, cat. 118. 35. Jean- Pierre Claris de Florian, “Le singe qui montre la lanterne magique,” in Fables de M. de Florian (Paris: P. Didot l’aîné, 1792), 78–80. 36. “Lanterne,” in Le Petit Robert: Dictionnaire alphabétique et analogique de la langue française, ed. A. Rey and J. Rey- Debove (Paris: Dictionnaires Le Robert, 1985), 1073. 37. Christopher L. C. E. Witcombe, “Art History and Technology: A Brief History,” http://arthistoryresources.net/arth-technology/. For a web- based experimental intervention and discussion of the slide lecture and its reconfig- uration of image as a site of ideological production and also invention, see Suzanne de Villiers Human, “Gender, Ideology, and Display,” Image [&] Narrative: Online Magazine of the Visual Narrative 2, no. 2 (September 2002), http://www.imageandnarrative.be/inarchive/gender/suzannedevilliershuman .htm. 38. On what he calls art history’s “discursive machine,” a critique that opens with a reproduction of one of Kircher’s magic lantern diagrams, see Donald Preziosi, “The Panoptic Gaze and the Anamorphic Archive,” in Re- thinking Art History: Meditations on a Coy Science (New Haven: Yale Uni- versity Press, 1989), 54– 79. For a brief history of the use of slide projection that sets the stage for a proposal for the integration of digital media in a pedagogy of interaction, see Ingeborg Reichle and Thomas Lackner, “Von der statischen Präsentation zur dynamischen Interaktion: Über die Integration www- basierter Informationssysteme in den Lehr- und Forschungsalltag kun- stgeschichtlicher Institute,” in EVA 2001 Berlin: Elektronische Bildverarbeit- ung & Kunst, Kultur, Historie (Berlin: GFaI, 2001), 41–47, and Ingeborg

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Reichle, Thomas Lackner, and Dorothee Wiethoff, “Neue Medien in der Bil- dung: Chancen und Herausforderungen kooperativen Lehrens und Lernens in der Kunstgeschichte,” Kritische Berichte 28, no. 3 (2000): 87–90. 39. Victor Tausk, “On the Origin of the ‘Infuencing Machine’ in Schizo- phrenia,” in Sexuality, War, and Schizophrenia: Collected Psychoanalytic Papers, ed. Paul Roazen (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 1991), 185– 219; hereafter, page numbers are cited in the text. The essay is a reprint of the English translation by Dorian Feigenbaum published in Psychoanalytic Quarterly 2 (1933): 519– 56. 40. Brennan, History after Lacan, 35, 42. See Jacques Lacan, “Aggressiv- ity in Psychoanalysis,” in Écrits: A Selection, trans. Alan Sheridan (London: Tavistock, 1980), 8– 29. 41. Michel de Certeau, “What Freud Makes of History: ‘A Seventeenth- Century Demonological Neurosis,’” in The Writing of History, trans. Tom Conley (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 287–307. 42. See, especially, Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjec- tion, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982); Homi Bhabha, “Postcolonial Authority and Postmodern Guilt,” in Cultural Studies, ed. Lawrence Grossberg et al. (New York: Routledge, 1992), 56–68; and Butler, Psychic Life of Power. See also Douglas Crimp, Melancholia and Moralism: Essays on AIDS and Queer Politics (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2002). 43. On the project of alternate versions of reason, see, for example, Gyan Prakash, Another Reason: Science and the Imagination of Modern India (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1999); Walter Mignolo, “(Post) Occidentalism, (Post)Coloniality, and (Post)Subaltern Rationality,” in The Pre- Occupation of Postcolonial Studies, ed. Fawzia Afzal- Khan and Kalpana Seshadri- Crooks (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2000), 86–118; and Donna Haraway, Modest_Witness@Second_Millenium.FemaleMan©_Meets_ OncoMouse™: Feminism and Technoscience (New York: Routledge, 1997).

1. Paranoid Projection and the Phantom Subject of Reason 1. On the magic lantern in the history of science, see Thomas L. Hankins and Robert J. Silverman, “The Magic Lantern and the Art of Demonstration,” in Instruments and the Imagination (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1995), 37– 71; Thomas L. Hankins, “How the Magic Lantern Lost Its Magic,” Optics & Photonics News 14 (January 2003): 34–40; and Koen Ver- meir, “The Magic of the Magic Lantern (1660– 1700): On Analogical Demon- stration and the Visualization of the Invisible,” British Journal for the History of Science 38, no. 2 (June 2005): 127–59. For art historical perspectives, see

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