Questionnaire on “The Contemporary”*
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Questionnaire on “The Contemporary”* The category of “contemporary art” is not a new one. What is new is the sense that, in its very heterogeneity, much present practice seems to float free of historical determination, conceptual definition, and critical judgment. Such paradigms as “the neo-avant-garde” and “postmodernism,” which once oriented some art and theory, have run into the sand, and, arguably, no models of much explanatory reach or intellectual force have risen in their stead. At the same time, perhaps paradoxically, “contemporary art” has become an institutional object in its own right: in the academic world there are professorships and pro- grams, and in the museum world departments and institutions, all devoted to the subject, and most tend to treat it as apart not only from prewar practice but from most postwar practice as well. Is this floating-free real or imagined? A merely local perception? A simple effect of the end-of-grand-narratives? If it is real, how can we specify some of its principal causes, that is, beyond general reference to “the market” and “global- ization”? Or is it indeed a direct outcome of a neoliberal economy, one that, moreover, is now in crisis? What are some of its salient consequences for artists, critics, curators, and historians—for their formation and their practice alike? Are there collateral effects in other fields of art history? Are there instructive analogies to be drawn from the situation in other arts and disciplines? Finally, are there benefits to this apparent lightness of being? —Hal Foster for the Editors * This questionnaire was sent to approximately seventy critics and curators, based in the United States and Europe, who are identified with this field. Two notes: the questions, as formulated, were felt to be specific to these regions; and very few curators responded. OCTOBER 130, Fall 2009, pp. 3–124. © 2009 October Magazine, Ltd. and Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/octo.2009.130.1.3 by guest on 29 September 2021 JULIA BRYAN-WILSON They have cut off the hot water in the building where I teach. The rumor is that we will soon lose our office phones, as the Women’s Studies department already has. In this underfunded public university, the global economic crisis could not be more local, immediate, and material. Given my current working con- ditions, I cannot help but think about the problem of “the contemporary” in relation to the urgencies of the troubled future. These destabilizing times are recalibrating my sense of temporality—and it is temporality above all that ramifies across the admittedly paradoxical formation “contemporary art history.” We spend a lot of time debating about how to reconcile the presumed presentism of the contemporary with an attention to the past. But teaching “art now” does not mean simply mapping the current moment or grappling with his- tory: it also involves forecasting about—and in some respects producing —the future. Professors transform into prognosticators as we teach the artists, artworks, and critical ideas that we anticipate will endure. We must predict, using our best guesses, what contemporary work we think will last for later histories. These speculations—limited, partial, and biased speculations—about what might continue to resonate into the future are more than crystal-ball gazing. (Is such a discursive activity related, if only because of shared vocabulary, to economic speculation and commodity futures?) Let me get specific with an example Design for stone structures to be erected at the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant, Carlsbad, about futurology from my own research. It is New Mexico, from “Permanent Markers not drawn from the art world. Rather, it is Implementation Plan” (U.S. Department of taken from a government-sponsored report Energy, 2004). issued in 2004 by the U.S. Department of Energy. This is a design for a marker—not yet built—that will be used as a warning sign over a highly toxic radioactive waste dump near Carlsbad, New Mexico. The Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP) is the only place in the United States that stores spent transuranic waste. It is currently accepting shipments (barrels of plutonium-laced fuel cells and other deadly items) from across the country that are then buried deep under the Southwest Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/octo.2009.130.1.3 by guest on 29 September 2021 Questionnaire: Bryan-Wilson 5 desert land. In twenty years, when the underground chamber is filled to capacity, the storage unit will be closed and sealed. Because this radioactivity remains so lethal for so long and any contact with it could prove fatal for many years to come, the Department of Energy has commissioned a marker that is meant to warn future generations from digging or drilling on this site for the next 10,000 years. This drawing details the schematic design for the planned marker: it will consist of a series of monumental geometric granite towers along the perimeter of the dump area. Each will be inscribed with messages in seven languages about the poisonous waste underneath; they are meant to withstand any climate changes, as well as the likely evolution of the written word over the next ten cen- turies. Room has been left on the surface of each tower for future viewers to translate the warning into their own language and chisel it into the rock, with the anticipation that it will become a sort of Rosetta stone. Though it bears a resem- blance to both ancient obelisks and minimalist forms, the committee that the government assembled to design this marker notably did not include art histori- ans or practicing artists. The omission is striking: though the design team included anthropologists, linguists, and engineers, no one specifically trained to think about how images function across time was invited to participate in this pro- ject. Instead, contemporary art was lambasted in the preliminary planning report for being “trivial,” elitist, and unreadable to the everyman that the warning marker specifically set out to address. The markers will be inscribed with the following message: DANGER. POISON- OUS RADIOACTIVE WASTE BURIED HERE. DO NOT DIG OR DRILL HERE UNTIL 12,000 A.D. Flanking these words are two faces: on the right, an image from a textbook on human ethology showing the “universal” facial registration of disgust or nausea. And on the left, a schematic outline of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, which is here meant to signify a general, abstract sense of horror. Even though the marker designers reject art history, they are vitally dependent upon it, as in this citation of a famous painting made familiar by its many pop-cultural references. In the past one hundred years alone, Munch’s image has generated conflicting readings and under- gone significant semantic transformations—who knows how it might read thousands of years from now? This is forecasting at its most prophetic, unmoored from art history’s methodological attention to the “period eye.” In the WIPP marker project, the problem of endurance across history is made quite literal, yet it is impossible to predict if the design will work, if its broad address will be heeded and radioactive catastrophe avoided throughout this almost unthinkably vast time span. But to intentionally exclude art historians and artists seems a mistake, as artists invent new tools with which to mine the rich interface between past, present, and future. Against this exclusion, I think con- temporary art at its best offers a vibrant sense of inclusion, fostering collaborations between art historians, scientists, policy makers, activists, and artists, as well as admitting all kinds of objects (canonical, mass-media, and Downloaded from http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/pdf/10.1162/octo.2009.130.1.3 by guest on 29 September 2021 6 OCTOBER otherwise). More to the point, contemporary art history, because it is always in for- mation, necessarily admits its own instabilities, its own fissures and holes; it cannot presume singular meanings, etched in stone, as it were. It understands the limits and powers of art, how images and practices clarify social relationships as well as destabilize positions and scramble histories. Far from quasi-scientific assur- ances of the nuclear marker (or the betting mentality of the futures market), such speculations are rooted in theoretical understandings about the doubts and con- tingencies of meaning: that images, artifacts, and social relations do not smoothly translate between eras, or between places; that there is friction and slippage within interpretation; that time itself distorts, erodes, and recodes meanings. The contradictions that attend the worry about contemporary art history (the fear about its ossification and the parallel re-investment in its coherence) can foster a welcome, heightened sense of self-awareness about how we teach and what we study—and more importantly, why we teach, why we research, why we continue to organize panels or write papers or curate exhibitions or answer questionnaires. If there is something uniquely pressured about “the contemporary” right now, this pressure also presents a chance to rethink our investments in contemporary art history as a space of radical uncertainty. How can we strategize about, and remain open to, new formations with an awareness that, as furloughs are implemented and layoffs continue, such uncertainty is double-edged? What kinds of interventions, art, and information will persevere in the future beyond the rapid cycles of boom and bust? We admit we cannot know what might happen in the next twelve months, much less the next 10,000 years. That not-knowing could be a strength. It could produce an art history that revels in the warping of time by looking past the contemporary—that is, a method that still attends to its history, while also trying (even if failing) to see beyond the present.