Luis Fernando Benedit: Invisible Labyrinths

Talk at the Institute for Studies on Latin American Art (ISLAA), January 18, 2025

Can we take Benedit seriously? Or is his work more of a joke, a one-liner that has gone stale? Or, conversely, is there more to the lightness and humor than meets the eye? In 1968, just months before Tucumán Arde –a milestone of Latin American political art– and practically simultaneous with the first showings of Hélio Oiticica’s parangolés in Brazil, Benedit’s Microzoo show at Galería Rubbers, Buenos Aires, featured a series of pieces that adopted, as did Oiticica’s, the form of the habitat-labyrinth at the same time as it reflected on the interface between communicational stimuli and patterns of behavior. But rather than, as in Tucumán Arde, tackling these issues by attempting to short-circuit neocolonial-capitalist ideology using the disruptive strategies of avant-garde art or, as in Oiticica’s post-concretist work, wager on the sensorial immersion of the spectators-participants, with the artwork as a kind of catalyst triggering individual and collective ways of being-otherwise, Benedit’s work, at least at first glance, appeared to take us away from what Roberto Jacoby describes as the galloping race, in less than half a decade, from the formal concerns of minimalist abstraction to the outright juxtaposition of art and politics in Latin America. Microzoo, instead, contained artificial habitats for living organisms including a plexi glass anthill and other receptacles for lizards, fish and turtles, as well as small nurseries for plants in different states of germination. The provision of light and food imposed on these certain types of behavior in conditions of an artificial environment, the learning of which visitors could observe as it occurred. In Benedit’s own words:

My animal and plant habitats are biological sculptures. There is a definite relationship between the forms and their inhabitants (mice, ants, fish). They reflect both the forms I wish to create and the needs of the plants or animals for which they are intended, and thus each work can be seen on several levels. […] I think of them as ecological objects where the balance of interacting elements is created artificially. Ecology as a field of concern is important to me as an artist, as indeed it must be to anyone who has thought about it. What I am trying to do is to focus on it and draw attention to it. (Benedit 1976: 20)

Luis F. Benedit, Habitat for water turtles (1968). Courtesy ISLAA archive.
Now, this supposedly didactic nature of the habitats and labyrinths raises several questions. Who exactly is the one “learning” from the device? Is it us spectators or rather the non-human beings who adapt their lives to the conditions of the artifice? In other words, if there is something we can learn from other existents’ learning, is this lesson really about the natural order or not rather about its accomodation to artificial conditions? But also, how is this behavioral modification different from our own aesthetic response to the artwork, if plants and animals effectively forge from their encounter with the “ecological sculpture” new ways of being in the world? Are they the real connoisseurs?

Effectively, then, we might think of the successive phases in Benedict's work as early forerunners of bioart and ecoart, and thus as “political” in their own, anachronistic fashion. In 1971, returning to Italy where he had previously completed a degree in landscape architecture, Benedit exhibited Biotrón at the Venice Biennale, created together with the biologist José Nuñez and which, after the exhibition was over, was reinstalled at the Faculty of Exact Sciences of Buenos Aires University. It consisted of a transparent plexi and aluminum frame containing at one end a transparent honeycomb with four thousand live bees for which, inside the receptacle, an “artificial meadow” with electronic flowers secreting a sugary nectar, provided nutrition. At the opposite end was an exit tube to the Biennal’s gardens, allowing the bees to choose between foraging for food outside or staying inside feeding on its artificially generated equivalent.

Installation of Biotrón at the Venice Biennial, 1971. Courtesy of ISLAA archive.

The following year, on occasion of his solo show at MoMA, Benedit premiered Fitotrón, a device where, through the manipulation of the variables of light, humidity and temperature, one could observe the plants’ reactions in their adaptation – or not – to these environmental changes, a proposal the work shared with Laberinto vegetal, from the following year, a black plexi box with germinating seeds at one end and a forty-watt lamp at the other. In their growth towards that light source, triggered by phototropic attraction, the plants had to navigate an itinerary that branched into two alternative paths (right/left), leading them either to death or survival.

Luis F. Benedit, Laberinto vegetal (Plant Labyrinth, 1972). Cover page of Projects and Labyrinths, Whitechapel Art Gallery, London, 1975.

The disconcerting, even revulsive effect these works provoke had to do, it seems to me, not just with having living beings in museums and galleries (instead of their usual places of residence in the human environment such as laboratories, gardens or zoos). Rather, it stems from the provocative confusion between artistic and scientific modes of encompassing and containing those lives. The opposition that gives this work its constitutive tension is not, or not only, that of nature and artifice; rather, it is the distinction between different forms of artifice and their respective effects of nature. Biotrón is perhaps where this difference between regimes of artificiality is most clearly marked: the point here is not there, as art historian Carlos Espartaco (1978: 13) claims, about “making [the bees] fluctuate between a natural environment (gardens) and an artificial one (the biotron)” because a garden is of course no less an artificial medium than an electronic meadow, only it belongs to a different regime of administration of the living. Rather than a contrast between nature and artifice, the Biotrón stages a reflection on the senses of the natural that a certain artificial order entails. Between the artificial landscape of the garden and the electronic meadow, we move from a relationship mediated by representation as imitation to one of substitution of certain relations and functions, that is, to what Tom Mitchell calls “the age of biocybernetic reproduction” (Mitchell 2003: 483-84).

Luis F. Benedit, Proyecto Pirincho I (1977). Pencil and watercolor. Courtesy of ISLAA.

In his later work, Benedit would highlight this archaeological dimension of investigating the modern regimes of nature. After Laberinto vegetal, he effectively stopped working with living organisms to dedicate himself instead to their analytical “despiece” or “dismantling”: thus, in a series of drawings of Argentine birds, the pencil and watercolor technique of nineteenth-century naturalism is juxtaposed with the technical drawing, which “reconstructs” the flying organism through complex robotic mechanics. There is also a return to the objectual dimension as in Furnarius Rufus from 1976 –a wooden frame with an ovenbird’s nest containing an embalmed bird– and on to the collection or the museum as in Campo (1978), a kind of “Exposición Rural” or agriculture show documenting the human-animal assemblage of production mediated by biotechnology. In paintings, photographs, glass and wood containers and objects modeled in resin, this museum of Pampean biopolitics subjected to a similar kind of analytical “despiece” as the bird-robots an entire regime of human-animal life, broken down into individual elements such as a set of boleadoras, batons, stirrups, bridle and muzzle, castrating scissors and the photo of a dead pedigree bull next to the artificial insemination pills in which its frozen semen remains preserved.  In the following decade, Benedit would go even further back in his archaeological approach, turning to the pictorial production of the Pampa landscape and 'recreating' works by nineteenth-century artist León Pallière such as Un nido en la pampa, Indios del Gran Chaco and El payador (1984-85), among others. Rather than an expression of rural nostalgia, this return to “picturesque” landscape dismantles and reassembles it as one more technology for the administration of the living, an analytical “dismantling” to which Benedit subsequently also submits the Patagonian expedition of Fitz Roy and Darwin (1831-36) in his multi-installation and artist’s book From the Voyage of the Beagle (1987).

Luis F. Benedit, Tijera de castrar (Castrating scissors, 1978). Centro Cultural Recoleta, Buenos Aires.

Following the path opened by Benedit, today’s bio and ecoartists are also frequently a kind of archaeologists of the scientific forms of capturing and transforming life. By introducing an aesthetic kind of self-reflexivity into the spaces, procedures and terminologies of the “natural sciences”, bioart and ecoart also call into question the founding biopolitical division of modernity, the divide between nature and culture according to which, as Bruno Latour has argued, the essential truth of nature can be revealed to scientific reason precisely on condition of remaining absolutely external to the cultural (Latour 1993: 104-05). Hence, Benedit’s early “invasion of the laboratory”, his reenactments of the scientific procedures of the experiment, the journey and the collection, also have a (bio)political dimension, in their production of unspecific discourses and statements: these works do not become science, but neither can they be clearly assimilated to art in terms of their procedures and formal affiliations, nor, finally, can they be reduced to political messages of ecological militancy or criticisms of biotechnology. Science, art and politics come into play here in a deliberate un-specification of the artwork’s objectual form and institutional location. Perhaps we should, in fact, think of its aesthetic dimension, if we still wanted to call it that, more than anything as that vector of unspecification the material and discursive arrangement of Benedit’s works project, which is why the dimension of irony and laughter is not coindicental but actually key here: it allows us to make light of the art-science border, to the effect that the living spills out over them.

References
Benedit, Luis Fernando. Plant- en dierhabitatten . Antwerp: Internationaal Cultureel Centrum, 1976.
Espartaco, Carlos. Introducción a Benedit. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Ruth Benzacar, 1978.
Latour, Bruno. Wer Have Never Been Modern. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993.
Mitchell, W. J. T. “The Work of Art in the Age of Biocybernetic Reproduction,” Modernism/Modernity 10, 3 (2003): 481-500.

For a more extended discussion of Benedit’s work, see my Entranced Earth: Art, Extractivism, and the End of Landscape (2023).

Jose Alejandro Restrepo: Paso del Quindio I (1992)

Charla presentada en MoMA, 18 de julio de 2024

José Alejandro Restrepo, Paso del Quindío I (vision general). Foto J.A.

El paisaje fue la “entrada” de América Latina al arte occidental: en otras palabras, fue el aparato plástico, cultural, político y epistemológico que produjo al “Nuevo Mundo” como una tierra objetivada, disponible tanto para la mirada del observador externo al cuadro como para la acción extractiva del colonizador de ultramar.  De esta manera, la crítica del paisaje (como también la del cuerpo en tanto objeto de una mirada exotizante), en el arte latinoamericano contemporáneo ya es de por sí una operación metacrítica, en el sentido de reflexionar no solamente sobre las implicaciones de un género particular sino también sobre las tensiones entre “arte” y “Latinoamérica,” esto es sobre las condiciones de participación, a título de regionalidad subalternizada, en un marco institucional clave (junto con la escritura y la ciencia) de producir a las Américas como objeto colonial.

José Alejandro Restrepo, Musa Paradisíaca, 1994. (FLORA arts + natura, Bogotá, 2016)

La primera sala de Chosen Memories desafía en este sentido (como lo hace a su manera toda la muestra) a su propio entorno físico e institucional. Al poner en cuestión la forma del paisaje, también reflexiona críticamente sobre la inscripción de lo latinoamericano en un museo (este en particular pero también el “museo occidental” como forma y como marco más generalmente) que ha no dejado de ser un museo colonial en su manera de distribuir “regionalidades”.

Paso del Quindío I, la instalación de José Alejandro Restrepo realizada originalmente en 1992, forma parte de una obra que ha hecho de la escenificación de tensiones uno de sus ejes principales. Puede leerse en serie con obras como Musa Paradisiaca (1994) o El cocodrilo de Humboldt no es el el cocodrilo de Hegel (1994), ambos de los cuales también reflexionan sobre la producción, como idea y como realidad material, de la naturaleza tropical. Se trata de 17 monitores distribuidos en forma de pirámide y “en perspectiva”, armando unas líneas de fuga hacia atrás, que emiten en un loop de aproximadamente media hora imágenes grabadas en la sierra colombiana del mismo nombre.

La obra es, voy a argumentar, a un mismo tiempo una crítica y un homenaje: crítica del paisaje como aparato de captura y así también del lugar de América Latina en el museo colonial. Pero también homenaje a Alexander von Humboldt y al cruce multidisciplinario y multisensorial de prácticas estéticas y científicas que la “historia natural” en movimiento y en primera persona que practicaba supo movilizar forjando de manera precoz una suerte de estética ambiental que aún hoy mantiene su potencial innovador.

En el primer sentido, de crítica desconstructiva del paisaje como marco, la forma piramidal del conjunto y la fuga en perspectiva de los monitores parecieran duplicar la ilusión mimética subyacente a las imágenes en blanco y negro que proyecta cada pantalla: la montaña que se estaría atravesando. Pero al mismo tiempo, la revelan a ésta como efecto de un juego de perspectiva. El efecto de ruptura es así tan sencillo como eficaz, ya que el “paisaje” invocado por los monitores no coincide con el que éstos proyectan. Al duplicar su geografía montañosa, la instalación expone la artificiosidad de las propias imágenes, como un tipo de producción y no de reproducción del espacio.

José Alejandro Restrepo, Paso del Quindío I (detalle). Foto J.A.

En segundo lugar, los loops que proyecta cada monitor no coinciden exactamente: la imagen-paisaje se desconstruye también porque unos monitores están a destiempo respecto de los otros, aunque no siempre los mismos obligando a nuestra mirada a ir y venir constantemente de uno a otro. La visión simultánea, totalizante, del observador del paisaje-cuadro que el teórico de arte Norman Bryson ha llamado “la percepción fundante” está denegada aquí por la no simultaneidad de las imágenes en pantalla.

El tercer aspecto de esta desconstrucción del efecto mimético pertenece a la la musicalización, a la pista sonora que consiste en una edición electrónica de cuatro notas en clave menor tocadas por el violonchelista chileno Eduardo Valenzuela. El sonido propone así un contrapunto a la sucesión de formas y motivos en la pista visual: plantas, nubes, rocas. Como ha sugerido Restrepo, “el sonido como material plástico” agrega una dimensión no mimética, abstracta, a la secuencia visual. No se trata de música programática –a la manera de las sinfonías pastorales de Beethoven o de Smetana, músicas que narran el paisaje– sino que en su extrañamiento electrónico de la fuente sonora análoga (el violonchelo), la pista sonora más bien remite al acto expectatorial y oyente de presenciar la obra (remite a la instalación, no su contenido).

José Alejandro Restrepo, Paso del Quindío I (detalle). Foto J.A.

Y finalmente, la propia imagen-paisaje (la secuencia de vídeos en blanco y negro) se desbarranca, o se abisma hacia adentro, en forma de un segmento de 4 a 5 minutos que sigue a una pantalla en blanco más o menos en la mitad del loop y por tanto correspondiente al límite entre “subida” y “bajada,” al momento del “Paso del Quindío” propiamente dicho. Se trata de una secuencia de paneos laterales aceleradísimos sobre vegetación a ras del suelo, como si la propia mirada estuviese cayéndose hacia adentro de la imagen o desprendiéndose del soporte implícito de un cuerpo observador humano para convertirse más bien en visión abstracta, pura. Alguna vez, al estudiar el cine de Lisandro Alonso, una de cuyas tomas características son también unos “bailes” alocados de una cámara liberada de cualquier función diegética así como de la mirada antropomorfa subyacente al cine narrativo, traté de pensarla a esta secuencia como una puesta en trance de la relación entre cine y ambiente en que se abren líneas de fuga para una potencial mirada de un pájaro, un insecto o incluso del mismo viento. Es decir, ahí como en la obra de Restrepo habría algo así como una des-objetivación del entorno visible que se transforma en agente mirador.

Esta secuencia central me lleva a la dimensión del homenaje. El Paso del Quindío I referencia desde su título a la tabla número 5 de Vue des Cordillères et Monuments des Peuples Indigènes de l’ Amérique, “Passage du Quindiu, dans la Cordillère des Andes,” un diseño realizado en Roma por el pintor Koch sobre un bosquejo hecho por el propio Alexander von Humboldt diez años antes en Colombia y luego convertido en grabado en Stuttgart por el impresor Duttenhofer quien luego lo mandó a la imprenta F. Schoell en París. La imagen, uno de los 22 paisajes mexicanos y andinos que componen el libro junto con otras imágenes referentes a 23 obras precolombinas, es una de las más famosas de todo el volumen, acompañada además por un breve texto del propio Humboldt que oscila entre el desglosamiento de los aspectos geológicos, botánicos y socioeconómicos del área representada y la narración de la propia expedición de la cual el grabado representa una suerte de compendio o de síntesis visual.

Alexander von Humboldt, Passage du Quindiu dans la Cordillère des Andes, en Vue des Cordillères et Monuments des Peuples Indigènes de l’ Amérique (1810-13)

“Passage du Quindiu,” entonces, ya era (como después lo será El Paso del Quindío I) un ensamblaje multimedial que yuxtapone, en una coyuntura  tecnológica anterior a la de Restrepo, varios tipos de producción visual y textual, en función de rendir la experiencia del lugar, no como objeto monádico y disponible, sino como una suerte de archivo abierto y con múltiples niveles, o sea como “material de estudio”. Como propone Oliver Lubrich, “para Humboldt, los paisajes son simbólicos y políticos. Se vuelven objetos de apreciación estética y de precisión política. El paisaje representa un desafío a la interpretación post-disciplinaria. Se transforma en un ecosistema avant-la-lettre. Se torna acústico. Y genera la visión democrática de una instalación multimedial pública”.

“Passage du Quindiu,” más particularmente, según Lubrich es un dibujo multiperspectívico que permite al observador elegir uno de los diversos puntos de vista que sugiere: desde la información geobotánica sobre la prevalencia de ciertas plantas en relación a diferentes alturas a las formaciones orográficas de las rocas (aspectos sobre los cuales también enfoca el lente de Restrepo), a dimensiones climáticas como la línea de nieve. Pero el cuadro también focaliza sobre la situación política y social en que se inscribe el viaje –esto es, el contexto de producción de la propia imagen– en la figura de los cargueros y sus pasajeros sentados en la silla atada sobre sus espaldas. Mientras éstos últimos están vestidos con atuendos europeos y aparecen con la vista fija en un libro, estos andan casi desnudos, descalzos y mirando hacia adelante — sobre todo el segundo carguero de la fila cuya mirada se encuentra con la nuestra, esto es, con el punto de vista implícito de Humboldt quien se negó a viajar cargado en una silla y así puede ocupar un lugar externo, de observación de las relaciones de clase y poder entre cargueros y pasajeros.

Concluye Lubrich que “la imagen parece demandar una interpretación alegórica: si el hombre mirando hacia atrás quien está siendo cargado representa a la élite blanca reaccionaria o, como lector que permanece impermeable al mundo, a la percepción colonial de los viajeros europeos, entonces los cargueros son representativos de la población indígena subyugada.”

José Alejandro Restrepo, Paso del Quindío I (detalle). Foto J.A.

Sea como fuese, El Paso del Quindío I incluye, casi literalmente a modo de nota al pie, un homenaje explícito a Humboldt. Este tiene la forma de los dos pequeños monitores al pie y a cada costado de la pirámide dónde, contrastando con la secuencia de vistas que transcurren por las pantallas más grandes, se ve una serie de planos cortos (close-ups) sobre la vegetación cercana al suelo; sobre todo los tallos y hojas espinosas de caña que, como contaba Humboldt en su texto, prolifera en la barranca occidental de la cordillera y terminaba por destruir el calzado de los viajeros, obligándolos a andar descalzos como todos los que atraviesan de pie y no en silla de carguero la montaña. Y es este, el del caminante, el punto de vista que nos solicita ocupar también la obra de Restrepo: nos urge que caminemos hasta allí donde el paisaje se abisma.

#MileiNo

Carta abierta de investigadorxs internacionales por la democracia y los derechos humanos

Acabamos de lanzar una solicitada para defender el proceso democrático en Argentina, hoy en peligro grave ante la posibilidad de que un candidato negacionista de ultraderecha gane el balotaje presidencial del próximo domingo 19 de noviembre. Ya firmaron más de 800 colegas en cinco continentes resaltando las “políticas suicidas” de la fórmula neofascista y defendiendo los valores de verdad, memoria y justicia como pilares fundacionales del pacto democrático.

El texto completo y la lista de firmas puede consultarse aquí en versión castellana y aquí en versión inglesa, junto con la lista de firmantes, y con un enlace al formulario de adhesión.

Aquí se puede leer una nota que sacó Página/12 sobre la iniciativa: https://www.pagina12.com.ar/616362-no-a-milei-carta-abierta-de-academicos-de-todo-el-mundo

Aesthetics and the Planetary Turn

From: Handbook of Latin American Environmental Aesthetics, ed. Jens Andermann, Gabriel Giorgi, and Victoria Saramago (Berlin, New York: De Gruyter, 2023), “Introduction”

(…) What the contributions to this volume are after are the multiple reconfigurations of bodies and environments within the geology of late capitalism, the moment when, as Déborah Danowski and Eduardo Viveiros de Castro put it, the “transformation of humans into a geological force, that is, into an ‘objective’ phenomenon or ‘natural’ object, is paid back with the intrusion of Gaia in the human world, giving the Earth System the menacing form of a historical subject, a political agent, a moral person.” Such an entanglement of agencies, they conclude, also entails an “inversion of the relationship between figure and ground, the ambiented becomes the ambient […] and the converse is equally the case” (Danowski and Viveiros de Castro 2017, 14).

What we call environmental aesthetics is lodged in the very moment of inversion called out by Danowski and Viveiros de Castro. Aesthetics is a concept that, at least since its re-introduction into modern critical thought by Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten in the early eighteenth century, has been deployed as both referring to the sensory and imaginative experience of beauty—and thus also to a mode of accessing truth by way of “sensible discourse” rather than logical reasoning, in Baumgarten’s (1954, 6-10) expression—and as the “science of perception” that asks, as Kant would posit, for the general principles underwriting individual aesthetic judgements. The artwork, as it arranges the sensory in ways that strive towards perfection, thus making it accessible to “taste” as an experience of truth that is analog to yet also distinct from, critical reason, is therefore also invested with an implicit epistemic power that the discipline of aesthetics is entrusted with drawing out and making explicit. (…) Going beyond the contemplation of nature in this tradition as a vehicle for the experience of beauty or the emergence of the sublime, the “environmental” in environmental aesthetics also complicates the idealistic baggage the term aesthetics carries with it.

“Environment” is a notion first used in systematic fashion by the nineteenth-century positivist thought of Auguste Comte and Herbert Spencer, who used it to describe “the circumstances of an organism” (Bonneuil and Fressoz 2016, 173)—before, it had been deployed colloquially to refer to the surroundings of towns and cities, i.e. “the countryside.” Ernst Haeckel, in 1867, coined the notion of “ecology” highlighting the symbiotic effects among living organisms and between those and their physical conditions of existence, in response to Darwin’s notion of the struggle for survival; in early twentieth-century biology, Johann Jakob von Uexküll further developed the biosemiotic dimension of the concept as an at once perceptive and life-sustaining entanglement between organisms and their surroundings. Yet, as David Arnold (1996) has shown, environmental determinism had already informed Western thought long before it became a systematic concept in its own right, underwriting and justifying imperial expansion and the enslavement and forced migration of non-Europeans, including in Montesquieu’s and Buckle’s climatology or the biological racism of Gobineau and Malthus.[1] Nonetheless, and despite having been trained by late twentieth-century strands of thought such as poststructuralism, deconstruction, feminism and performance theory to be suspicious of all appeals to “nature” as the ultimate cause of, and normative benchmark for, human action, the surge of the planetary as encountered in Williams’s film (and in myriad forms of environmental emergency) also forces us today to double down on this critique of “nature” and rethink the agentiality of the nonhuman in different ways. For if “Gaia,” the earth system, or the “more-than-human” are no longer just objects of perception and of sensory pleasure, as Danowski and Viveiros de Castro contend, but have shown themselves to be agential, and thus also perceptive, in their own right, do we not need now to rethink the aesthetic itself as the fragile and precarious field of encounter, or even of “sympoiesis” (in Donna Haraway’s expression), between diverse existents engaged in imagining and in crafting a shared “becoming-with” (Haraway 2016, 4; 58)?

The essays assembled in this volume take stock of the lines of critical revision and of the terms and concepts that have emerged in recent years in response to this question. Two principal tasks, in fact, seem to articulate the main coordinates at work in environmental aesthetics: on the one hand, to reconfigure the sensorium that allows us to imagine, perceive, narrate and think the passage from the global to the planetary; on the other, to re-conceptualize aesthetics—in a tradition that also involves the avant-garde as well as posthuman thinking—in a way that allows us to disrupt received notions of aesthetics and make room to other arrangements of the sensible that register the agency of the non-human and the non-living. Stengers’s “intrusion of Gaia” and the now-ubiquitous notion of the Anthropocene—referring to the “major and still-growing impacts of human activity on earth and atmosphere” (Crutzen & Stoermer 2000, 17) to the point of becoming the dominant geological force of our age—as well as rival ones such as Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Gynocene or Chthulucene (all of which attempt to call into question the residual humanism of Anthropocene theory) are challenging the very foundations of modern Western aesthetics, politics and theory as premised on the ontological distinction between humanity (and hence “culture”), on the one hand, and of nonhuman “nature”, on the other (Latour 1993, 10; 32). Whichever position we choose to take with regard to its key concept, “the Anthropocene debate”—as postcolonial historian Dipesh Chakrabarty (2021, 155) contends—“thus entails a constant conceptual traffic between earth history and world history,” and to help enable such traffic by way of new concepts and paradigms at a time of advancing deterioration of the biosphere and unprecedented mass extinction at a planetary scale is the urgent task that has been set for environmental aesthetics.

Such an endeavor must of necessity be at once critical and speculative. In the former sense, it has to revisit the archive of modern arts and literature as well as that of the responses aesthetic theory has crafted from these, in order to understand their impact on, and even complicity with, the establishment and policing of the modern nature-culture boundary. In a compelling, hard-hitting book, Indian novelist and literary scholar Amitav Ghosh suggests that canonical forms of Western modernism such as the realist novel and abstract art have been of fundamental importance for establishing the primacy of human “current affairs” over their cataclysmic, short as well as long-term, entanglements with cosmic forces. The exceptional, the wondrous, “the unheard-of and the unlikely [that] fiction delighted in” prior to the emergence of realism, he suggests, have been banished in modernity to the B-genres of sci-fi and fantasy, with abstraction upping the stakes even further in eliminating reference altogether and placing “human consciousness, agency and identity […] at the center of every kind of aesthetic enterprise” (Ghosh 2016, 16; 120). Yet ecocritical approaches, particularly in the realm of literature, have also sought to re-appraise the areas and forms of dissidence that have always accompanied these hegemonic frameworks, attempting to track—in Richard Kerridge’s early description of the field—“environmental ideas and representations [and] to evaluate texts and ideas in terms of their coherence and usefulness as responses to environmental crisis” (Kerridge 1998, 5).

However, in addition to the important and necessary project of re-assessing the androcentric founding premises of modern aesthetics, and thus also of the histories of literature, art and film that underwrite the critical frameworks of our academic disciplines, environmental aesthetics as the two-way traffic between artistic production and the critical thought that draws out its interfaces with wider, socio-cultural as well as earth-systemic developments, is also in the business of imagining things differently—of mobilizing the powers of speculation to imagine but also create other ways of inhabiting the planet. The arts, as environmental humanities scholar Carolyn Merchant contends, “are an essential part of creating the large-scale public awareness and understanding of climate change that can bring about policy change,” in challenging “the standard human/environment narrative, in which humans are both privileged over other species and separate from nature. Indeed, artists can change the way we think about the meaning of progress” (Merchant 2020, 46). An aesthetics of and in the Anthropocene, as literary critic David Farrier suggests referring to a line from Irish poet Seamus Heany, must open up and inhabit “the rift between what is going to happen and whatever we wish to happen […] In doing so, it can point us to a careful retying of the knots that bind us together, in deep time, with the fate of the Earth” (Farrier 2019, 128). Indeed, if the speculative efforts of the epistêmê aisthetikê—the “science of what is sensed and imagined,” in Baumgarten’s (1954, 86-87) definition—will now have to be re-oriented towards “reading for the planet,” in energy humanities scholar Jennifer Wenzel’s (2020, 1) powerful expression, such “world-imagining” through and with art might also require us to expand our very notion of the artistic beyond conventional genres and expressive languages and toward the “sites of expanded creativity” that are in the business of “the experimental practice of world-making,” in art theorist T. J. Demos’s words. The environmental aesthetics, Demos suggests, concern themselves with the expanded field of “creative ecologies—practices that make new sensible materializations and connections (aesthetic, practical, jurisgenerative) between otherwise discrete realms of experience and knowledge, and that cultivate worlds to come” (Demos 2020, 18). On this note, literary scholar Florencia Garramuño has put forward the notion of “unspecificity” as a way of thinking about how contemporary aesthetic production, in novel and heterogeneous alliances with other realms of social practice that modernist aesthetics had kept separate from the domain of art as distinctive and “autonomous” from these, imagines and thus calls into being, “worlds-in-common”: unspecific aesthetics, for her, is the elaboration of “a language of commonalitythat encourages the invention of diverse modes of disbelonging” as the shared condition of existents in thrall to planetary crisis (Garramuño 2015, 26). Anthropologists Marisol de la Cadena and Mario Blaser have suggested the notion of “the uncommons” to account for this paradoxical togetherness of diverse agents brought about by their shared exposure to climate breakdown and mass extinction, an allyship that necessarily relies on the creative faculty of humans and nonhumans alike to be willed into being. The uncommons, then, is “the heterogeneous grounds where negotiations take place toward a commons that would be a continuous achievement, an event whose vocation is not to be final because it remembers that the uncommons is its constant starting point” (Blaser and De la Cadena 2017, 19). In different ways, these voices resonate and dialogue with a persistent theme in the twentieth-century Latin American intellectual tradition.


[1] See also Bonneuil and Fressoz’s chapter on the “Polemocene” for a more nuanced history of proto-ecological ideas in the West beyond biological and climate determinism (Bonneuil and Fressoz 2016, 253 ff).

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El giro fascista: cinco hipótesis

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integralismo

(Cartel de Ação Integralista Brasileira, años 30)

Como la explosión de un absceso purulento, la victoria con más del 55 % en las elecciones presidenciales brasileñas de un candidato abiertamente racista, misógino y homofóbico, defensor entusiasta de dictaduras y de la tortura de opositores, partidario de soluciones eugenésicas para indígenas y afrobrasileños a quienes ha tildado de hediondos, ignorantes y criminales –cuando no directamente de cualquier disidencia política, religiosa o cultural– produce al menos un efecto saludable de sinceramiento. Porque no solo, como era de esperar, no perdieron tiempo en celebrar la llegada a sus filas del Führer tropical los Trump, Salvini, Le Pen, Orban — la lista podría alargarse infinitamente. También las educadas y cosmopolitas “derechas democráticas” de nuestras republiquetas vecinas, cuyas loas cantaba hace apenas unos años el editorialismo de cuello blanco, se aprestaron por hacer constar, por si quedaba alguna duda, de que también ellas, por supuesto, habían militado desde siempre en la falange donde reviste el reservista vencedor. Era uno más del palo el verdeamarillento, sacaban pecho los Piñera, los Macri, los Cartes; verdadero visionario –se emocionaba el canciller argentino Faurie ya tras la primera vuelta– con el ojo puesto en el futuro y no en el pasado. Pero si era tanto el apuro de los hasta anoche vestales del republicanismo pampeano por probarse la camisa marrón antes de que se las arrebate el primer hijo de carnicero, ¿no se cae por su propio peso la teoría de los dos demonios, previsiblemente desempolvada por personajes nefastos como el ex-presidente FHC? En declaraciones a la Folha el ex-sociólogo hacía saber que, contrario a lo que las incontinencias del personaje parecieran indicar, los brasileños no habían depositado su fe en un nazi confeso, ni siquiera un fascista, no: apenas un “autoritario”, esa mágica palabra-coartada que ya le había rendido tan buenos servicios, a FHC y sus socios, en los viejos buenos tiempos de la “transición democrática”. Y cuyo diagnóstico, como seguramente no tardarán en rematar los Vargas Llosa, los Castañeda y otras viudas del neoliberalismo noventista, ¿no había sido comprobado, precisamente, por la reciente elección mexicana de otro demagogo carismático, no importa que de prédica diametralmente opuesta a la del capitán carioca? ¿La culpa no será, por tanto, y como era de esperar, del infame populismo, ese que ahora se lame sus heridas cuando había desatado él mismo la bestia que ahora lo devora? ¡Ya está en los quioscos! — solo que, por más que la repitan, esa tierna fábula liberal de aprendices de brujos no deja de chocar con el sencillo hecho de que los votantes del ex-militar y los del ex-alcalde de la capital azteca no son en su inmensa mayoría los mismos, como tampoco lo son los del ex-obrero metalúrgico: si fuera solo por el voto de los favelados, los nordestinos, los sectores de menos recursos –la plebe, en suma– Haddad habría ganado de manera contundente. En cambio, ya lo han dicho voces más calificadas, los problemas empiezan cuando los que ya no quieren pertenecer a ese pueblo populista, esas proverbiales cuarenta millones de ex-pobres, “la nueva clase media de Lula”, se desmarcan de esa alianza con la violencia propia de los conversos. Pero si ése es el eje por el que gira el giro fascista: ¿qué expresa la aceleración vertiginosa de su espiral violenta? ¿Hacia donde apunta su odio?

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The end of transition: working notes

I wrote the following notes for the closing round-table of the symposium “Performing Human Rights: Contesting Amnesia and Historical Justice in Latin America and the Middle East”, University of Zurich, June 28-29, 2018. Because of the quite lively discussion these remarks provoked, I share them here as an invitation to think and discuss further. I thank the conference organizers, Liliana Gómez-Popescu and Bettina Dennerlein, for challenging me to return to the question of transitional justice and human rights.

Screenshot 2018-06-30 19.20.12

Anti-PT manifestation, Brazil, 2015 (photo: blog União da Juventude Socialista)

Coined in the legal and political sciences in the 1980s and 1990s, especially in the ambit of international organizations, the concept of transitional justice was tasked with managing governance in contexts of negotiated handovers of state power from “authoritarian” to “democratic” governments, in contexts that ranged from Latin America’s Southern Cone to the end of apartheid in South Africa to the rapidly disintegrating map of post-Soviet Eastern Europe. The very notion of a “return to democracy” frequently associated with discourses of democratic transition also framed the latter as a universal, normative standard that had been interrupted by authoritarian exception. Transitional justice, a label that was quickly being applied to postgraduate programs and government agencies the world over, offered a framework for comparing –that is, for measuring the relative success or failure within the quantifiable parameters of benchmarks, indices and goalposts held dear by governments and international institutions– processes of compartmentalizing the political contingencies of these “transitions” into discrete, and partially autonomous, institutional realms. Transitional justice, in short, ensured the reconfiguration of politics as administration, and it did so, centrally, in parsing out, on the one hand, more or less limited forms of legal prosecution of human rights violations (frequently reparative rather than retaliatory), and on the other hand the opening-up of institutional settings for the productions of testimony, where victims’ memory performances could be played out within “safe spaces”.

Admittedly, I’m offering a schematic, even caricaturesque, summary here of processes which, at a national or even local level always played out in much more complex and contradictory ways — but the point here is, precisely, that transitional justice, as an imaginary gold standard of such diverse processes, openly promoted itself as an enabling fiction, one to which the political itself had to succumb, it was suggested, in order to be able to unleash its potentiality and contingency once again once the “transition process” had been successfully completed.

In Latin America, this notion of transition and the historical narrative of normalcy and aberration it implicitly subscribed to, have been submitted from very early on to a radical critique and counter-narrative that has been associated with the concept of postdictatorship, that is, with the various modes of dictatorial afterlife the idea of transition both obscured and enabled. For what if not dictatorship has been the “transitional” moment that violently separates, in Latin American late modernity, the increasingly radicalized national-popular movements and governments of the 1960s and 1970s from the neoliberal regimes that succeeded, or perhaps rather, were ushered in by, military State terror? Against the origin myth of democratic continuity interrupted by authoritarian exception, tantamount to emptying history of politics, postdictatorship proposed a narrative of catastrophic defeat, of which the discourse of democratic transition was itself symptomatic: transitional justice, as the legal-institutional administration of (neoliberal) governance “after terror” confirmed the successful violent destruction, and inability to suture or reconstruct in the present, of the languages of decolonizing emancipation the dictatorships had violently cut short.

The rise and fall of center-left governments in Latin America after the millennium (the so-called pink tide) can thus also be understood, in retrospect, as a failed attempt to re-introduce the political into the empty time of neoliberal administration, constituted upon the discursive and institutional frameworks of “democratic transition”. Yet what this failure has presently unleashed is a wave of necropolitical vengeance that far exceeds the mere reinstatement of the neoliberal status quo ante. Instead, I suggest, the open instrumentalization of lawfare for political ends and the cynical tweaking or outright violation of constitutional norms (as in Honduras, Paraguay or Brazil) on behalf of a resurgent right mark the true “end of transition”, in the sense not just of the completion of a cycle but also, and foremost, as revealing the political and historical ends the former was always already transitioning towards.

The end of transition, if indeed we were to think of the present moment in Latin America under this heading, would then imply a range of challenges to critical thinking and the politics of resistance alike. I want to sketch out just two: firstly, beyond the critique of the political and legal underwritings of transitional governance the notion of postdictatorship has allowed us to perform, we would urgently need to expand our frameworks today towards a more systematic, longue durée point of view that would allow us to encompass (as fundamental) the economic dimension of “transition”. What “transition” will have turned out to have transitioned towards, what it literally prepared the ground for, would then take shape as a violent, even genocidal, neo-extractive cycle currently rolling across the Global South and beyond, and of which the racist, misogynistic, and homo/transphobic necropolitics of the dominant neofascism in the Americas are part and parcel. What we need is a reframing and retooling of our critical instruments in order to be able to name the way in which dictatorial terror and neoliberal accumulation-through-dispossession alike participate of an extractivist matrix that takes bodily and earthly surfaces –the living and the material– as “overburden” and as targets of its extractive bio- and necropolitics. It is no accident, after all, that indigenous persons and women have presently emerged as the principal agents of resistance, and as the main targets of fascist violence, as the assassinations of Heather Heyer, Bertha Cáceres and Marielle Franco in the United States, Guatemala and Brazil, or the illegal imprisonment, torture and assassination of Kolla and Mapuche leaders in Argentina and Chile show all too eloquently.

Secondly, perhaps the field of memory studies as presently configured has neglected for too long, and to its own peril, the way in which the neofascist resurgence has itself been underwritten by “memory performances”, from the various kinds of ritual homage paid to icons of white suprematism and slavery in the U.S. South to the mobilizations of perpetrators’ relatives and their political and mediatic allies in Brazil, Argentina and Chile, which once more openly defend military tortures and assassinations perpetrated, the story now goes, in the sacrificial defense of the nation against leftist “corruption”. In what ways, we need to ask, have the “subjective” and “performative turns” in memory studies, as developed within ethical imperatives of empathizing with the experiences and demands of victims, been neglecting these memory performances of the enemy? Has the privileging of memory over history, however important in contexts of recovering experiences of suffering and resistance, suddenly left us exposed against the fascist rewriting/reperforming of the past? The challenge for the Left today, it seems to me, is then about moving beyond extant critiques of the transitional consensus as outlined above, and towards a more comprehensive engagement with what transition was actually heading towards.