Art is a social activity one can say. For even a canvas in isolation is an intermediary between at least two identities trapped within the singularity of the body behind it: alternating between artist and spectator, synchronously, every time the brush is pushed against the canvas or pulled away; I paint then I am a painter, I spectate them I am a spectator. If we are to say that art is a social activity then it is natural to wonder what is the social labor mediating the activity between artist and spectator? Is it a conversation, or simply, and more generally, a discourse?
Can we say that every conversation is a discourse, but not every discourse is a conversation? A conversation is an act involving the spoken words. But one can abstract “conversation” even further by saying that a conversation adopts a medium: like that between the base, trumpet, drums, and flute in Jazz. A discourse on the other hand can take no medium, like the conversation with oneself. Sure even a mental conversation can adopt, for instance, the spoken language as a medium, but those words need not to conform to the Other’s understanding. In other words, what is language, vocabulary, and grammar in the absence of the Other?
If art reception, the spectator’s end of the discourse, is part of a conversation then it is either that there is no ‘artist’ or that every artist in the past, present, and future has been murdered all at once. For in this conversation the spectator has an advantage, a super-power: always having the last say in the conversation; the same super-power the parasite has over its host. It is easy to judge if you can only be a ‘judge:’ and by ‘judge’ I mean the one not judged. If now we say art is a conversation then the artist is exactly like the slaves of the past except if they had asked for slavery. Or like a refugee: addressed and judged by those who realize very well the absence of means for the refugee to converse back: a unidirectional conversation perhaps.
One can perhaps then liberate art from the restrictions of ‘conversing:’ art is a discourse. But if art is to be a discourse that is not a conversation then it cannot be between the artist and the spectator, rather between the spectator and themselves through the art production as a medium: so will be the case for the artist. The spectator, in pursuit of something, is guided towards that pursuit without having the need to reveal the destination. The artist, in pursuit of something, whatever it is, need not conform to the spectator’s goal and destination. With each emancipated from the Other, the shift is from a world of psychopaths, the one involving lunatics and corpses, to that of lunatics only: equality is lunacy without murder. The dialogue is not unidirectional anymore for a discourse with oneself cannot be linear, but circular, oscillatory: what is inwards is outwards and what is outwards is inwards. In other words, maybe after all there is not escaping the lunatic. But one can very much escape the psychopath. And if you can escape the psychopath why escape the lunatic?
Equality is lunacy without murder. Inequality then is not the absence of lunacy, but lunacy for some but not for others. So is the tale of the proletairian too. What is a proletarian? Who is the proletarian? The question on this particular identity, rarely explored, is ambiguous. Whether it is rarely explored because it is ambiguous or vice versa is rephrasing the same tale.
Death is one answer. For the difference between a proletarian and a pleb is merely a sentiment that gives the egalitarian parasite a sense of redemption against their own-self. If the identity of the proletarian is ambiguous maybe because this very identity does not exist, by-design or otherwise. What is a pleb but a man robbed of identity? A man robbed of identity too can be given any name: slave, criminal, terrorist, revolutionary force, comrade, proletarian, slum-dog. Nothing more appropriate however than ‘a-corpse-with-a-pulse.’ For Karl Marx’s prophecy is this: a pleb that speaks like or in the language of the bourgeoisie is a proletarian. A more genuine prophecy could have been that formalizing the death of the already dead with a verdict does not wake them up. In other words, it does not matter if it is the factory owner, manager, or the ‘labor-force’ speaking: as long as the pleb is not. Silent even if they spoke? It is the Other that is speaking to them or through them.
The tie between the proletarian and the artist here is not based on similarity, between them, however way each are ‘identified’ by themselves or the spectator. For the similarity is only certain elsewhere: in the lack of identity they have in common, as perceived by themselves and the Other. What is the city of artists then? It is equivalently the city of proletarians. Not that which is identified by its struggle, devotion, and self-sacrifice. It is the one of lunatics and lunatics only. A non-conforming sphere where the “masses” have no identity, but the individuals are, to each their own, for where everyone has no identity is also where everyone has an identity. In this non-linearity only one thing can be said for certain: the city of artists lacks corpse-eating parasites.
Lunatic it is. Nine months of genocide can mean too much heartbreak. Conversely too, for a genocide to be ‘on-going’ for nine months can also mean not enough heartbreak. If heartbreak gave birth to theatre, then what is theatre? If it is a conversation mediated through the stage amongst everyone on the stage and in-front of it, then the audience is merely a clique of ‘heartbreak-junkies.’ The problem becomes particularly this: if heartbreak gave birth to theatre, then what else can maintain theatre? If on the first act murder was suffice, on the 270th act ‘murder’ alone will not be enough. To satisfy the thirst of these junkies one must address the aesthetics of murder: How were they murdered? Where were they murdered? Doing what? ‘Murder is murder’ is a false statement. But the problem now is that what differentiates one murder from the other is the aesthetics of murder: what is another child bombed with 50 other individuals at once in a genocide compared to a woman sentenced to death by dog-bites? Aesthetics, for these junkies, is the harvest of the labor of “tolerance.” Tolerance for its part is the harvest of a different labor: the one designed to ease and numb the pain, but not remedy the wound: mourning.