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February 18th 2024 marked the centenary of the birth of Evald Ilyenkov (1924–1979) - a brilliant and influential Soviet philosopher whose most important early works remained unpublished during his lifetime. Two days before Ilyenkov's 100th birthday, Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny was found dead in a Siberian prison colony; that news overshadowed the little attention given to Ilyenkov's anniversary in Russia. The manner in which Ilyenkov's centenary and Navalny's death were treated reflects memory culture in Putin's Russia, where the legacies of Soviet Marxism are often suppressed by ultra-nationalist propaganda. Abroad, Ilyenkov's prestige has seen a remarkable rise in recent years, accompanied by translations and new scholarship in, for example, Sweden, Ukraine, Peru, Turkey, Canada and Cuba.
Throughout the years of Belarusian independence, remnants from the Soviet Union have permeated the everyday lives of its citizens as well as the country's colloquial and political rhetoric, often thoroughly detached from their original cultural contexts, discourses, and imaginaries. But what can we learn from watching Soviet movies today? The movies in question bear complex meaning pertaining to different Soviet eras and transition periods. Through an informed viewing, we not only perceive the official agenda - be it political, ideological, or cultural - but also traces of social and political tensions, metaphors, and "clues" on historical reality. Historicizing these movies and understanding their initial cultural and social context as part of a sociocultural analysis of film allows to uncover implicit, often unintentional meanings inherent to this cinematic heritage. My analysis here will focus on the social drama "The Woman" ("Женщина"), a late masterpiece of Soviet avant-garde cinema directed by Yefim Dzigan and Boris Shreyber. Artistically and stylistically, this widely forgotten silent movie provides one of the most vivid and interesting pre-War filmic representations of collectivization and village life on Belarusian territory. Produced by Belgoskino, the first Belarusian state-run film studio, and released throughout the Soviet Union in the summer of 1932 through an all-Union distribution, "The Woman" portrays the difficulties of establishing life on a collective farm.
In the retrospect of almost a decade, the year 2015 seems to offer at least two openings which can help us better understand and localize the "end of theory" narratives that began to take hold sometime around the end of the millennium. Rita Felski's much-discussed and much-maligned 2015 book, "The Limits of Critique", construed the long history of "critique" as largely continuous with the more recent (postwar) idea of "theory," which allowed her to question the presupposed progressivity and utility of the dominant critical-theoretical discourses of late 20th-century North American academia. In the same year, Philipp Felsch's "Der lange Sommer der Theorie" (which was recently published in English as "The Summer of Theory") went so far as to assign specific dates, 1960–1990, and tended to define theory not as a purely academic product, but as a much wider cultural movement. Between the two books, questions of the difference between theory and critique, their specific institutional locus within and beyond academia, became objects of acute concern.
In present-day Germany, research on postwar academia, up through the 1960s and beyond, requires no special justification. But from the North American side, the point of this scholarly activity - including the many new editions and a flood of archive-based publications - is much less obvious. For the most well-established figures of the period, the primary international canonizations were already part of the first waves of the reception, the theoretical tectonics established themselves accordingly, and the theories were established as theories - which are in many quarters presumed to be just as reliable today as they were decades ago. One might say that the international and North American reception of European theory has manifested an overall tendency toward sedimentation, while the dynamic of scholarly research about theory, including the archival unearthing of new sources, tends to complicate and undermine the established corpus of "primary texts."
Rethinking smartness
(2023)
Like many metropolitan centers around the world, Berlin aspires to be a "smart city." Making a city smart usually involves constructing a dense net of sensors, often embedded in and around more traditional infrastructures throughout the urban environment, such as transportation systems, electrical grids, and water systems. The process also requires the city to solicit the distributed input of its inhabitants through active technological means, such as smart phone apps. Finally, the city employs high-end computing and learning algorithms to analyze the resulting data, with the goal of optimizing urban technical, social, and political processes. Yet, perhaps counterintuitively, a smart city is not synonymous with a utopian - or even a specific - form of the city, which would then remain stable for the foreseeable future. In this sense, the smart city is quite unlike utopian cities as they were imagined in the past, when it was presumed that a specific form - such as Le Corbusier's "Radiant City" or the concentric circles of Ebenezer Howard's garden cities - would enable a specific goal, such as integration of humans into natural processes, or economic growth, or an increase in collective happiness, or democratic political participation. Rather, a city is "smart" when it achieves the capacity to adjust to any new and unexpected threats and possibilities that may emerge from the city's ecological, political, social, and economic environments (a capacity that is generally referred to in planning documents with the term "resilience"). In short, a smart city is a site of perpetual learning, and a city is smart when it achieves the capacity to engage in perpetual learning.
Jameson argues that in 'a society bereft of all historicity', 'what used to be the historical novel can no longer set out to represent the historical past'. The 'postmodern fate' of the historical novel is to be forced to come to terms with 'a new and original historical situation in which we are condemned to seek History by way of our own pop images and simulacra of that history, which itself remains forever out of reach. Salman Rushdie's "Midnight's Children" (1981) and Patrick Süskind's "Das Parfum. Die Geschichte eines Mörders" (1984) stand out as two hugely successful novels from this period that raise questions about historical representation within the space of the popular. They might therefore be used as test cases for Jameson's concerns. "Midnight's Children" is a sprawling story of Indian and British imperial and post-imperial history across the twentieth century. "Das Parfum" tells the tightly framed tale of a murderous perfumer in eighteenth-century France. Seemingly very different texts, they bear one curious similarity: both feature a protagonist with an unusually sensitive sense of smell.
In his article "The End of History?", originally published in the journal "The National Interest" in Summer 1989, Frances Fukuyama argued that 'the triumph of the West, of the Western idea, is evident first of all in the total exhaustion of viable systemic alternatives to Western liberalism.' It was in this respect that history had reached its 'end': the course of history in the sense of 'mankind's logical evolution' had arrived at 'the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government'. [...] A look at some of the historical fiction written in the 1980s might suggest ways out of this potential imaginative impasse, offering up alternative possibilities, or 'Gegenwelten', in place of the dispiriting spectacle of history-on-repeat. Fukuyama himself does not mention literature. In fact, the historical fiction of the 1980s reveals a space in which the meaning of 'history' is still very much contested and where the threat of the 'end of history' in its more obvious sense - in the form of nuclear war or climate apocalypse - emerges as a force that speaks powerfully to the anxiety of our present moment. Two evocative novels that have much to tell us in these respects are Christa Wolf's "Kassandra" and Jeanette Winterson's "Sexing the Cherry". Published in 1984 and 1989, these two texts challenged the idea of rational progress and 'mankind's logical evolution' by raising the prospect of a distinctive feminist poetics - of 'écriture féminine' and 'what it will do' as Hélène Cixous had put it in her 1975 essay "The Laugh of the Medusa". The 'Gegenwelten' they propose suggest ways out of the macho strait jacket of violence, destruction and impending nuclear war.
In early 1944, shortly after the liberation of Kyiv, the Yiddish poet Dovid Hofshteyn (1889–1952) returned home from evacuation and was confronted firsthand with the horrors of the Holocaust. This encounter moved him to pen the passionate essay "Muzeyen fun shand" ("Museums of Shame"). [...] He suggested gathering pictures, documents, and tools of this terrible time that were to be displayed in so-called museums of shame in "every major city in the world and in every point of German population." [...] Before the Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, there were plans to fully open the Babyn Yar Holocaust Memorial Center by 2023 - though those plans have certainly been hindered by the latest war of aggression on the territory of Ukraine. [...] However, even prior to the Russian war against Ukraine, the Memorial Center was already shrouded in controversy. Some critics were wary that certain funders - Russian oligarchs with ties to Putin - would seek to turn the site into an outlet for Kremlin propaganda with an anti-Ukrainian bias that focused predominantly on Ukrainian collaborators. While a number of Ukrainians were indeed collaborators during the Holocaust, even more Ukrainians became victims of the Nazis. Other critics thus argue that a sober look at the crimes committed by Ukrainians as well as by the German occupiers is a sign of the mature civil society which has emerged in Ukraine.
First as a student of comparative literature with a focus on German and then as a professor of German Studies, I’ve been traveling back and forth to Germany for three decades, almost exactly the age of the reunified German state. I have stayed for weeks, for months, or for more than a year at a time. I have lived in Leipzig, in Cologne, and in Munich, but I have spent by far the most time in Berlin, a place that I have come to consider a second home. Throughout that time, Germany has changed enormously, both demographically and attitudinally. In relation to diversity in general and in its relationship to Jews.
In the age of mechanical reproducibility, the 'aura' surrounding works of art undergoes a crisis. The contemporary relevance of Walter Benjamin's thesis - in its societal, aesthetic, and media-theoretical significance - is illustrated by former U.S. president Donald Trump's purported ownership of "Les deux soeurs" ("Two Sisters"), also known as "Sur la terrasse" ("On the Terrace"), by Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Journalist Mark Bowden, who caught a glimpse of the painting when he was invited to Trump's jet in 1997, describes the event in an article for Vanity Fair: "He showed off the gilded interior of his plane - calling me over to inspect a Renoir on its walls, beckoning me to lean in closely to see … what? The luminosity of the brush strokes? The masterly use of color? No. The signature. 'Worth $10 million,' he told me." Of course, this is the attitude that one might expect from a real-estate mogul turned art collector (although not from a future president). In ignorance of both form and content - to say nothing of their unity - the painting is reduced to its sheer exchange value, concentrated in the signature guaranteeing its authenticity.
Rezension zu Peter Salmon, "An Event, Perhaps. A Biography of Jacques Derrida", London / New York: Verso, 2020.
Where Haas sees the narrative dividing into "Streberwitz" and "Kriegsdarstellung" I see something more like a division between 'Witz' and 'Krieg' per se. The point and the provocation of the novel, in my view, is that Kehlmann declines to bring these two strata together, or rather: that he first insists on bringing them together, by forcing Tyll and the Thirty Years War to inhabit the same work, and then refuses to synthesize them into anything like a higher unity. The irony of the fool, in Tyll, does not acquire gravity or depth by virtue of its relationship to a reality whose hidden truths it emphatically does not reveal; and the reality of war does not find redemption or sublimation in art.
The resistance of aesthetics consists in the mode of experience that art affords, which promotes individual consciousness and political awareness by exploding the dualisms with which we tend to simplify things: centralization and decentralization, totality and fragmentation, communism and neoliberal capitalism, dictatorship and democracy. Although the formal complexity and ambiguous compositions met in works by the likes of Picasso, Woolf, and Schönberg most obviously support this sort of experience, it can be drawn out of all art to various degrees. Indeed, what distinguishes these modernists from the artists who came before and after them is how they set aesthetic experience as the aim of artistic production. But no work of art can be reduced either to the whole or to the sum of its parts; either to systematicity or to formlessness. Strictly speaking, the opposing ideals of classical and critical aesthetics are not two distinct aesthetic positions, but the theoretical limits between which art unfolds. By analogy, totalitarian governance and social atomism are not oppositional political materializations, but the two extremes at which politics ends.
In a time when 'internationalization' and 'diversity' have become key areas universities are expected to excel in, it may seem an almost self-evident endeavor to install a memorial for a figure as influential and internationalist as Du Bois, whose connection to the Humboldt University outlasted two ideologically very different political systems. Planned to be positioned in the ground floor of the main building, the memorial, which will start production as soon as the last funding has been secured, reveals an image right at its center that "exist[s] in virtually every student's life and family album, and commonly serve[s] as vehicle[s] of recognition, remembrance and commemoration": the class photograph. What are the main considerations underlying the W. E. B. Du Bois Memorial's concept and design? How has it evolved so far? And what can such a memorial realistically achieve?
Like identical twins, philosophy and history seem to be tied together in an uneasy way. On the one hand, philosophy is very concerned to engage with the history of philosophy. There are not many other branches of knowledge so preoccupied with continually referring back to their own 'classics'. On the other hand, quite a few of these classical authors did not hold history in high esteem. Aristotle, as is well known, even preferred drama to history, arguing that the latter merely concerned contingent issues. The marriage between history and philosophy quite often results in monsters like Hegelian philosophy of history: grand narratives that are all too easy to criticize and to debunk. If we want to better understand this complex relationship between philosophy and history, it might be worth turning to the German philosopher Hans Blumenberg.
If one thing can be learned from the recent boom in the apparently 'new' field of the 'history of the humanities', it is that, especially in the humanities, the history of an academic discipline is never mere history, because the research questions that inaugurate a discipline continue to subsist at its foundations. Knowledge in the humanities, it seems, develops differently. In many fields, 'progress' is far less linear than in the natural sciences; indeed, research programmes may shuttle back and forth between different epochs, with interpretations of the past continually shedding new light upon the present.
The conception of the whole as a system, that is, as a totality determined by one principle or idea, has dominated the philosophical tradition from Kant and Hegel to Marxism - and, as Louis Althusser's critique of Hegelianism shows, not without implicit social, political, and ideological consequences. The possibility of breaking with the idealist tradition in all of these respects rests on the articulation of an alternative conception of the whole. Althusser advances the notion of the social whole as a complex unity that is constituted through its own effects - what he calls "overdetermination." Such overdetermination of the whole displaces the conception of the whole as totality (Hegel) in favor of Spinoza's notion of modal unity - the whole as singularity.
Diverse museum diversities
(2018)
'Diversity' has become a lively key word in contemporary museum discourse and practice, with numerous policies and initiatives being conducted under its banner. Achieving 'diversity' is seen as something to be celebrated - a good thing in itself. But quite what 'diversity' refers to is itself heterogeneous, with this only rarely explicitly articulated or even recognised. As such, what exists is a shifting field of diverse diversities, which variously interlink and reinforce each other but which may also mask critical discrepancies, disconnects, incompatibilities and even contrary ambitions.
Das undatierte englischsprachige Manuskript von "Apocalypse and Politics" von Jacob Taubes (1923-1987) stammt vermutlich aus den späten 1960er Jahren. In diesem in seiner Originalfassung im ZfL Blog erstmals veröffentlichten Text stellt der Berliner Religionsphilosoph Überlegungen zur Vergleichbarkeit messianischer Kulte und der Entwicklung nationalistischer Befreiungsbewegungen in Afrika und Asien an und plädiert dabei für einen religionssoziologischen Ansatz.