April 12, 2018

PME-ART Links

.




Authenticity is a Feeling launches and related events
Authenticity is a Feeling: My Life in PME-ART
Every Song I've Ever Written
PME-ART


PME-ART videos:

The DJ Who Gave Too Much Information (Hospitality 5)
Every Song I've Ever Written / Helsinki Band Night
Every Song I've Ever Written / Montréal Karaoke
Hospitality 3: Individualism Was A Mistake
Adventures can be found anywhere, même dans la mélancolie

         
PME-ART articles in French

La famille se crée en copulant:
Christian St-Pierre in Voir

Le Génie des autres – Unrehearsed Beauty:
Solange Lévesque in Le Devoir
Catherine Hébert in Voir

Hospitalité 3 : l’individualisme est une erreur:
Marie-Chantal Scholl in DFDANSE
Aurélie Olivier in Voir

Le DJ qui donnait trop d'information (Hospitalité 5):
Nayla Naoufal in Dances from the Mat
Sylvie St-Jacques in La Presse

Toutes les chansons que j’ai composées:
Éric Clément in La Presse
Mario Cloutier in La Presse
Jérôme Delgado in Le Devoir

Adventures can be found anywhere, même dans la mélancolie:
Yan St-Onge in Artichaut magazine
Nayla Naoufal in Le Devoir
Sophie Lapalu in la Revue Marges

Others:
Jérôme Delgado in Le Devoir
Céline Escouteloup in Nightlife 
Sylvie Lachance Interview in Artichaut magazine


PME-ART articles in English

En français comme en anglais, it's easy to criticize:
Brian Parks in The Village Voice

The DJ Who Gave Too Much Information:
Phoebe Patey-Ferguson in This is Tomorrow

Every Song I've Ever Written:
Jordan Darville in The Fader
Heather Jones in Contemporary Art Stavanger

Adventures can be found anywhere, même dans la mélancolie:
Saelan Twerdy at Canadian Art



.

March 12, 2018

Jordy Rosenberg Quote

.



Its analysis shows us that the fetish is impenetrable to analysis. (This, incidentally, is also why in our current moment, we cannot simply explain electoral politics with a flat economic rationality that in fact does not align with Marx.) The commodity is and has a supernatural force. This supernatural force has real material effects in the social world, and there’s no rational way around it.

In case you doubted the supernatural force of the commodity, at the very end of Capital, Marx returns to it by way of a speculation about the origins of capitalist production as a whole. “The economic structure of capitalist society,” he announces, “has grown out of the economic structure of feudal society. The dissolution of the latter set free the elements of the former.” Suddenly we are back in the moment of the transition from feudalism to capitalism. Eight-hundred-odd pages brings you back to the beginning of the entire system and a set of questions about how capitalism arose in the first place. It’s almost nonsensical. Rather than point forward to some post-capitalist utopia, Marx takes us back to that “prehistoric stage of capital,” when “commodity-owners” (one possessing the means of production, the other possessing nothing to sell but his [sic] own labor) face each other in the marketplace, and the fetishism of the commodity takes hold.

Readers encountering this quirk of Capital for the first time may feel despair or at least bewilderment. After our long slog, we’re returned to the beginning in a sickening loop. Worse: The pre-beginning. But I tell you what, anyone who has ever been traumatized by the obituary for a fatherly hawk in the local paper knows what’s up. Knows that thinking about something, stewing about something, won’t change anything. The fetish represents the absolute limit point of thought, and of analysis. It’s what Marx begins with and at the end nothing has gotten any better. And this is the point, really perhaps the most profound point of all of Capital. We go back to the beginning at the end to make two things clear: nothing has changed and once something did change.

Nothing has changed over the course of reading the book. The fetish is there, and the power of the mind to transcend it is, as my mother would have said, bupkus. But: The fetish was not always there. And this is why Marx gets to the pre-history of capitalism only at the end. Because history does not matter as the fiction of a forward-moving telos. History matters only as a backward-facing reflection so that you can see one simple thing. Things were once different. Not better, but different. And so they might be again, and this time we have to have the wild belief that they could be better-different, not just differently-awful-different. There is simply no getting rid of the phantasmagoric power of the commodity — not in the world and not in thought — unless the conditions that make it so are changed, and collectively. And we know this because the entire text of Capital is arranged around the point at which thought falters: desire, the fetish. There is a promise lying in the shoals of despair — a thought that gets swallowed in the phantasmagoria of the world as it is. A thought that is not yet thinkable.

- Jordy Rosenberg, The Daddy Dialectic



.

February 27, 2018

Authenticity is a Feeling launches and related events

.



Over the next three months I will be launching Authenticity is a Feeling: My Life in PME-ART during these fine events:


Vancouver:
March 20th, 7pm
READ Books 
Emily Carr University 
520 East 1st Avenue 
Facebook Event 


Toronto:
April 25th, 7pm: 
Featuring readings from the book by Alexandra Rockingham Gill, Simone Moir & Jacob Wren
Type Books / 883 Queen St West
Facebook Event
 
May 3rd, 7pm
Bookhug Spring 2018 Launch Party
with readings by Chelene Knight, Jacob Wren, JC Sutcliffe, Aaron Giovannone, Steven Zultanski & Catherine Fatima
The Garrison / 1197 Dundas St W 
Facebook Event


Montreal
May 29th, 5pm-7pm
Lancement et lecture / Featuring readings from the book (in French translation) by Martin Bélanger, Marie Claire Forté, Benoît Lachambre, Gaétan Nadeau & Jacob Wren
FTA Quartier général / Agora Hydro-Québec du Cœur des sciences de l’UQAM / 175, ave. Président-Kennedy 





Order it here
On Goodreads
On Facebook



.

February 23, 2018

"The book described the water as text; the drops were signs."

.



Hausen wrote a book that everyone was reading. It went that way with men, and yet this was a book that meant a lot to me and led to a book of my own. Hausen wrote a book in the time before the crisis and people carried it around; it was mass produced. In the book, a man walked over a bridge and entered a building, where he jumped into a pool with a mineral-green bottom. He swam back and forth. He did a breast stroke, he worked from his back, he banged his body against the water, he sang, he shouted. He climbed out and exited the building, leaving a trail of water. The book described the water as text; the drops were signs. They doubled the story of Hausen’s character. He was a man who swam at night in empty buildings. The man went home to someone who did not seem quite like a woman, but who also was not identified as a “man.” The man coming home lay on top of this person and swam and told a story, which was a confession, and the body gasped, but we did not know if the man’s story was causing his gasping or whether the cause was his writhing. The reader couldn’t hear the story, but Hausen had the language around the story crack and drop heat on us. And the body writhed on top of the other body and whispered to it about something done and undone in the city, something sitting under water, something terrible.

- Renee Gladman, Ana Patova Crosses a Bridge



.

January 28, 2018

"Where children aren’t trapped mainly in the world of only two adults.”

.



I was taken to a school. Over the course of the year I was taken to many schools. So many government and private buildings had been repurposed as schools. This was the School for Free Ideas and Thinking, the one they thought I would be most interested in. The students and teachers all cooked and cleaned together, that was one of the first things they told me about it. But then they told me this was also true of all the other schools. It wasn’t unique to them. Still, I thought it was interesting it was one of the first things they wanted me to know. That cleaning and cooking together was their gateway drug to thinking together. That everything was connected. The students built their own curriculum as they went along, and I found myself there during a semester dedicated to questions of communal living and collective child rearing. From what was conveyed to me via a series of different translators, I feel it was one of the most thorough ongoing discussions on any topic I have ever witnessed. I do not feel they came to any conclusions. Rarely did I ever feel they were working towards anything even resembling a conclusion. I’m fairly certain I was the oldest person in the room. The teachers were ten to fifteen years younger than me and the students were all at least half my age. I would listen to them discuss and think: they’re at an age when everything still feels possible. When I was their age I felt so much more was possible in the world than I feel now and I wonder what happened to me. (Then again, I know I’m just another broken idealist. The greater the youthful idealism, the greater the disillusion when it’s smashed or breaks.) I found myself wondering what it would feel like to be that age and be born into this experiment. You’ve lived your entire life knowing that tomorrow could be the day you or someone you love is taken by a bomb or bullet. But you’ve also lived the past three years surrounded by people who are taking control of their own destiny towards something that you may or may not understand is relatively unprecedented. For you it’s always been like this.

In class, most often, everyone is also sitting in a large circle. It takes me a while to figure out who the teacher is and some days I even guess wrong. And I’m asked why it even matters, why it’s so important for me to single out a particular participant and designate them “teacher.” I don’t think it’s so important but I’m here trying to observe and understand what I’m observing. And it’s definitely not a free-for-all, there are parameters for these discussions and, at times, it does seem to me that someone is leading. And there are age differences and differences in experience, though I also have to ask myself how much such things really matter. As we get older of course we learn things through experience, but perhaps there are other, equally important, things we forget along the way, or forget to relearn, or to unlearn. They say to me: we’re all learning from each other, and this is clearly a fact, there’s no need for me to question it. What I’m calling the parameters have a lot to with ensuring everyone participates equally, that some people don’t speak more than others, and if someone is dominating the discussion you can feel everyone nervously glance at them, wondering how long until they take the hint. I wonder if there is some less passive-aggressive manner they could enforce these don’t-talk-too-much parameters, like with a stopwatch for example, but also see that this suggestion would run counter to so much of what they’re trying to do. They’re trying to make it feel natural, to teach themselves through experience and practice how to have group discussions in which all can contribute equally. It’s definitely not easy.

I’m wondering how to report these discussions, discussions with so many participants. For better or worse I wasn’t recording. I should have written down all their names but didn’t. And, in general, names haven’t especially been the point of all I’ve written so far. I wish I could be back there now, listening to endless youthful reflections on community and living together with care. But I’m losing my grip on the point. Here is some of what I remember and what I’ve been able to piece together from my unfortunately rather scattered notes. I wish I was able to capture more of the feeling of it all, but perhaps what most captures the feeling is how much I wish I was back there now:

“I was raised by one mother and one father. And I think large swathes of my personality come from each of them. But if I had been raised by more people maybe I would have had more choices, more things to learn from, more examples of how to think and live and be.”

“You probably weren’t just raised by your parents. I assume you also had aunts and uncles and grandparents. Maybe also neighbors, teachers.”

“Yes, but my parents were the main ones. My main examples. I can see it so clearly in myself, how my thinking and personality come from them.”

“How would it work? How could you have been raised by more people?”

“Maybe I should let someone else speak. I feel I’ve already spoken a lot.”

“I think it has to do with adults knowing they have to earn the respect of the children. And children having some degree of choice as to what adults they spend the most time with. Or having the choice to learn different things from different adults.”

“But if there was one adult who let the children eat candy and ice cream for every meal maybe all the children would gather around only that one.”

“I don’t think it would take most children very long to realize eating candy and ice cream three times a day doesn’t make you feel very good.”

“When I was a child it would have taken me many years to learn that lesson.”

“We’ve already agreed there would have to be some sort of rules. The question is what kinds of rules can we imagine that would produce the desired results. I don’t think “you’re not allowed to feed children only candy and ice cream” would be a particularly controversial rule.”

“But children themselves would need to have a say shaping those rules. And maybe some of the children would push for their right to eat only candy and ice cream.”

“I want us to get back to the main point. What we’re talking about is not a society in which children can simply do what they want. What we’re talking about is a world in which children can be raised and influenced, can learn from, a greater array of adult experiences and perspectives. Where children aren’t trapped mainly in the world of only two adults.”

“To what extent would the mother and father still be the main force in the child’s life?”

“That’s the question that seems so hard to answer.”

“It could be different for different children. Maybe some children would gravitate more towards their parents and some would gravitate more towards a larger community. But you can see how this would encourage a parent to work to earn the respect of their child.”

“If I were a mother and my child “gravitated towards the larger community” I think I would find it extremely hurtful. These are also people’s feelings we’re talking about.”

“But maybe this is something that could also change: that mother could instead feel happy and proud that her child is getting all the knowledge and stimulation they need to thrive. It’s not only the children that will be changed by these proposals. The adults would be changed as well.”

“I think if we talk about something very simple – like large, daily communal meals – then we could see that these proposals aren’t even particularly radical. Everyone eats together. Everyone cooks and cleans up together. Children included. The children get to meet and talk to all the different adults and also to play with all the other children. And eating together is a way of coming together, of building community. Even if this happened just once a week I think you would start to see its effects. It could happen at the level of the neighborhood, like so many of the developments we’ve seen.”

“I hope we’re talking about more than communal meals.”

“It could be a start.”

“Where does it lead? Isn’t that what we’re here to imagine? To think about? To ask ourselves?”

“One of the things all of this makes me think is that too much choice can be confusing. It would be important not to give the children too many choices. Not to overwhelm them.”

“Every time someone says “the children” I feel confused. I mean, weren’t we all children once, actually not so long ago. Aren’t we “the children?” Shouldn’t we be thinking about what we would have wanted and needed at their age?”

“It’s not only a question of children having more input and influences. It’s also a question of a greater number of adults taking responsibility for the raising of children, of collectivizing the tasks that can most easily be made more collective.”

“That reminds me of the first thing I thought when we started in on this topic. That parenting is hard and we should be searching for ways to make it easier. To make it feel better. Also that parenting makes you feel more disconnected from the rest of the community because you’re so focused on all the things you need to do to make sure your children survive, and we should be searching for ways to counterbalance that.”

“But no one is going to care about a child more than the parent. Do we really think that direct link of parental care should be decentered?”

“Is it really so impossible to imagine a society in which all adults care about all children to the same degree?”

“I actually think it might be.”

“Sometimes it sounds like we’re saying children have more to learn from adults than they do from other children. And I don’t think that’s true. I think they have just as much or more to learn from the other children.”

“I don’t think anyone here is going to disagree with that.”

“I notice we haven’t been talking much about school. About the adult encounters the child has with their teachers at school.”

“Abolish all schools except this one.”

“That’s the kind of self-defeating joke I hope the next generation of children won’t feel nearly as compelled to make or laugh at. But, since I’m from this generation, I want to say on the record: I find it funny.”

“We need schools where, instead of teaching you a series of questionable skills and facts, they actually teach you how to live. But maybe the word for such a place, or such an idea, can’t quite be the word school.”


- Jacob Wren, from the work-in-progress Dry Your Tears to Perfect Your Aim



.

January 18, 2018

"The water rushes calmly along as if everything was all right in the world."

.



I sit and watch the river. The water rushes calmly along as if everything was all right in the world. I find it almost unbearable that so close to all the surrounding fighting and commotion there could be such a peaceful spot, sitting under the shade of a tree watching the patient flow of the river. But I don’t know why I say unbearable, it was simply the first word that came to mind. Staring at the water I start to calm down a little, which makes me more aware of how much stress I’ve been holding in my body. I’ve never been especially interested in nature. But there is this river in front of me, and it is the first thing I’ve looked at for any length of time in many days where I don’t also feel someone might immediately bomb it. Who would possibly bomb a small river? I start to think about the blood I just washed out of my clothes, about the man who rushed out into the street to pull me from the crossfire. He really didn’t need to do that. He probably saved my life, definitely at the risk of his own, and asked nothing in return. I wonder what he was thinking as he did so. (He was probably thinking how stupid I was to just be standing there in the line of fire. Or maybe that I was paralyzed by shock and clearly needed assistance.) He knows nothing about me and I know nothing about him. But, then again, he’s living in war, must risk his life all the time, purposefully or otherwise. You see someone in danger and simply rush forward to save their life. You don’t think. It’s not a philosophical moment. You have a split second to act and so you act. And in that way it of course is, also, a philosophical moment. I think again, and over again, about that split second moment in which he saved me and his action seems almost like the opposite of how I’ve lived my entire life. Over and over again I stopped to think, to drift, to daydream, to consider, while moment after moment passed me by. I suppose one might say I was daydreaming when he saved my life. Or not exactly daydreaming but paralyzed, which often seems to me to be more or less the same thing. And walking is another form of daydreaming. When I think this way, despite having come here, I can’t help but feel that I still don’t know what I’m talking about. I hope he’s still alive. (But of course he’s still alive, because in this book no one dies.) I feel that already the luck I’ve had is highly improbable. Twice I was dead but each time not quite. Twice I was dead.

Staring at the river, I start to pay more attention to how I’m feeling. I of course don’t feel well at all, like I’ve been poisoned followed by a physical beating. My breathing is labored, most likely from all the dust and debris, but perhaps also from a sense of pure and sustained panic. I have traveled, come here. I am not having a transformative experience. The water flows past me and I watch, wondering so many things at once I can barely think straight. This is a quiet, contemplative moment – perhaps my last one for a while, or ever – and I feel I should use it to put my thoughts in order. All I do is think yet not always in my own best interests. Am I actually learning anything about war, what it feels like to be in the midst of it all. It feels fucking terrible but I must have known that already. I fear I’ve always felt that one travels so far only to learn what one already knew, which is why, in the past, I’ve traveled so rarely. Would I learn more if I spoke to people? Why am I not talking to anyone? Because I don’t want to bother them, they have enough problems without having to answer my naïve questions. Because there’s no one to introduce me and absolutely no reason they should trust me or my approach. Because I’m ashamed, ashamed that I’ve taken this trip in the first place, and don’t want them to find out the reasons I’ve come here. Because I believe, from their perspective, I am the enemy, even though for many other reasons they might not necessarily treat me like one. I sleep for a few hours, then repack my things and continue walking. My clothes are still ever-so-slightly damp but I put them back on anyway, hoping the sun will dry them as I walk. I don’t know why I’m not more afraid that someone or something will kill me in my sleep. In a way, before I came here, I must have believed my thinking was clear. But now I see that my thinking has only ever been confused. I’m completely confused about war (mainly about how to stop it) and about living and dying and desire. Before I came it was clear I had some desire to do so. But what exactly was that a desire for. I know the answer to this question now less than ever.

- Jacob Wren, from the work-in-progress Dry Your Tears to Perfect Your Aim



.