I am one of 1,000 people who have been invited by Andrea Rosen Gallery and David Zwirner to manifest Felix Gonzalez-Torres’ work, “Untitled” (Fortune Cookie Corner), 1990. I will serve as one “place” as part of one total “site” (the world) of an expansive exhibition, curated by Andrea Rosen, that will run from May 25 – July 5, 2020.
My “place” is designated as: John Paul Ricco, Toronto, Canada. The manifestation of the work, in the form of an installation of a pile of individually-wrapped fortune cookies (original number: 1,000), will take place in the lobby of my condo building.
I decided to locate the work in the building’s lobby, in order for residents and their guests to have the opportunity to live with the work, and to be able to take pieces from the work—as stipulated in the core tenets that guide the work. While respecting social-distancing protocols that are still in place here in Toronto, the installation finds a built-in audience in the building’s residents and guests, who make up the day-to-day traffic, as they enter and exit, check their mailboxes, retrieve deliveries, and speak with the concierge.
Take-out delivery food orders arrive at the building on a daily basis, and as many of these meals are coming from local Chinese restaurants, the placement of the pile of fortune cookies in the lobby accrues particular meaning, structured around issues of public and private space, the paid-for commodity and the gift, uncertainty and future fate or fortune, eating in isolation and communal partaking in individual treats.
For a copy of the press release from Andrea Rosen Gallery and David Zwirner, which also includes a copy of the invitation to participants, including core tenets of the work, guidelines for its manifestation, and questions to consider, go to: http://www.andrearosengallery.com/press-release
I will be adding documentation of the presentation, to this blog post, over the next six weeks. Please check back!
Join the Centre for Ethics for The Ethics of COVID, an interdisciplinary series of online events featuring short video takes on the ethical dimensions of the COVID crisis.
Isolation, Loneliness, Solitude:
The COVID-19 Pandemic Has Brought Us Too Close Together
In this brief talk I discuss how distance is the spacing of the ethical, isolation is the evacuation of that space, loneliness is the deprivation of the self, and solitude is what we need to reclaim as the only means by which an ethical sense of the common might take place. Drawing upon the work of Arendt, Agamben, Blanchot, and Foucault, I proceed to explicate how it is that the COVID-19 pandemic has actually brought us too close together.
This is an online event. It will be live streamed on the Centre for Ethics YouTube Channel at 3pm, Friday, May 29. Channel subscribers will receive a notification at the start of the live stream.
For registration: https://ethics.utoronto.ca/events/667/john-ricco-the-ethics-of-covid/
Drawing from Giorgio Agamben’s identification of impotentiality as the most proper power of the human, in this short presentation I argue that in the time of the COVID-19 pandemic, resistance to the political-economic logic of neoliberalism and to the bio-political effects of bare life, lies in our potential to not-do and not-be. That is, to live in ways that affirm the in-appropriable singularity of our existence, and a commonality shared by each of us, to be some-one other than simply a productive subject.
I want to express my thanks to Jérôme Lèbre for providing me with the opportunity to participate in his project.
In conjunction with her recent interview with me for her podcast “View to the U,” Carla DeMarco has also published a short profile article, “Art in the time of COVID-19: finding ways to render the invisible visible.”
Here’s a short excerpt:
There has been an abundance of art and creativity bursting onto screens and into living spaces through platforms like Zoom, livestreams and over social media in the last few weeks of lockdown, but Professor John Paul Ricco is not surprised because he has borne witness to past social upheavals and health crises that have inspired artists.
“I do think this speaks generally to the value of art in all of its various forms, and that it is probably our principle and most developed way of being attuned to the world,” says Ricco.
You can read the rest via the link above.
View to the U: An eye on UTM research · John Paul Ricco
I was recently interviewed by Carla DeMarco for “View to the U,” the podcast that she produces and hosts out of the Research Office at UTM. In our conversation, framed in terms of “the value of art in times of social upheaval,” we talked about my research, and “how past health crises have shaped art movements” and artistic practice. As Carla goes on to describe: “We also talk[ed] about some of the ways in which this current pandemic may influence artists now and in creations to come, and what kinds of things [I have been] doing in this time of solitude.”
If you are curious about social distancing as an aesthetic proposition, or how walking in the city today has taken on a whole new choreographic quality, have a listen.
Here is a link to The New Yorker article that I mention toward the end of the interview:
On Tuesday evening last week (Feb 11th), I landed in Cape Town, there to give two talks at the University of the Western Cape’s Centre for Humanities Research. In the lead-up to my talk (see previous post), scheduled for Thursday morning (just 36 hours after having arrived), I anticipated needing to say something—as part of my opening remarks—about the affects that jet lag might have on my state of mind, given that my body would be reminding me that the 11AM start time for the lecture actually felt more like 4AM Toronto time (and I’ve never given a public talk at 4AM before). What I could not have expected is that such remarks would end up including an even more substantial caveat by way of anecdote about a lighthouse. But nonetheless that’s what happened, thanks to a thick fog that descended on the coast of Cape Town Wednesday night—the eve of my talk Thursday morning.
I was staying at a tiny hotel at Mouille Point, in the south-eastern Green Point neighbourhood, in a hotel room overlooking the beach and the Atlantic. Almost directly across the street from the hotel is the Green Point Lighthouse, candy cane-striped and—as I was soon to discover—still very much a working lighthouse.
Around 1AM, as I was still struggling to fall asleep, my body and mind still very much attuned to the time zone that I had left behind two evenings ago, I heard a loud, mechanical moaning sound. The sound returned and was repeated every 30 seconds, and while at first I was not sure what it was, or where exactly it was coming from, not before long I realized—having gotten out of bed to look out the large sliding glass doors of my room—that it was the lighthouse’s foghorn.
Already worried that I would not be able to get the sleep needed in order to be bright and alert for my talk at the university the following morning, it was now certain that unless I took whatever measures I could to dampen, or better yet, to block this awful repetitive noise, there was little-to-no-hope of getting any rest whatsoever. So I dug out my ear plugs, only to discover that they were barely effective. At which point I thought: I’ll put on my noise cancelling headphones, and wear them OVER the earplugs. Still, no relief from the horrible, insistent moan of the horn.
At that point I was pretty much at my wits end. More than an hour having passed without any relief and feeling even more awake and annoyed. Texting my partner back in Toronto, he suggested that I try to create some sort of white noise. I dutifully downloaded an app on my phone, only to discover that it was subscription-based. Since I had no intention of needing to make this a regular part of my sleeping regime, I decided not to sign-up. What next? What were my (seemingly last) remaining options?
I remembered that I had an album of “Long Ambients. Calm. Sleep,” on my phone. Four hours in length, it was a series of 11 tracks that, for some reason, I had never bothered to listen to. Now was my chance. The tricky thing was to adjust the volume such that the music blocked the noise of the foghorn, yet was not too loud as to prevent me from dozing off. That took a bit of time to modulate, but at some point I figured I had gotten it right.
A few hours passed, and yet while much more drowsy and relaxed, it was clear that I was still not asleep. At that point I started to think about lighthouses and the purposes of foghorns. The way in which the latter were needed to send out alert signals and warnings from the coast; to ships out at sea that would not be able to see the shoreline and its rocky, shallow and hence treacherous waters in such thick fog. This lead me to think about shipping, and sounds that take the place of visibilities, and of hearing things in the absence of being able to see them. Curiously, this was one of the motifs of the talk that I was to give the following morning: on the auditory sonorous sound of the invisible flight of animals. As my reluctantly awake mind turned and churned under headphones, earplugs and ambient music, it started to make further connections between these things, such that the image of the great white whale of Melville’s epic tale came to mind: that enigmatic creature that largely eludes the seeing of Captain Ahab, but that might be understood to be heard in the fog of night, sending its own signal of warning, like the lighthouse and its own whale-like moan.
The lighthouse’s foghorn calls out to the ships, neither able to see the other, and yet still in a sort of resonance, one with the other. Since my paper is also about calling, including in the form of naming, but also in the sense of vocation, my mind inevitably returned to the Melville novel and its famous opening lines: “Call me Ishmael.” Melville here is re-writing the opening of the Gospel of John (“In the beginning was the Word”), now making clear that in the beginning the word was also the name, and specifically the latter’s exigency or demand: “call me…”
It might then come as less of a surprise if I tell you—thoroughly amused as I was by this further remarkable coincidence—that the set of ambient tracks I was listening to were put together by Moby, the pop musician and DJ, whose nickname was inspired by him being the great-great-great nephew of Herman Melville.
Mahité Breton and I have proposed a seminar for the upcoming American Comparative Literature Association (ACLA conference), Chicago, March 2020.
Women and Sex and Talk
Over 20 years since Candace Vogler’s important essay “Sex and Talk” (Critical Inquiry, Winter 1998), and in the midst of the #MeToo movement and what has been referred to as the “#MeToo novel,” this seminar focuses on what women talk about when they talk about the pleasures, risks, inconsistencies and incoherencies of sex, desire, and intimacy, by looking at recent work by female fiction writers.
While mainstream discussions and debates on these issues often operate based on the premise of self-expression as the enunciative modality leading to self-mastery, writers such as Miriam Toews (Women Talking), Dana Spiotta (Friends and Innocents), Sally Rooney (Conversations with Friends), Jamie Quatro (I Want to Show You More), and Eimear McBride (A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing), have crafted narratives that affirm Vogler’s claim that “not all intimacies are affairs of the self,” and that the stories one tells about sex are not always speech acts in search of one’s sovereign subjectivity.
In light of this, what can the contemporary sex novel teach us—precisely through the de-personalizing virtues of fiction—about how women might talk about intimacy, sex, desire and pleasure in ways that make room for the unbearableness—indeed the near-unspeakableness—of sex. How might these so-called #MeToo novels, operate in distinction to the discursive self-assertion and “self-conscious rational agency” and “stable system[s] of sexual self-representation” (Vogler, 344) that are hallmarks of sex talk in the #MeToo movement?
The novels referenced above are stories of non-sovereign resilience “liberated from the fetters of selfhood” (Baumeister, Escaping the Self, 1991), and portray sex beyond romance and the sentimental romantic novel; a liberal egalitarian model of intimacy and love; and the imperative that sex be morally redemptive, psychically and emotionally fulfilling—and indeed, at times, the source of a secure sense of self. As Vogler argues: “at least some kinds of sex (I want to say, goodsex) can’t happen unless people stop worrying about who they are, and what the activity means to them, for them, and about them” (358). To talk about sex without these worries, might be a way to open both sex and talk to the political. Perhaps in terms of configurations of readerships of these contemporary novels, and the public conversations and differently structured intimacies that might ensue, in which the personal is not premised to be the only space of the political (or the sexual). We welcome papers on the novels and authors listed above, as well as other literary and theoretical works on women, sex, and talk, from a range of national and social-cultural contexts.
On 31 May 2019, I participated in a roundtable discussion, structured around the question, “Why Does Art History Matter?” The panel was part of a day-long event organized by several doctoral students in the PhD program in Art History at the University of Toronto (where I hold a graduate faculty appointment). I want to thank Samantha Chang and Brittany Myburgh for the invitation, and for all of their efforts in their organization of a truly impressive, lively, and informative series of discussions.
Below are the comments that I prepared and delivered.
It is difficult to see the world today, not because we are not seeing things, but because we are seeing (or merely “looking at”) too much.
This inundation of images has curtailed the possibility, the capacity, and the reach of the imagination—political, artistic and other wise.
Just as much as the imagination itself cannot be seen, but is instead the source of imaginative vision, it needs to retain its potential to not-see/not-image, as much as its potential to see and to render images.
In other words, the imagination must retain its source in the unimaginable, which is its power to operate free from prescribed or pre-given images. Therein lies what is not yet imagined, and the possibility of imagining things differently.
But that not-yet and that possibility only remain viable to the extent that the seeable—the capacity or potential to see—does not only move in the direction of the seen (including in the form of visible images—art history’s ostensible domain), but also when the seeable can shift to the unseeable.
The power of the imagination lies in that slide from the seeable to the unseeable, as much as in the move from the seeable to the seen.
For art history to matter, it cannot devote itself only to the visible and the image, but must also preserve (returning now to Agamben) the non-reified and in-appropriable space of the imagination. A space that is only imaginable as being without images, thanks to the seemingly endless proliferation of works of art, each of which in its singularity exemplifies the lack of art historical closure, and thereby testifies to the sense that not everything has been seen, imaged or imagined.
Just as much as there is no universal principle according to which art history does its work, and just as much as no one particular work is essentially of greater art historical value than any other, there is also no final art historical example. Art history matters—including politically—in its understanding of this lack of universality, sovereign exceptionality, and determined finality.