Category: Reflections

Most of the time, my first reaction when I read these books is to look at the formal constructs the authors use to frame their stories. As a writer, that’s how I’ve been trained, and those types of critiques tend to come more easily to me than many of the things we end up discussing in class as lynchpin elements of a text. So I apologize if this isn’t necessarily on topic, but as I read through Dream Jungle I was continually impressed with how Jessica Hagedorn handled the varying intertextual constructs within the book.

Many times, these types of fictional elements (excerpts from Pigafetta’s journey’s with Magellan, interview transcripts of discussions, a courier-fonted excerpts of Pilar’s memoir, footnoted excerpts, etc.) can have a counteractive quality that disrupts the reader more then enriches the text, and that didn’t happen here. Though the content bears almost no resemblance, I kept seeing the same authorial instincts to use these constructs as Michael Dorris and Louise Erdrich used in Crown of Columbus, where intertextual references play a large part in establishing a fictional "history", but establish also a depth the to story instead of highlighting surface aspects. I keep thinking of why these elements worked so well, and I think it may be the double-culture revelry that the books share. Dream Jungle does deal directly with American pop culture, but not exclusively, which adds a certain cultural weight to the "bells and whistles." In Dream Jungle, somehow they work to achieve a distinct "history" to the fictional elements to the text that worked along with historical characterizations of place, such as the characterization of the Philippines throughout. Books built around intertextual meta-elements that deal solely in discussing American pop culture (anything by David Foster Wallace, really) tend to have the hurdle of reader alienation to deal with, and I think it may have to deal with the nature of our pop culture’s inability in many instances to look past its own influence (which Wallace once wrote an essay about, ironically), which can cause self-reflexive aggravation in readers when authors revel in it. Hagedorn in her books finds a way to dodge that trap by pitting American pop culture against a staid history, and I think that may be what I responded to most here.

Im going to just state what I liked about the novel instead of trying to critically extract an all-encompassing theme, which I hope doesn’t exist. I liked how Hagedorn treats her characters equally, by which I mean she develops even minor characters with care and detail. I was most invested in the relationship between Zamora and Lina, which at the end is not really resolved. The whole middle section, featuring the real life drama of the Apocalypse Now set, with Coppola (and wife), Duvall, Sheen, and Brando’s characters accounted for, took up much of the novel, although I felt that it didn’t have much bearing on my final assessment. All the energy devoted to the tiger section I felt was random – what exactly did Lina’s dreams of tigers signify?

I also liked the realistic portrayal of power relationships through the switching of narrator/point of view. Interesting that Zamora, even reduced to ash in an urn, had a powerful point of view and meaningful effect on the end of the novel. THis technique highlights the powerful moments when Lina is represented as the aggressor or instigator (as when she touches Zamora’s face). The drug/prostitution thing became tiring and overdone for me, but highlighted the absence of these things when the scene turned to the United States at the end, where the novel’s protagonists lead "different lives."

Although Hagedorn maps out a network of competing, collabrative, and conniving power relationships, her ultimate position on them is distanced, and moves towards calling them "fun." THe reality is the corruptive and oppressive Marcos regime, which led to constant death and destruction, but Hagedorn is able to look back and dismiss it all, laugh it off, as a weak performance by wealthy and bored men. 

I really enjoyed Kwame’s article, and was deeply shocked by the attitudes of the curators; the so-called experts on African art. No wonder African artists feel the need to distance themselves from their ancestors! Even though this distancing is an act of resistance to the realism and nationalism that followed in the wake of liberation from the colonial power, I would have resisted with all my might against an  art establishment that that, despite its alleged postmodernism continue to place such old-fashioned and, and Kwame points out, modernist demands on African art and culture. For whereas postmodernism claims that African art cannot be legitimated merely on the basis of  culture- and history-transcending standard, modernism asserts that “primitive art was to be judged by putatively universal aesthetic criteria” (347). It is incredible that an (almost) contemporary curator, safely and ‘objectively’ placed in the Center of the art world, actually allows herself to patronize an African artist by indirectly claiming that he – unlike her Western self – is ignorant of the diversity of African art and hence does not know how to appreciate it. It does indeed seem just if it is true that the good curator became a victim of her own superiority: if the commodification of African art works that encourages the continued construction of African Otherness and gives room for the introduction of works of ‘falsified otherness’, led her to include such works in her postMODERNIST exhibition of exotic objects of interior décor.      

False constructions and otherness are also major themes in Dream Jungle. We are never sure if Zamora Lopez de Legazpi is, like his namesake Miguel Lopez de Legazpi, a true explorer, or a man who has set the whole thing up, ‘just because he could’. Zamora could have ‘refurbished’ reality a little, or himself have been fooled by Duan. It is also possible that the President (who has in every other way prostituted his county), has gone behind Zamora’s back to use PIMPF for his own dubious purposes. Just like Sebastian Clairborne, the President might have inserted himself into the script of the Jungle Emperor and changed it. In Clairborne’s case, the script is Tony Pierce’s. Ironically, Pierce is making a movie about the Vietnam War in an area in which there is an actual armed conflict going on. Yet despite his work on a movie that attempts to portray the complexities, dehumanization and suffering of the Americans’ great war, Pierce has absolutely no thought for the ‘natives’ or the conflict going on around them. To him, the country is merely a backdrop; one that frequently causes them inconveniences; such as having to stop shooting of the film because the helicopters are needed in actual shootings, or having to deal with the nuisance of real dead bodies instead of the expected props. For this reason, Pierce seems to me the worse ‘colonialist’ of the two Jungle Gods.

Because it depicts the Vietnam War, because of its setting, its drugged and disillusioned cast, and because it is being documented by Janet, Pierce’s film alludes very clearly to Apocalypse Now. So much so, that I wonder if it is not a comment upon this film, and the notion it plays upon (taken, of course from the great modernist work Heart of Darkness) that the Philippines with its dark and dreamy jungle, just like Africa and its cultural expressions, is still to us that ultimate Other. And we want to keep it that way. The great response to Zamoa’s discovery of the ‘lost tribe’ underscores people’s need for this Other – to which we are both drawn and repelled – just like films like “Napalm Sunset” promise to perpetuate its image.        

The idea of truth, or lack there of, is one of the central themes I encountered while reading. There are so many ways in which Hagedorn eludes giving the truth, the whole truth. First of all, the way she narrates the novel seems schizophrenic because she is constantly changing narrators as well as point of view. Not only do the characters change, but they switch from first to third person. This made it hard for me to be able to trust my judgment of each character because I was constantly getting different opinions and facts from many different sources. At times I couldn’t stand Legazpi (which I think was the point). He was an arrogant, perverted pedophile who was almost crazy at times. But when I would get his point of view it was easier to see his passion for his work and his struggle to be a good man. I had the same problem with Moody and even Fritz. I think the problem is that Hagedorn doesn’t leave them as flat villains, but instead creates an entire world for them. Maybe we (Westerners?) are supposed to relate to him yet be disgusted by him (and ourselves?) at the same time?

There were also many truths left unsolved within the plot. Was the Taobo tribe really “discovered” by Legazpi or was it all a hoax set up by the government? The name of the tribe itself is unclear. Is it “Taobo” or “Tao Po”? This part where we see Legazpi has purposely changed the name is juxtaposed with an excerpt from Magellan’s expedition where they change the names of the islands they visit. What is the truth of these names? Is the name its original title or the one Westerners have imposed upon it? The story within a story about Vietnam also adds to the lack of truth. Pierce himself says that there are so many sides to the war and that’s why he wanted to make it into a film. It was unclear who was “right” and who was “wrong.” Is it a coincidence that a book written in 2004 depicts both ancient explorers and Vietnam? Is she saying something about power and control?

I like Kira’s post about the distancing of ourselves from our ancestors. The fact that the narrative was also intertwined with excerpts from Magellan’s expedition seems to point to the fact that we cannot escape this cultural barbarism. That, in fact, our entire existence in Western culture is based upon these sorts of expeditions and taking advantage of native peoples around the globe. Look at the way the rich (Legazpi, Fritz, Pierce, and even Moody) treat the poor natives. Those in power got there by exploiting the native and tribal communities. Legazpi is a Spaniard and is not a native of the Phillipines—yet he is like a king in their society. The Himal people are subordinates in his house and he even keeps a “wild” Taobo boy as his pet. Pierce, a typical rich American, drives around in limos and leaves a sick Phillipino stranded in the jungle. Fritz, not totally Phillipino, makes money off of the Taobo tribe in the guise of help. It doesn’t seem like just an ugly past. Perhaps Hagedorn is pointing out that what we subsist on is people like Rizalina and that we shouldn’t ignore it or try to escape from it.

I thought it was interesting that Kwame Anthony Appiah said, in his essay: "It is an important question why this distancing of our ancestors should have become so central a feature of our cultural lives" (342). This made me think of how, in Dream Jungle, many of the characters escape or distance themselves from their families (and perhaps their ancestors).

Rizalina escapes her family first when her father and brothers are drowned, and then escapes her mother by running away. Vincent also escapes his family – his girlfriend and son in L.A. – and comes to the Philippines. Paz moves on to live in New York and L.A., and Ilse manages to escape from Zamora in divorce (although her children are ultimately returned to him). I’m not entirely sure what this all means – perhaps it’s just the theme that one can escape one’s own history, heritage, and ancestors. Or can you?

I like how Ada pointed out the issue of translation in the novel. There were a lot of untranslated words in the novel, and a lot of the time the characters couldn’t understand each other. This creates barriers between the characters, but also with the audience. I also wondered if this means that there is room for our own translation, our own interpretation? Meaning, that perhaps without a translation, the truth of something is ever elusive and ever open to interpretation, as we have sometimes discussed in class?

Along with the many intertexual and historical elements that comprise parts of Jessica Hagedorn’s Dream Jungle, the question of translation also arises.  I am interested to see what you all think about the author’s decision to include un-translated words in several different languages throughout the text.  My first experience with Hagedorn was reading Dogeaters, in play form, which also had several words and phrases in different languages.  In this case, though, there was a glossary in the back, with the translations.  Do you think that Dream Jungle should have included a glossary?  I think that one of the major successes of the novel is that even without notes on translation, Hagedorn’s prose is lucid and evocative enough so that the reader can gain understanding of the words or phrases contextually and within the included sentences.  In fact, in some instances, I feel that the un-translated, italicized words were more effective in relating emotion, confusion, and sentiment.  The mix of Tagalog, German, Spanish, English and other languages intertwined the narratives of the individual yet interconnected stories.  It is interesting to note that language, particularly such a mix of languages, are that which binds the characters together.  Walter Benjamin, in his 1923 essay entitled “The Task of the Translator” asserts that translation is a mode, and therefore, one of the key elements in this mode is the original, and its meaning, particularly tied to the “translatability” of the original.  Then, because there is a temporal quality to the original and its relation to the translation, it is through the translation that the original work sustains and maintains a “continued life.”  Hagedorn’s decision to include in the text words that are un-translated echo Benjamin’s observations of translatability, not necessarily that the words cannot be translated, but that the text is better served by leaving the words un-translated, that their force as linguistic modes is more powerful in the original.  There is also the sense of a sustained life, in the telling and retelling of a tale in several translations, moving contextual and historical information to fit the language of the new translated text.

Although it is not obvious due to the way his discussion on the traditional art work’s loss of ‘aura’ is represented, I find Benjamin’s essay to be very positive towards the new mechanically reproduced art forms. The fact that their emergence everywhere – i.e. the new focus on exhibition – has changed the way art is perceived, is of outmost importance to him. When read in connection with the introduction and epilogue, it becomes evident that Benjamin actually regards the ‘loss of aura’ and the ‘absorbtion of art by the masses’ to be what protects art from being used as an aesthetizied tool to promote party politics – like Fascism. I also liked the way he perceived the avant garde art of Dadaism as a forerunner to film and the new mode of perception the film developed. Stating that “[o]ne of the foremost tasks of art has always been the creation of a demand which could be fully satisfied only later”, Benjamin points out how Dadaism attempted to create in their pictorial and literary art the same effects the film today provides (17). Dadaist artworks were ‘reproductions’ deliberately useless for contemplation. Emerging at a time marked by the decline of the bourgeois, this art trend promoted distraction as an alternative to what it regarded the asocial bourgeois aesthetics of contemplation (Benjamin, 18). Its foremost objective was to shock and outrage the public. Benjamin regards the Dadaist art work as “an instrument of ballistics. It hit the spectator like a bullet, it happened to him, thus acquiring a tactile quality” (18). In this manner Dadaism initiated the demand for the distracted mode of participation now realized in film. The development from contemplative to tactile reception spurred by this avant-garde represents to Benjamin but one among many examples of how perception changes according to changes in humanity’s entire mode of existence (5). Radically overturning the more negative notion that the products of the culture industry represent a diminution of art (strongly argued by Adorno and Horkheimer, for instance), he also suggests that new mechanically reproduced forms like film may enrich more traditional art forms with important (primarily technical) insights (Benjamin, 29).

It’s interesting that Benjamin’s essay attempts to be positive about the work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction, but it reads so negatively.  Is that because we’ve all become a little jaded about how ‘the film’ (which we now know includes commercial television) works?  While it may destroy the commanding aura of the original and elite object, I think we’ve all come to understand that it effectively creates its own aura as well.  Any good Marxist knows that commodities are fetishized by the dissociation of use-value and exchange-value, and that the laborer is alienated by the separation of one’s labor from the object one creates by the fact that one is paid in dollar bills.  Obviously the next step in the triumph of capitalism is to make impossible the tactile relationship one might have with the fetishized object; the object is an image.  Benjamin sets up the actor-in-the-room and actor-on-the-screen binary in order to suggest that the film audience can somehow become more critical because of the actor’s absence, but it seems that the ‘shock effect’ of the camera’s work is more open to the inflated, uncritical, desirous gaping that accompanies the image of “breasts in a clinging sweater or the naked torso of the athletic hero” in Adorno and Horkheimer’s culture industry essay.  What’s even more scarifying – and yet something that we as a filmic culture have accepted with amazing pluck and aplomb – is that the system of reproducible images has changed the very way we perceive.  Benjamin’s thesis rests on a crucial ‘should be,’ when he states that “the shock effect of the film […] should be cushioned by heightened presence of mind” (238).  Even with his allowances for the intellectual laziness of the masses, Benjamin’s perspective on ‘distraction’ as a means toward critical perception sounds rather…I’m sorry…I got distracted by the cheerleaders on Monday Night Football…where was I going with this?

Note: This post was written before I was able to read any of the other posts, and so I didn’t realize that most of the class read Benjamin as being negative about film and reproducible images — and that there would be such a rousing defense of film.  I guess we’ll probably start with this discrepancy in our class discussion tonight.

I agree with preceeding posts that a main problem with Benjamin’s essay is his use of "aura." I’m sure I know what he means by it, but I’m not sure how he feels about it. Is he lamenting the loss of authenticity in art, is he celebratory of the new aesthetic possibilities of film, or is he simply dreading the future of art in the hands of the masses? At times it seems that he is valuing one "high" (painting) art form over a "lower" (hollywood film) one, which, if he is, must be an unforseen mistake on his part. Capitalsim transformed the work of art into a commodity produced for the market, consumable by an uncritical mass, but the economic system has also had a hand in producing a great number of powerful forms of art in the 20th C. Concluding that Marlon Brando acted with no aura or arguing (as Adorno tried to do) that Charlie Parker played only repetitive snippets from popular songs would get you fired as an art critic today. So there seems to be an unbearable outdatedness to Benjamin, but im not so sure.

furthermore, there seems to be a struggle in "the work of art" on who owns culture: art critics, politicians, or the "masses," who are never defined by Benjamin. The article, although steeped in the history of art, has an urgent practical purpose in rescuing the work of art from the Nazis, and I’m wondering if that’s all we can say: Western art in the beginning served the magical and now serves the political. This "essence," "authenticity," "tradition," and "unique existence" of an artwork of old is in opposition to the modernday artwork as "image" or "spectacle." If anything, this binary opposition shouldn’t highlight a social and economic transformation as much as it should reveal how fragile these "aura" terms are. The meaning and beauty around any artwork throughout history is culturally constructed, and I think Benjamin says this. So what’s the real deal? Besides photography and film supplanting painting and theater as the new priviliged art forms, what has happened? Would the Nazis have been able to take control if photography and film hadn’t existed? I feel like I’m missing the point and i’m looking forward to tomorrow’s class discussion so that people can fill me in. 

One of Benjamin’s main issues with a reproduction of a piece of art is that this copy does not have the connection to the artwork’s “presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be” (220). For me, this argument seemed to be placing too much emphasis on the exact history and time, and overlooking other reasons why people look at art and want reproductions of it. If you are reproducing something, especially a famous work of art, you will know the approximate time period of when the work was produced, and oftentimes, a signifier of a piece of art is that it is “timeless” and therefore would not need to be bound by the constraints of when it was created. If it is truly great art, we should be able to appreciate it no matter when it was created. Also, comparing a reproduction to the real thing would prove as an interesting comparison to see how the elements have affected the piece of art, especially if it is a statue or something outside. For example, many great Renaissance paintings have dulled over the years and were more recently restored to their original glory, but people were used to the faded colors from before. Comparing the old and the new would help students understand how works of art get damaged over time, and by making reproductions of both old and new available, the public could choose which color scheme they preferred. Art is subjective, and memory is unreliable, so why not have the ability and the choice to remember something the way you choose? I found Benjamin’s attitude to be snobby especially when he said that art becomes less valued when it is made available to more people. Isn’t the point of art to expose it to people so they will appreciate it and prompt new thoughts or ideas? If someone lives in a remote area, how often will they be able to see works of art, compared to someone who lives in New York City? Shouldn’t everyone be able to have some access to art, even if it is not the original?

I wonder what Benjamin would think of Photoshop, a program that can transform a picture into individual pixels so that it can be manipulated so precisely, it can be difficult to tell which is the original and which is the manipulation. He would probably be apalled, but I am just amazed at all the things one small program can accomplish. Our technology has evolved so much since this article was written, and those advancements are almost always portrayed in a positive light (think of how big cell phones were 10 years ago) that his arguments (as well as Aldous Huxley’s speech against technology in the footnotes) provide a change in perspective to challenge these views.

    Julie G’s post made me think, too, of how Benjamin would view the latest advancements in computer graphic technology in film, such as recent films completely animated by computer.  No longer do the “cartoon” versions of film rely on artists sketching multiple copies and versions of characters to imitate (reproduce?) human features, expressions, movements, etc.  Now, entire feature-length films are created without the need for a pencil-to-paper artist (think Shrek, Shark Tale, and all of the dozens of other similarly constructed movies in the last five years or so).  Going from people on stage to people in films created enough of a difference in “art”ness.  I wonder what his take would be on the original animated films – I picture Disney’s original Sleeping Beauty or Snow White – (imitations of people in films) as a form of art (they were, after all, paintings on cells) and then what his take would be on the new technological move to digital graphics (computer-generated versions of imitations of people in films).  I assume he would maintain his film-is-not-(as much)-art stance; however, would he now find films starring people more art-like than animated films?  And what about the original animated film versus the digitally produced animation of today?  Going even further, what about the animated films that have been digitally enhanced from their original versions (copies/reproductions of imitations of people – one’s head could really get spinning here!)?

     The part of Benjamin’s article that I find most interesting in regards to his film/acting discussion is the part that discusses the actor’s part/participation in the film experience.  Benjamin quotes Pirandello about the void an actor feels with his “performance”:  “ ‘The film actor . . . feels as if in exile – exiled not only from the stage but also from himself . . . his body loses its corporeality, it evaporates, it is deprived of reality, life, voice, and the noises caused by his moving about, in order to be changed into a mute image, flickering an instant on the screen, then vanishing into silence’” (229).  I found this description to be (ironically) quite artistic and poetic.  The idea that removing the actor from the true, genuine atmosphere of a stage performance (with reactions and interpersonal connections) causes the actor to lose a part of himself (and thus, a part of his art/artfulness) is intriguing.  I am sure a great debate exists between film and stage actors over which is the truer form of the profession; though, really, we frequently see film/TV actors dipping their toes into stage acting, and similarly, probably most film actors got their start on the stage of their high school auditorium.  I found Benjamin’s discussion of writer/author also interesting (especially in light of the internet age – everyone is now capable of being a published and read author by simply posting a blog!), though I felt that he did not develop that idea nearly as thoroughly as he did his film analysis and would have been interested in reading more along that line.

(PS: Sorry if this posts in two different sizes or fonts – I can’t seem to fix it!)

Benjamin’s piece clearly has its flaws, but he’s also got some good points…of which I’ll discuss one.  He says that “mechanical reproduction emancipates the work of art from its parasitical dependence on ritual.  To an even greater degree the work of art reproduced becomes the work of art designed for reproducibility.”  This means that film is radically different from most other art forms.  How much does it cost to create a painting?  Write a book?  A poem?  Take a picture?  Even the cost of buying the material to sculpt a statue pales in comparison to the cost of making a film.  (Yes, I know one must take audience into consideration if a book, poem or picture is to be published or a picture sold; but the simple act of creating a book, poem, picture or painting requires very little financial investment.)  But the filmmaker, on the other hand, must, in most cases, keep profitability in mind when creating his film (unless he’s Mel Gibson or Kim Jong Il).  Thus his film must be designed, to a significant extent, for its reproducibility if it’s to be profitable.  Before one can create a film, she needs a significant financial commitment.  Therefore the artist must almost necessarily consider profitability, which requires reproduction in film’s case, when she’s conceiving her art; this is a radical shift from art that preceded film, and it democratizes film as an art form; but, contrary to current sentiment, democracy is not always a good thing.  By requiring the filmmaker to create art that as a precondition must be received by many people, the medium of film constrains the filmmaker’s artistic imagination.  That’s not to say that truly original and creative films of artistic merit that don’t appeal to the masses can’t be created (see Matthew Barney’s Cremaster Cycle…who the hell financed these anyway?).  But for the most part, films must appeal to a large audience – though I know “large” is subjective; this constrains the filmmaker’s imagination, creativity and abilities, and it also represents a radical departure from those art forms that preceded film.  All this could be changed, however, by the proliferation of digital video, inexpensive editing software and the internet as a platform for distribution.  But in context, Benjamin has a point.

Bits and pieces of Benjamin’s article along with blog postings have begun to tie into a project I’m doing on newsletters. (similar to Benjamin’s discussion of Letters to the Editor, etc). These were initially published by individuals with great expertise and who were sought after for their insider’s information, or insight, on whatever specialized topic. These individuals were well-educated, skilled writers, and often times publicly revered. The newsletters were done on typewriters and even when computers became available writers would still maintain the “typewriter”-style font and layout because it was what the targeted audience was used to. With time and technological advances, the newsletter industry boomed and now any Joe Schmoe with a PC, printer or an email address can spit out their own personal newsletter. Instead of using the same old fashion fonts and designs, they’ve advanced in skill and artistic expression. One of Benjamin’s issues with the evolution of “art” is that through technology, through the new emerging forms of artistic expression, the once isolated field becomes easily accessible by anyone. The reproduction issue arises. The traditional newsletter has lost its “aura” because it’s been poked and prodded by the masses, just as the “aura” of writing, or being published, has lost some of its magic because it’s become a universally accessible market. (232) Benjamin says, “To pry an object from its shell, to destroy its aura, is the mark of a perception whose ‘sense of the universal equality of things’ has increased to such a degree that it extracts it even from a unique object by means of reproduction (223).” I didn’t entirely understand what he meant by this, but through comparing it to the newsletter evolution that I’m reading about, I can see how something that used to be “artistic” is then lessened, or cheapened, by so many replicas and reproductions. Now, I also don’t think that personalized newsletters (or I guess the even more advanced form would be Internet blogs) can’t have their own artistic right, or that someone should be denied personal artistic expression through whatever medium they choose… but the fact that there are so many does make them less valuable. People don’t pay subscriptions to newsletters now like they used to before. Benjamin is criticizing the evolution of artistic expression because (I think) he’s saying it’s losing its unique appeal. Anyone can be an artist, just as anyone can be a writer, and with the use of technology it really doesn’t take a massive amount of talent to do so. I think in the postmodern genre that concept is made untrue because the filmmakers and authors and painters have retained their originality and unique expression through revamping the “aura” altogether. Although, in reference to Ada’s interesting response, I don’t know how Kinkade would fit into that assumption. This much I feel I understand, it’s when he begins to tie the evolution of art into Communism and Fascism and war that I get uh, well, confused.

There were many elements of this essay that have evolved quite interestingly in the years since Benjamin published this work, and as I read it I kept thinking how he would react to the evolution of certain aspects of film and photography, not to mention print media.

I was really intrigued during the passages that explored the photograph/film’s disintegrating relationship to the aura of an image’s authenticity through mass production, which. He notes that both forms "lead to a tremendous shattering of tradition" (221). I was struck by the paragraphs on pages 224-225 that the relationship of the cult to the mass audience, and I kept wondering how Benjamin would categorize to recent advent of rotoscoping filmed images. (Quickly: this is a type of software-based animation technique developed recently and used in music videos, commercials, and widely released motion pictures starring shoplifters.) I’d be curious to see what Benjamin would have made of this further delusion of an image’s aura, and how it further relates to his passages on page 230, where he uses quotes by Rudolf Arnheim to re-characterize the actor in relation to filmic complexities.

These passages then caused me to think about the advent of bluescreening, and Arnheim’s idea of "treating the actor as a stage prop. . .inserted at the proper place."  (230). Considering the prevalence of certain major motion pictures to rely almost entirely on bluescreening and CGI, this statement takes on much more weight, and again, I’d be interested to see what Benjamin would maybe have said about it.

Some of his thoughts on print media and photography, have in some way or another, manifested themselves on the web. His passage on page 235 about the elk to illustrate the relationship to the cult being co-opted by art made me think of an interesting magazine called Found, which is almost completely comprised of objects discovered and submitted by its readership. This not only speaks to the reallocation of an intended audience to apply artistic value, but it also speaks to the later passages on 232 where Benjamin talks about the evolving role of literature: "At any moment, the reader is is ready to turn into a writer" (232). And of course, something that screamed out THIS IS APPLICABLE TO BLOGS, LOOK LOOK: "Literary license is now founded on polytechnic rather than specialized training and thus becomes common property" (232).

Lastly, his discussion of Atget’s photographs on page 226 were interesting, and I was wondering what he would make of photoshop culture to ascribe a "hidden political significance" to something seemingly normal.

I’m not sure what to write here. I almost wish we had read something written more recently because I’d be interested to know what critics, or Benjamin, have to say about the new computer age we’ve approached. An article on mass production, while still hugely applicable today, seems passé next to discussion on computer animation and graphics where one can question whether the art ever existed, much less had an “aura.” Anyway…

It seems elitist of Benjamin to say that “real” art “invites the spectator to contemplation” (238). That only true art is “think-y” art and that film doesn’t allow the viewers to think what they want to think: ergo, film is lesser art. Ok, I think most critics would agree that there are different levels of art and contemplative art generally fits on that higher plane. However, Benjamin dismisses all film from this category and doesn’t acknowledge that there are different levels of film just as there are different levels of paintings. He does bring up a good point that “the masses seek distraction whereas art demands concentration from the spectator” (239). But look at Spielberg vs. (insert artsy director…I don’t really know any by name). Dude Where’s My Car vs. Memento. Benjamin asserts that the “cult value” of art is lost in film; however, I argue that the cult values are still evident in the movie industry. There will always be “Indie” flicks shown only at the Sundance Film Festival that are done for the sake of art or some higher form. (Created for the critics instead of the spirits?)

A simple response, yes, but I was really annoyed at the one-sided view Benjamin gave. He criticizes the “absent-minded” public and seems to assert that the creators of film purposefully manipulate their art in order “to mobilize the masses” instead of making art for art’s sake (240). He also says that the more the public likes a piece the “greater the decrease in the social significance” (234). In other words, if the public likes it then it’s not art. Haven’t critics been saying this about art since the beginning of time? (Actually, he does make reference to this, so maybe I am missing something here.) I wonder if Benjamin would still hold the same point of view today or if  he is just critiquing something new and different.

Walter Benjamin’s essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” moves between analyses of several creative mediums- from woodcutting to lithography, to painting to film. These mediums each have their own unique qualities that allow for reproduction, and because of this are viewed on different planes and places in the art world. Benjamin identified the advent of photography as the impetus for debate that looks at the reproducibility of an object that is inherently a refraction of the original. Though a photograph may seem the most tangible representation of the truth and yet, by the very nature of the process, it is an inversion of the image, let alone the factors that play into the set up of the shot. Photographic reproductions also come into play when thinking about the methods of reproduction that are employed. When thinking about postmodern art, the reassignment of objects, their essence and meaning, plays a large role in the presentation of the artwork. The original object, whether it is Jeff Koons and his basketballs in a glass case-Three Ball Total Equilibrium Tank (Two Dr J Silver Series, Spalding NBA Tip-Off) , Sherrie Levine taking pictures of famous photographs and presenting them with such titles as After Walker Evens #13, or even Andy Warhols Brillo boxes made to look exactly like the product, the recontextualization of the original intention of the object provides a great dialogue. (There is a great Andy Warhol exhibition at the Corcoran Gallery of Art, with a lot of stuff from the Warhol Museum in Pittsburg, I highly recommend it) Whether they are commodity critics or anti-aesthetes, some postmodern artists are aware of the modes of reproduction available in their work. They revel in this fact, and employ methods that both critique and rely on these techniques.
I would like to make an argument, tying in Benjamins assertions of art and mechanical reproduction, to look at an artist who in no way, shape, or form would be considered postmodern, and is in fact does not fall into any high art categories- Thomas Kinkade. If the cockles of your heart have not yet been warmed by his beautifully tranquil cottage scenes, or the magnificent renderings of light at dusk, please peruse his website. Thomas Kinkade Apart from the accessibility of the object of his art, Kinkade is also the ultimate in mass reproduction. His art sells in his own, individually managed retail stores. There are levels that a collector or his art can attain, depending on how many Kinkades one owns. The process of Kinkades work is where the reproducibility comes into play. An original, painted by the artist will fetch a good amount of money, though for the consumer, unable to drop that kind of dough, Kinkade has an army of trained highlighters who paint some colors, mostly accentual, onto poster prints of the work. These are ostensibly cheaper, and yet are a big part of the Kinkades goals of having his work present in each and every American household. There are echoes of this sort of process in Benjamins discussion of mechanical reproduction, when he states, the work of art reproduced becomes the work of art designed for reproducibility (224). In a very postmodern moment, in 2001, a community was built in Vallejo, California, with homes modeled after and furnished and decorated with the work of Thomas Kinkade. For about $425,000 (in 2001) you could buy a property in this Kinkade village and live in perfect tranquility, as if you were actually a part of the art work.