Despite the fetid air that today cloaks such announcements, bellowed chiefly from the stuffy corridors of academe, we should not shy away from committing this axiom to memory, digesting it, as Marcel digested Mallarmé’s poems.
As Paparone shows indelicately, with pomp, fist pound, and bombast, its grip on our artistic present tightens all the more that it is dismissed as the concern of theoretical curmudgeons who frown fustily on aesthetic delights.
Of course Paparone's Bacchanal does not follow the path of my dear Marcel. Such a grand spectacle of our hopelessness is not to the latter’s taste. The spectacle is hopeless not because it exposes us to our miserable condition, to our incessant infantalization. Rather it is hopeless because the feelings it rouses in us are the very affects that keep us subjected. We remain enthralled to the very thing that menaces us.
Being forced now and then to bath in one’s own vomit, to consume one’s own abscesses, has its virtues. But if we are to slurp up our own phantasmagoric mess, we must not cloak its taste with sweetener, disguise it with candy coating. There is no more cynical a gesture than reinforcing the confusion that leads us to think we are eating chocolate while all along we are swallowing shit.
But before the thread is lost let me return to the wound swollen with puss, for like all infections they fester with neglect. So it is a great thing indeed that Paparone has exposed the wound to Philly’s fresh air, restaging the empty ritual of the art market, its continual and desperate attempt to resuscitate the fallen idol, ART, by injecting a little 'life,' i.e., capital, into its veins, comically rendered through the serial sacrifice of a little Mountain Dew before an altar erected to Brancusi’s The Kiss.
But the sacrifice could not be more delusional, the scene more pathetic, the maenads less feminine, reduced as they are to cruel and pitiless embodiments of the most adolescent of male gazes. Faceless and exhausted, they pour libation after libation, drained of joy, unable to summon the god. As lifeless as a gangbang. There is no Dionysian revelry in this bacchanal, in this simulation of the orgiastic, that seeks through its wasteful and senseless consumption, this ultra mundane bloodletting, to breathe life back into art, into the modernist monument.
So hopeless is the attempt at revitalization that all we devotees of the market can offer it are gift’s in the form of small framed abstractions that give back to the idol, works composed of its own excretions (the pictures resemble shit or chocolate smears). Blood and shit to soda and chocolate: an abject transubstantiation. A sardonic parody of high art’s fetishization, of its deification and destruction at the hands of the market’s unrelenting law. This is all too cleverly conveyed by the equivalence of sign established between Brancusi’s The Kiss, updated in gold, and Pennsylvania’s own, Hershey’s Kiss, establishing at the center of the altar the symbolic relation between gold and shit, the high (the Museum) and the low (the Market Place), as if signed by John Miller himself. The lovers’ embrace sullied by the Hershey turds they excrete, surrounded by images that reflect back to the idol its own filth. Reification indeed dear Marcel. The strategy no doubt is to rouse the corpse with its own deadly evacuations.
And indeed such a vision of excess is worth pursuit. One would hardly be astonished if one found a well worn copy of the selected writings of that grandiloquent terrorist of the concept, George Bataille, upon Paparone’s bedside table, so innocently and naively does he move through a whole litany of Bataille’s favorite tropes: the grand equation that links high and low culture, porn and art, the sacred and the profane, the ecstatic and the abominable, shit and gold, sex and death, expulsion and consumption through the restriction and unrestriction, build up and release, of this cosmic economy.
But to write large the spectacle of the art market’s reification hardly disturbs the spectacle. Too little does it transgress its law, too little does it thirst for its annihilation.
What it does do, however, is trample on the nostalgia, drifting toxically through our present, for that utopian spring that once gushed naturally from the pores of the artist-militant. I agree. Nostalgic fits for adolescence must be crushed. Good riddance.
But if in fact we are left only with the cynical pleasure of enunciating the obsolescence of the utopian dream, I want none of this dilemma. Nostalgia or cynicism is a false choice, fit for a night on the town and its promise of good fun, but not the artist’s vocation. This is not la promesse de Bonheur. We have simply leapt from the horn of nostalgia to be impaled upon that of cynicism.
We artists must dissolve this dilemma upon which Bacchanal—Tootsie Roll Whip divides.