Every Name in History is “I”

(I’ve been conducting writing experiments, prompted by Eva-Lynn Jagoe. I’m trying to not be precious about it. Here’s a bit of how I approached her prompt to write a piece in which the grammatical voice shifts.)


Every name in history is “I,” though you wouldn’t know it for the way our stories pass from one generation to the next. If the individual remains, and most often they do not, then “I” is made into an object of the proper name. The complexity of being becomes the simplicity of thing. However awful the repeal of the capacity for narrative may seem, this fate is to be saved from something worse, which is your subsumption into the unnamed masses upon which history plays. If this fate is difficult to bear—your agency inevitably undone—then persistence must be sought outside of historicization. Here, we experience the other as if they belonged to us.

Another interpretation of the claim is possible. If every name in history is I, then each signifier is revivified when we assume it as our own. I am Friedrich Neitzsche who first authored these words to the historian Jakob Burckhardt in 1889, a mere two days after collapsing in the streets of Turin with his arms around the neck of a horse. I am Jalal Toufic who took Nietzsche’s words for his own in trying to understand the act of murder conditioned by anonymity between a soldier and their enemy in an essay first published in the year 2000. I am the object of address in every “you” or “we” or “their,” performing a restorative kind of magic in answering the offered call. I suppose that poetry is a name for this inverted reification, where the thickness of language compels identification, turning nouns back into verbs. This kind of direct address resists strict interpretation. How do we live within poetry? To live within poetry is to register oneself being addressed. Here we experience the other as if they were us.

The torture of every name in history being “I,” mine, is that history anticipates my name being sung back to me, dead. Nothing registers this loss so deeply as love. How is the form of love reconstituted by history when we recognize that all our electricity will dissipate? Love makes us terrified. Love renders us pathetic. Love is written and rewritten with such regularity as to be utterly banal; history tells us this. Here we experience ourselves as if we were another, our identity unstable and exceedingly vulnerable to the whims of the beloved.

There are many ways of being distant, many ways of being near.


Experiments with Language

I played a game of writing, where I spent 10 minutes telling about a text that has profoundly shaped me:

Leonard Cohen’s “The Favourite Game”

Passed into my hands with heat, an exchanged book was set to become an emblem of a relationship that was just then beginning to unfold. In any case, this one especially, the scope of paradigm shift cannot be anticipated because it is a reordering that renders assumptions about the world mutually incomprehensible. So I was someone before and someone else after. Our intimate dancing began and ended, a regular chronology afterall, but in the interval I took those words and marked them on my body. This is language I want to be read upon my flesh when it lay dead, language I wanted to be read each time my clothing fell to the floor. Because it was love—sweet, young—that pressed those words into my palms, I could not consider its eventual unravelling; my skin was scarred in a moment of indulgence or optimism that now other lovers read on my body instead.

And then I spent six minutes telling about a text I have shamefully not read:

I have a pat answer for this. I have a pat answer for this and it has been so for years, compounding the shame. I have a pat answer for this and I am just days distance from doing the thing I always do rather than meeting the writing on its own terms. Virginia Woolf, pockets full of rocks, how have I not been there with her? Oh, but Rebecca Solnit wrote of her writing and I take that in, always reading around Woolf instead of meeting her head on.



Thinking Again about Artist-run Culture


As I understand it, the impetus behind the formation of artist-run centres (ARCs) was artistic self-determination. ARCs, as a form of self-determination, distinguished themselves from commercial galleries in their distance from (if not their opposition to) the market, and they distinguished themselves from museums in the temporal direction of their activity, which was unconcerned with historicization and prioritized experimentation over connoisseurship. Emerging in the late 1960s, arguments for self-determination were taken seriously and the support of ARCs can be read alongside other social phenomena of the time, such as the civil rights movement, second wave feminism and antiestablishment counterculture. At this time, the infrastructure of the Canada Council already existed and the Council’s expansion to support artist-run initiatives reflects its adoption of the zeitgeist.

Given the oppositional stance of artist-run centres—from the beginning operating against the market and against the museum—I think there is a case to be made for these impulses of self-determination as an early model for what came to be known as institutional critique. Avoiding the inherent contradictions of institutional critique—namely, that there is no outside from which to offer critique because, as Andrea Fraser demonstrates, “the institution is inside of us, and we can’t get outside of ourselves”—ARCs offer instead a practice of critique by embodiment [1]. ARCs are the institution, which has allowed them to be influential on the form of institution itself.

In Diana Nemiroff’s essay, “Par-al-lel,” which was written in the early 1990s, she studies the history of ARCs through the words that have been used to describe them: alternative, artist-run, parallel. I am not sure how the term “parallel” emerged to characterize the relationship between ARCs and museums, but in her essay Nemiroff quotes Jo-Anne Birnie Danzker suggesting that “a problem with the term ‘parallel’—‘something similar which is continually equidistant’—is that it does not adequately define the artist-run centre as an alternative, that is, ‘mutually exclusive, available in place of another, and a group of persons disassociating themselves from conventional social practices’” [2]. According to Nemiroff and Danzker, “parallel” did not reflect the alternative positioning that was fundamental to the early conception of these centres. At that time, the term “artist run” was in favour, but contentions surrounds that term now, as Reid Shier points out in his essay “Do Artists Need Artist-Run Centres?” Alternative was and remains an aspiration.

Is there virtue in reconceptualizing curators and administrators as artists in order to maintain fidelity to the moniker “artist run”? Might the reclamation of “parallel” offer any value in better describing what these organizations have become? Can “alternative” act as inspiration?

Mutual Becoming

While the desire for self-determination played a part in the formation of ARCs, it is not an argument for their continued existence. The political, economic and social climate of 2014 bears only slight resemblances to 1967 and it must be recognized that we change the world by being in it.

A pervasive example of this practice of mutual becoming is the phenomena of organizational structuring and programming, both geared toward council mandates. That ARCs have boards of directors cannot be untangled from the Canada Council’s dictate that they do so. That so many Indigenous artists show work in ARCs probably, unfortunately, cannot be divorced from the strategic priorities of funding bodies. Nemiroff notes another early example of this mutual becoming: “Because the [funding] programmes were community oriented, they encouraged artists to define themselves in practical terms as a community. This orientation in turn affected the way in which the artist was able to perceive his/her role vis-a-vis the larger community” [3]. AA Bronson suggested as much in his 1983 essay, that while the development of artist-run culture in Canada led to our humiliation as bureaucrats, it also led to the realization of an art scene where there had been none previously [4]. This changes things. We have an art scene. We have access to production resources. We have exhibition opportunities. There are structures of mentorship. Given these changes brought about by a history of artist-run culture in Canada, the terms of what artists need to practice have also changed.

From the position of artists in Canada, what do they need from artist-run centres today?

Die Die Die

And I can’t help but think of death and dying, of organizations on life support, of the reality of limited funding. There is a general lack of of public discussion about the ethics or necessity of organizations folding; there is no lack of private discussion on the matter though.


What better time than now to reflect on how these organizations—a relatively fixed set of institutions across the country—are serving their constituents. In my visions of a utopic art-world future, I want to live in a place where the presentation and contextualization of art is supported outside of the market and where historicization is complicated (those classic desires of the artist-run model).

But what are the limitations of the current technology of artist-run centres?

The Future

I don’t think it’s that ARCs are obsolete, but that they are living beings (of a sort), subject to succession. This metaphor has limited use-value, but like any ecology, artist-run culture requires periods of growth and periods of destruction. It’s not that I have an interest in killing off organizations per se, but there’s an undeniable stagnancy in the system. I think that artist-run culture is ready to have conversations about what a reconfiguration of the landscape might look like. And actually, just last year, the Canada Council announced a policy of a redistribution of funds, implying that they are ready too.

There was also an anonymously published text in one of the final issues of FUSE, where a group of cultural workers delineated some tactics for infrastructural redistribution, including merging institutions into “super-centres,” but, they note, “part of what’s standing in the way of such succession is that no one’s done the math. With a dearth of precedent, no one is sure how the councils will respond, and people fear losing jobs and programs…The death and merger of centres are not suggestions; they are inevitable as the sectors evolve with changing climates. The only question is where and how the decisions will be made—collectively by institutions and the artists they represent, or top-down through the funding process?” [5].

So, where do we want those decisions to be be made? And are we brave enough to make them?

[1] Fraser, Andrea. “From the Critique of Institutuions to an Institution of Critique.” Artforum, 44-1 (2005), unpaginated.

[2] Nemiroff, Diana, “Par-al-lel.” In Sightlines, edited by Jessica Bradley and Lesley Johnstone, unpaginated. Canada: Artexte editions, 1994.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Bronson, AA. “The Humiliation of the Bureaucrat: Artist-run Spaces as Museums by Artists.” In Museums by artists, eds. Peggy Gale and AA Bronson, 29-37. Toronto: Art Metropole, 1983.

[5] Anonymous. “Art, Austerity and the Production of Fear.” FUSE Magazine, 37-1 (2013), unpaginated.


In the spirit of careful precision, this distinction as articulated by Nelson Maldonado-Torres:

Coloniality is different from colonialism. Colonialism denotes a political and economic relation in which the sovereignty of a nation or a people rests on the power of another nation, which makes such nation an empire. Coloniality, instead, refers to long-standing patterns of power that emerged as a result of colonialism, but that define culture, labour, intersubjective relations, and knowledge production well beyond the strict limits of colonial administrations. Thus, coloniality survives colonialism. It is maintained alive in books, in the criteria for academic performance, in cultural patterns, in common sense, in the self-image of peoples, in aspirations of self, and so many other aspects of our modern experience. In a way, as modern subjects we breath coloniality all the time and everyday.

We are all students and subjects of coloniality. So what are we gonna do about it?

And what happens to sovereignty when it rests upon an empire, both to the colonizing nation and the colonized state? Is sovereignty diluted or made stronger when set in relation to patterns of oppression?


In the first issue of Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang present “Decolonization is not a metaphor,” a call to examine the ways the term is diluted when applied to projects that are anything other than the repatriation of Indigenous lands and life. It’s a powerful article. Read it here. Their call to be aware of the import of the term corresponds to a reconsideration of what exactly we are doing in cultural venues (like art galleries) when we try to critically approach ongoing processes of colonization. In short, most of the time, the thing we are doing is not decolonizing. It’s not that there is no value in this kind of work, but we need to grapple with “how the pursuit of critical consciousness, the pursuit of social justice through a critical enlightenment, can also be settler moves to innocence–diversions, distractions, which relieve the settler of feelings of guilt or responsibility, and conceal the need to give up land or power or privilege.”

In working toward that consideration, Tuck and Yang make some important clarifications in what they call the set of settler colonial relations. I found these two particular articulations to be precise and useful in thinking through a colonized landscape in North America.

First, distinguishing between settler and immigrants, they note that “settlers are not immigrants. Immigrants are beholden to the Indigenous laws and epistemologies of the lands they migrate to. Settlers become the law, supplanting Indigenous laws and epistemologies.”

Second, an idea of race is deployed differently according on one’s position in the set of relations, which Tuck and Yang see as being composed of three nodes: settler, native, slave. Race is constructed in ways that always lead back to the fortification of settler power so that “through the one-drop rule, blackness in settler colonial contexts is expansive, ensuring that a slave/criminal status will be inherited by an expanding number of ‘black’ descendents. Yet, Indigenous peoples have been racialized in a profoundly different way. Native American-ness is subtractive: Native Americans are constructed to become few in number and less Native, but never exactly white, over time. Our/their status as Indigenous peoples/first inhabitants is the basis of our/their land claims and the goal of settler colonialism is the diminish claims to land over generations (or sooner, if possible). That is, Native American is a racialization that portrays contemporary Indigenous generations to be less authentic, less Indigenous than every prior generation in order to ultimately phase out Indigenous claims to land and usher in settler claims to property.”

Understanding the way our own identities are configured in relationship to access to land, resources and power is just one essential step in being able to re-do the order of the world in a decolonial way. And it must be accompanied by those literal re-doings.


I do not put much stock in polls, but the recent proposal to ban religious headwear and symbols in Québec, which is laid out in a piece of legislation titled the “Charter of Values,” is supported by a shocking 58% of people in the province according to a Forum Research study. The proposal has less support in other parts of Canada, but not by much: disturbingly, 47% of people asked are in favour.

The legislation, as it is formulated now, aims to outlaw public employees from wearing hijabs, turbans, kippas, visible crucifixes and other religious clothing and symbols in schools, hospitals, day cares and other government buildings in the province. Or as Colby Cosh summarized it, the charter seeks to dictate “purely personal, passive displays of religious faith by employees [which] are inconsistent with the government of Québec’s overall secular mission and nature.” The idea is that the adornment of religious symbols by public employees somehow compromises the province’s commitment to secularism, but I really don’t follow the logic. The province is composed of individuals, all of whom have beliefs. State functions are processes carried out by people. I’m not sure how this competency is affected by religious clothing or symbols.

Québec Premier Pauline Marois has said that the charter “reflects universal values, Quebec values, and would be a uniting force for the province.” But just to be clear, the value represented in this charter is racism, a racism that could propagate further intolerance by normalizing imposed conformity to a single dominant culture. I follow this logic, and it’s shameful. Monoculture does not make unity. Cultural unity, to have any real value, must require something of its citizens: at base, an acceptance of diversity. Which means encounters with difference, not cultural camouflage.


Last year, Vancouver’s Access Gallery presented Always Working, a curatorial project by Gabrielle Moser. The exhibition reflects on contemporary modes of working–often intangible, rooted in process of care and computation–and asks how global flows of capital respond to these process when they malfunction. Specifically, Moser is curious about useless excess (not necessarily work for its own sake, but deliberate actions that refuse their regular associations with service) and how it resists being absorbed back into an economic accounting of labour and capital. In the stumble of the economy in the face of these kinds of unproductivities, Moser proposes that work is activated “as a space for social critique and political action.” Affective tendencies, here, become thoughtful disruptions of systems that otherwise rely on totalizing mythologies for their propagation.

Departing from this exhibition, Moser has guest-edited a section of Fillip 18, further exploring the relationship between desire and labour. She has commissioned projects by Sven Lütticken and the artist Natascha Sadr Haghighian to reflect on the conditions under which artistic labour is made to appear or disappear.

Moser will be hosting a launch of the journal tomorrow night in Vancouver at Access, and has arranged a performative discussion where a number of cultural workers have been invited to present texts that further interrogate the ways labour is utilized, exploited or subverted in the art world. Though I will not be present for the launch, Gabby will channel me (its own kind of affective labour!) to contribute excerpts from Samuel C. Florman’s The Existential Pleasures of Engineering and Franco “Bifo” Berardi’s The Soul at Work: From Alienation to Autonomy. The former, published in 1976, is a manifesto imploring engineers to recognize the emotional and intellectual privilege of the work they do. Berardi’s text, published in 2009, counters the propagandistic tone of Florman’s treatise, suggesting that a globalized economy relies on the promise of creativity and flexibility in order to demand excessively more labour from workers. Our desires are leveraged to prolong the working day (because we believe in the work we do and/or because we live in debt) and expand working spaces (to the home office, or the wherever-you-may-be when your cellphone rings).

In a way, it boils down to this: what is our desired (practical) result? How do we imagine the relationship between ourselves and society? How can labour be in service of our desires, not the other way around?