I’ve been reading and rereading with joyful mania the essays in Political Writings of William Morris, and so I thought that today I would share with you the following essay, which is brilliant and terrifying and leaves me baffled as to how we as a species have managed to continue doing the same old shit, nay, how we’ve recklessly amped up our efforts to do more and more of the same old shit, and collectively fail to see the problem inherent therein. My optimism comes and goes as to whether there is an end in sight to our world’s madness.
Here’s “Art Under Plutocracy”:
Introductory note from Political Writings of William Morris:
One of Morris’ earliest Socialist lectures, delivered in the hall of University College, Oxford, on November 14th, 1883. John Ruskin was in the chair. First published in Today, February and March, 1884. Collected Works, XXIII, 164-91, Jackson, 132-55.
This lecture caused a considerable uproar: its offence was not so much over its Socialist ideas as because Morris declared himself a member of an organisation and asked his hearers to support it. The Times commented: “Mr. Morris announced himself a member of a socialistic society and appealed for funds for the objects of the society. The Master of University then said to the effect that if he had announced this beforehand it was probable that the College-hall would have been refused.”
You may well think I am not here to criticize any special school of art or artists, or to plead for any special style, or to give you any instructions, however general, as to the practice of the arts. Rather I want to take counsel with you as to what hindrances may lie in the way towards making art what it should be, a help and solace to the daily life of all men. Some of you here may think that the hindrances in the way are none, or few, and easy to be swept aside. You will say that there is on many sides much knowledge of the history of art, and plenty of taste for it, at least among the cultivated classes; that many men of talent, and some few of genius, practise it with no mean success; that within the last fifty years there has been something almost like a fresh renaissance of art, even in directions where such a change was least to be hope for. All this is true as far as it goes; and I can well understand this state of things being a cause of gratulation amongst those who do not know what the scope of art really is, and how closely it is bound up with the general condition of society, and especially with the lives of those who live by manual labour and whom we call the working classes. For my part, I cannot help noting that under the apparent satisfaction with the progress of art of late years there lies in the minds of most thinking people a feeling of mere despair as to the prospects of art in the future; a despair which seems to me fully justified if we look at the present condition of art without considering the causes which have led to it, or the hopes which may exist for a change in those causes. For, without beating about the bush, let us consider what the real state of art is. And first I must ask you to extend the word art beyond those matters which are consciously works of art, to take in not only painting and sculpture, and architecture, but the shapes and colours of all household goods, nay, even the arrangement of the fields for tillage and pasture, the management of towns and of our highways of all kinds; in a word, to extend it to the aspect of the externals of our life. For I must ask you to believe that every one of the things that goes to make up the surroundings among which we live must be either beautiful or ugly, either elevating or degrading to us, either a torment and burden to the maker of it to make, or a pleasure and a solace to him. How does it fare therefore with our external surroundings in these days? What kind of an account shall we be able to give to those who come after us of our dealings with the earth, which our forefathers handed down to us still beautiful, in spite of all the thousands of years of strife and carelessness and selfishness?
Surely this is no light question to ask ourselves; nor am I afraid that you will think it a mere rhetorical flourish if I say that it is a question that may well seem a solemn one when it is asked here in Oxford, amidst sights and memories which we older men at least regard with nothing short of love. He must be indeed a man of narrow incomplete mind who, amidst the buildings raised by the hopes of our forefathers, amidst the country which they made so lovely, would venture to say that the beauty of the earth was a matter of little moment. And yet, I say, how have we of these latter days treated the beauty of the earth, or that which we call art?
Perhaps I had best begin by stating what will scarcely be new to you, that art must be broadly divided into two kinds, of which we may call the first Intellectual, and the second Decorative Art, using the words as mere forms of convenience. The first kind addresses itself wholly to our mental needs; the things made by it serve no other purpose but to feed the mind, and, as far as material needs go, might be done without altogether. The second, though so much of it as is art does also appeal to the mind, is always but a part of things which are intended primarily for the service of the body. I must further say that there have been nations and periods which lacked the purely Intellectual art but positively none which lacked the Decorative (or at least some pretence of it); and furthermore, that in all times when the arts were in a healthy condition there was an intimate connexion between the two kinds of art; a connexion so close, that in the times when art flourished most, the higher and lower kinds were divided by no hard and fast lines. The highest intellectual art was meant to please the eye, as the phrase goes, as well as to excite the emotions and train the intellect. It appealed to all men, and to all the faculties of a man. On the other hand, the humblest of the ornamental art shared in the meaning and emotion of the intellectual; one melted into the other by scarce perceptible gradations; in short, the best artist was a workman still, the humblest workman was an artist. This is not the case now, nor has been for two or three centuries in civilized countries. Intellectual art is separated from Decorative by the sharpest lines of demarcation, not only as to the kind of work produced under those names, but even in the social position of the producers; those who follow the intellectual arts being all professional men or gentlemen by virtue of their calling, while those who follow the Decorative are workmen earning weekly wages, non-gentlemen in short.
Now, as I have already said, many men of talent and some few of genius are engaged at present in producing works of Intellectual art, paintings and sculpture chiefly. It is nowise my business here or elsewhere to criticize their works; but my subject compels me to say that those who follow the Intellectual arts must be divided into two sections, the first composed of men who would in any age of the world have held a high place in their craft; the second of men who hold their position of gentleman-artist either by the accident of their birth, or by their possessing industry, business habits, or such-like qualities, out of all proportion to their artistic gifts. The work which these latter produce seems to me of little value to the world, though there is a thriving market for it, and their position is neither dignified nor wholesome; yet they are mostly not to be blamed for it personally, since often they have gifts for art, though not great ones, and would probably not have succeeded in any other career. They are, in fact, good decorative workmen spoiled by a system which compels them to ambitious individualist effort, by cutting off from them any opportunity for co-operation with other of greater or less capacity for the production of popular art.
As to the first section of artists, who worthily fill their places and make the world wealthier by their work, it must be said of them that they are very few. These men have won their mastery over their craft by dint of incredible toil, pains, and anxiety, by qualities of mind and strength of will which are bound to produce something of value. Nevertheless they are injured also by the system which insists on individualism and forbids co-operation. For first, they are cut off from tradition, that wonderful, almost miraculous accumulation of the skill of ages, which men find themselves partakers in without effort on their part. The knowledge of the past and the sympathy with it which the artists of to-day have, they have acquired, on the contrary, by their own most strenuous individual effort; and as that tradition no longer exists to help them in their practice of the art, and they are heavily weighted in the race by having to learn everything from the beginning, each man for himself, so also, and that is worse, the lack of it deprives them of a sympathetic and appreciative audience. Apart from the artists themselves and a few persons who would be also artists but for want of opportunity and for insufficient gifts of hand and eye, there is in the public of to-day no real knowledge of art, and little love for it. Nothing, save at the best certain vague prepossessions, which are but the phantom of that tradition which once bound artist and public together. Therefore the artists are obliged to express themselves, as it were, in a language not understanded of the people. Nor is this their fault. If they were to try, as some think they should, to meet the public half-way and work in such a manner as to satisfy at any cost those vague prepossessions of men ignorant of art, they would be casting aside their special gifts, they would be traitors to the cause of art, which it is their duty and glory to serve. They have no choice save to do their own personal individual work unhelped by the present, stimulated by the past, but shamed by it, and even in a way hampered by it; they must stand apart as possessors of some sacred mystery which, whatever happens, they must at least do their best to guard. It is not to be doubted that both their own lives and their works are injured by this isolation. But the loss of the people; how are we to measure that? That they should have great men living and working amongst them, and be ignorant of the very existence of their work, and incapable of knowing what it means if they could see it!
In the times when art was abundant and healthy, all men were more or less artists; that is to say, the instinct for beauty which is inborn in every complete man had such force that the whole body of craftsmen habitually and without conscious effort made beautiful things, and the audience for the authors of intellectual art was nothing short of the whole people. And so they had each an assured hope of gaining that genuine praise and sympathy which all men who exercise their imagination in expression most certainly and naturally crave, and the lack of which does certainly injure them in some way; makes them shy, over-sensitive, and narrow, or else cynical and mocking, and in that case well-nigh useless. But in these days, I have said and repeat, the whole people is careless and ignorant of art; the inborn instinct for beauty is checked and thwarted at every turn; and the result on the less intellectual or decorative art is that as a spontaneous and popular expression of the instinct for beauty it does not exist at all. It is a matter of course that everything made by man’s hand is now obviously ugly, unless it is made beautiful by conscious effort; nor does it mend the matter that men have not lost the habit deduced from the times of art, of professing to ornament household goods and the like; for this sham ornament, which has no least intention of giving any one pleasure, is so base and foolish that the words upholstery and upholsterer have come to have a kind of secondary meaning indicative of the profound contempt which all sensible men have for such twaddle.
This, so far, is what decorative art has come to, and I must break off a while here and ask you to consider what it once was, lest you think over hastily that its degradation is a matter of little moment. Think, I beg you, to go no further back in history, of the stately and careful beauty of S. Sophia at Constantinople, of the golden twilight of S. Mark’s at Venice; of the sculptured cliffs of the great French cathedrals, of the quaint and familiar beauty of our own minsters; nay, go through Oxford streets and ponder on what is left us there unscathed by the fury of the thriving shop and the progressive college; or wander some day through some of the out-of-the-way villages and little towns that lie scattered about the country-side within twenty miles of Oxford; and you will surely see that the loss of decorative art is a grievous loss to the world.
Thus then in considering the state of art among us I have been driven to the conclusion that in its co-operative form it is extinct, and only exists in the conscious efforts of men of genius and talent, who themselves are injured, and thwarted, and deprived of due sympathy by the lack of co-operative art.
But furthermore, the repression of the instinct for beauty which has destroyed the Decorative and injured the Intellectual arts has not stopped there in the injury it has done us. I can myself sympathize with a feeling which I suppose is still not rare, a craving to escape sometimes to mere Nature, not only from ugliness and squalor, not only from a condition of superabundance of art, but even from a condition of art severe and well ordered, even, say, from such surroundings as the lovely simplicity of Periclean Athens. I can deeply sympathize with a weary man finding his account in interest in mere life and communion with external nature, the face of the country, the wind and weather, and the course of the day, and the lives of animals, wild and domestic; and man’s daily dealings with all this for his daily bread, and rest, and innocent beast-like pleasure. But the interest in the mere animal life of man has become impossible to be indulged in in its fulness by most civilized people. Yet civilization, it seems to me, owes us some compensation for the loss of this romance, which now only hangs like a dream about the country life of busy lands. To keep the air pure and the rivers clean, to take some pains to keep the meadows and tillage as pleasant as reasonable use will allow them to be; to allow peaceable citizens freedom to wander where they will, so they do no hurt to garden or cornfield; nay, even to leave here and there some piece of waste or mountain sacredly free from fence or tillage as a memory of man’s ruder struggles with nature in his earlier days: is it too much to ask civilization to be so far thoughtful of man’s pleasure and rest, and to help so far as this her children to whom she has most often set such heavy tasks of grinding labour? Surely not an unreasonable asking. But not a whit of it shall we get under the present system of society. That loss of the instinct for beauty which has involved us in the loss of popular art is also busy in depriving us of the only compensation possible for that loss, by surely and not slowly destroying the beauty of the very face of the earth. Not only are London and our other great commercial cities mere masses of sordidness, filth, and squalor, embroidered with patches of pompous and vulgar hideousness, no less revolting to the eye and the mind when one knows what it means: not only have whole counties of England, and the heavens that hang over them, disappeared beneath a crust of unutterable grime, but the disease, which, to a visitor coming from the times of art, reason, and order, would seem to be a love of dirt and ugliness for its own sake, spreads all over the country, and every little market-town seizes the opportunity to imitate, as far as it can, the majesty of the hell of London and Manchester. Need I speak to you of the wretched suburbs that sprawl all round our fairest and most ancient cities? Must I speak to you of the degradation that has so speedily befallen this city, still the most beautiful of them all; a city which, with its surroundings, would, it we had had a grain of common sense, have been treated like a most precious jewel, whose beauty was to be preserved at any cost? I say at any cost, for it was a possession which did not belong to us, but which we were trustees of for all posterity. I am old enough to know how we have treated that jewel; as if it were any common stone kicking about on the highway, good enough to throw at a dog. When I remember the contrast between the Oxford of to-day and the Oxford which I first saw thirty years ago, I wonder I can face the misery (there is no other word for it) of visiting it, even to have the honour of addressing you to-night. But furthermore, not only are the cities a disgrace to us, and the smaller towns a laughing-stock; not only are the dwellings of man grown inexpressibly base and ugly, but the very cowsheds and cart-stables, nay, the merest piece of necessary farm-engineering, are tarred with the same brush. Even if a tree is cut down or blown down, a worse one, if any, is planted in its stead, and, in short, our civilization is passing like a blight, daily growing heavier and more poisonous, over the whole face of the country, so that every change is sure to be a change for the worse in its outward aspect. So then it comes to this, that not only are the minds of great artists narrowed and their sympathies frozen by their isolation, not only has co-operative art come to a standstill, but the very food on which both the greater and the lesser art subsists is being destroyed; the well of art is poisoned at its spring.
Now I do not wonder that those who think that these evils are from henceforth for ever necessary to the progress of civilization should try to make the best of things, should shut their eyes to all they can, and praise the galvanized life of the art of the present day; but, for my part, I believe that they are not necessary to civilization, but only accompaniments to one phase of it, which will change and pass into something else, like all prior phases have done. I believe also that the essential characteristic of the present state of society is that which has so ruined art, or the pleasure of life; and that this having died out, the inborn love of man for beauty and the desire for expressing it will no longer be repressed, and art will be free. At the same time I not only admit, but declare, and think it most important to declare, that so long as the system of competition in the production and exchange of the means of life goes on, the degradation of the arts will go on; and if that system is to last for ever, then art is doomed, and will surely die; that is to say, civilization will die. I know it is at present the received opinion that the competitive or “Devil take the hindmost” system is the last system of economy which the world will see; that it is perfection, and therefore finality has been reached in it; and it is doubtless a bold thing to fly in the face of this opinion, which I am told is held by the most learned men. But though I am not learned, I have been taught that the patriarchal system died into that of the citizen and chattel slave, which in its turn gave place to that of the feudal lord and the serf, which, passing through a modified form, in which the burgher, the gild-craftsman and his journeyman played their parts, was supplanted by the system of so-called free contract now existing. That all things since the beginning of the world have been tending to the development of this system I willingly admit, since it exists; that all the events of history have taken place for the purpose of making it eternal, the very evolution of those events forbids me to believe.
For I am “one of the people called Socialists”; therefore I am certain that evolution in the economical conditions of life will go on, whatever shadowy barriers may be drawn across its path by men whose apparent self-interest binds them, consciously or unconsciously, to the present, and who are therefore hopeless for the future. I hold that the condition of competition between man and man is bestial only, and that of association human; I think that the change from the undeveloped competition of the Middle Ages, trammelled as it was by the personal relations of feudality, and the attempts at association of the gild-craftsmen into the full-blown laissez-faire competition of the nineteenth century, is bringing to birth out of its own anarchy, and by the very means by which it seeks to perpetuate that anarchy, a spirit of association founded on that antagonism which has produced all former changes in the condition of men, and which will one day abolish all classes and take definite and practical form, and substitute association for competition in all that relates to the production and exchange of the means of life. I further believe that as that change will be beneficent in many ways, so especially will it give an opportunity for the new birth of art, which is now being crushed to death by the money-bags of competitive commerce.
My reason for this hope for art is founded on what I feel quite sure is a truth, and an important one, namely that all art, even the highest, is influenced by the conditions of labour of the mass of mankind, and that any pretensions which may be made for even the highest intellectual art to be independent of these general conditions are futile and vain; that is to say, that any art which professes to be founded on the special education or refinement of a limited body or class must of necessity be unreal and short-lived. ART IS MAN’S EXPRESSION OF HIS JOY IN LABOUR. If those are not Professor Ruskin’s words they embody at least his teaching on this subject. Nor has any truth more important ever been stated; for if pleasure in labour be generally possible, what a strange folly it must be for men to consent to labour without pleasure; and what a hideous injustice it must be for society to compel most men to labour without pleasure! For since all men not dishonest must labour, it becomes a question either of forcing them to lead unhappy lives or allowing them to live unhappily. Now the chief accusation I have to bring against the modern state of society is that it is founded on the art-lacking or unhappy labour of the greater part of men; and all that external degradation of the face of the country of which I have spoken is hateful to me not only because it is a cause of unhappiness to some few of us who still love art, but also and chiefly because it is a token of the unhappy life forced on the great mass of the population by the system of competitive commerce.
The pleasure which ought to go with the making of every piece of handicraft has for its basis the keen interest which every healthy man takes in healthy life, and is compounded, it seems to me, chiefly of three elements; variety, hope of creation, and the self-respect which comes of a sense of usefulness; to which must be added that mysterious bodily pleasure which goes with the deft exercise of the bodily powers. I do not think I need spend many words in trying to prove that these things, if they really and fully accompanied labour, would do much to make it pleasant. As to the pleasures of variety, any of you who have ever made anything, I don’t care what, will well remember the pleasure that went with the turning out of the first specimen. What would have become of that pleasure if you had been compelled to go on making it exactly the same for ever? As to the hope of creation, the hope of producing some worthy or even excellent work which without you, the craftsmen, would not have existed at all, a thing which needs you and can have no substitute for you in the making of it – can we any of us fail to understand the pleasure of this? No less easy, surely, is it to see how much the self-respect born of the consciousness of usefulness must sweeten labour. To feel that you have to do a thing not to satisfy the whim of a fool or a set of fools, but because it is really good in itself, that is useful, would surely be a good help to getting through the day’s work. As to the unreasoning, sensuous pleasure in handiwork, I believe in good sooth that it has more power of getting rough and strenuous work out of men, even as things go, than most people imagine. At any rate it lies at the bottom of the production of all art, which cannot exist without it even in its feeblest and rudest form.
Now this compound pleasure in handiwork I claim as the birthright of all workmen. I say that if they lack any part of it they will be so far degraded, but that if they lack it altogether they are, as far as their work goes, I will not say slaves, the word would not be strong enough, but machines more or less conscious of their own unhappiness.
I have appealed already to history in aid of my hopes for a change in the system of the conditions of labour. I wish to bring forward now the witness of history that this claim of labour for pleasure rests on a foundation stronger than a mere fantastic dream; what is left of the art of all kinds produced in all periods and countries where hope of progress was alive before the development of the commercial system shows plainly enough to those who have eyes and understanding that pleasure did always in some degree accompany its production. This fact, however difficult it may be to demonstrate in a pedantic way, is abundantly admitted by those who have studied the arts widely; the very phrases so common in criticism that such and such a piece of would-be art is done mechanically, or done without feeling, express accurately enough the general sense of artists of a standard deduced from times of healthy art; for this mechanical and feelingless handiwork did not exist till days comparatively near our own, and it is the condition of labour under plutocratic rule which has allowed it any place at all.
The craftsman of the Middle Ages no doubt often suffered grievous material oppression, yet in spite of the rigid line of separation drawn by the hierarchical system under which he lived between him and his feudal superior, the difference between them was arbitrary rather than real; there was no such gulf in language, manners, and ideas as divides a cultivated middle-class person of to-day, a “gentleman,” from even a respectable lower-class man; the mental qualities necessary to an artist, intelligence, fancy, imagination, had not then to go through the mill of the competitive market, nor had the rich (or successful competitors) made good their claim to be the sole possessors of mental refinement.
As to the conditions of handiwork in those days, the crafts were drawn together into gilds which indeed divided the occupations of men rigidly enough, and guarded the door to those occupations jealously; but as outside among the gilds there was little competition in the markets, wares being made in the first instance for domestic consumption, and only the overplus of what was wanted at home close to the place of production ever coming into the market or requiring any one to come and go between the producer and consumer, so inside the gilds there was but little division of labour; a man or youth once accepted as an apprentice to a craft learned it from end to end, and became as a matter of course the master of it; and in the earlier days of the gilds, when the masters were scarcely even small capitalists, there was no grade in the craft save this temporary one. Later on, when the masters became capitalists in a sort, and the apprentices were, like the masters, privileged, the class of journeymen-craftsmen came into existence; but it does not seem that the difference between them and the aristocracy of the gild was anything more than an arbitrary one. In short, during all this period the unit of labour was an intelligent man. Under this system of handiwork no great pressure of speed was put on a man’s work, but he was allowed to carry it through leisurely and thoughtfully; it used the whole of a man for the production of a piece of goods, and not small portions of many men; it developed the workman’s whole intelligence according to his capacity, instead of concentrating his energy on one-sided dealing with a trifling piece of work; in short, it did not submit the hand and soul of the workman to the necessities of the competitive market, but allowed them freedom for due human development. It was this system, which had not learned the lesson that man was made for commerce, but supposed in its simplicity that commerce was made for man, which produced the art of the Middle Ages, wherein the harmonious co-operation of free intelligence was carried to the furthest point which has yet been attained, and which alone of all art can claim to be called Free. The effect of this freedom, and the widespread or rather universal sense of beauty to which it gave birth, became obvious enough in the outburst of the expression of splendid and copious genius which marks the Italian Renaissance. Nor can it be doubted that this glorious art was the fruit of the five centuries of free popular art which preceded it, and not of the rise of commercialism which was contemporaneous with it; for the glory of the Renaissance faded out with strange rapidity as commercial competition developed, so that about the end of the seventeenth century, both in the intellectual and the decorative arts, the commonplace or body still existed, but the romance or soul of them was gone. Step by step they had faded and sickened before the advance of commercialism, now speedily gathering force throughout civilization. The domestic or architectural arts were becoming (or become) mere toys for the competitive market through which all material wares used by civilized men now had to pass. Commercialism had by this time well-nigh destroyed the craft-system of labour, in which, as aforesaid, the unit of labour is a fully instructed craftsman, and had supplanted it by what I will ask leave to call the workshop-system, wherein, when complete, division of labour in handiwork is carried to the highest point possible, and the unit of manufacture is no longer a man, but a group of men, each member of which is dependent on his fellows, and is utterly useless by himself. This system of the workshop division of labour was perfected during the eighteenth century by the efforts of the manufacturing classes, stimulated by the demands of the ever-widening markets; it is still the system in some of the smaller and more domestic kinds of manufacture, holding much the same place amongst us as the remains of the craft-system did in the days when that of the workshop was still young. Under this system, as I have said, all the romance of the arts died out, but the commonplace of them flourished still; for the idea that the essential aim of manufacture is the making of goods still struggled with a newer idea which has since obtained complete victory, namely, that it is carried on for the sake of making a profit for the manufacturer on the one hand, and on the other for the employment of the working classes.
This idea of commerce being an end in itself and not a means merely, being but half developed in the eighteenth century, the special period of the workshop-system, some interest could still be taken in those days in the making of wares. The capitalist-manufacturer of the period had some pride in turning out goods which would do him credit, as the phrase went; he was not willing wholly to sacrifice his pleasure in this kind to the imperious demands of commerce; even his workman, though no longer an artist, that is a free workman, was bound to have skill in his craft, limited though it was to the small fragment of it which he had to toil at day by day for his whole life.
But commerce went on growing, stimulated still more by the opening up of new markets, and pushed on the invention of men, till their ingenuity produced the machines which we have now got to look upon as necessities of manufacture, and which have brought about a system the very opposite to the ancient craft-system; that system was fixed and conservative of methods; there was no real difference in the method of making a piece of goods between the time of Pliny and the time of Sir Thomas More; the method of manufacture, on the contrary, in the present time, alters not merely from decade to decade, but from year to year; this fact has naturally helped the victory of this machine-system, the system of the Factory, where the machine-like workmen of the workshop period are supplanted by actual machines, of which the operatives (as they are now called) are but a portion, and a portion gradually diminishing both in importance and numbers. This system is still short of its full development, therefore to a certain extent the workshop-system is being carried on side by side with it, but it is being speedily and steadily crushed out by it; and when the process is complete, the skilled workman will no longer exist, and his place will be filled by machines directed by a few highly trained and very intelligent experts, and tended by a multitude of people, men, women, and children, of whom neither skill nor intelligence is required.
This system, I repeat, is as near as may be the opposite of that which produced the popular art which led up to that splendid outburst of art in the days of the Italian Renaissance which even cultivated men will sometimes deign to notice nowadays; it has therefore produced the opposite of what the old craft-system produced, the death of art and not its birth; in other words the degradation of the external surroundings of life, or simply and plainly unhappiness. Through all society spreads that curse of unhappiness: from the poor wretches, the news of whom we middle-class people are just now receiving with such naif wonder and horror: from those poor people whom nature forces to strive against hope, and to expend all the divine energy of man in competing for something less than a dog’s lodging and a dog’s food, from them up to the cultivated and refined person, well lodged, well fed, well clothed, expensively educated, but lacking all interest in life except, it may be, the cultivation of unhappiness as a fine art.
Something must be wrong then in art, or the happiness of life is sickening in the house of civilization. What has caused the sickness? Machine-labour will you say? Well, I have seen quoted a passage from one of the ancient Sicilian poets rejoicing in the fashioning of a water-mill, and exulting in labour being set free from the toil of the hand-quern in consequence; and that surely would be a type of man’s natural hope when foreseeing the invention of labour-saving machinery as ’tis called; natural surely, since though I have said that the labour of which art can form a part should be accompanied by pleasure, so one could deny that there is some necessary labour even which is not pleasant in itself, and plenty of unnecessary labour which is merely painful. If machinery had been used for minimizing such labour, the utmost ingenuity would scarcely have been wasted on it; but is that the case in any way? Look round the world, and you must agree with John Stuart Mill in his doubt whether all the machinery of modern times has lightened the daily work of one labourer. And why have our natural hopes been so disappointed? Surely because in these latter days, in which as a matter of fact machinery has been invented, it was by no means invented with the aim of saving the pain of labour. The phrase labour-saving machinery is elliptical, and means machinery which saves the cost of labour, not the labour itself, which will be expended when saved on tending other machines. For a doctrine which, as I have said, began to be accepted under the workshop-system, is now universally received, even though we are yet short of the complete development of the system of the Factory. Briefly, the doctrine is this, that the essential aim of manufacture is making a profit; that it is frivolous to consider whether the wares when made will be of more or less use to the world so long as any one can be found to buy them at a price which, when the workman engaged in making them has received of necessaries and comforts as little as he can be got to take, will leave something over as a reward to the capitalist who has employed him. This doctrine of the sole aim of manufacture (or indeed of life) being the profit of the capitalist and the occupation of the workman, is held, I say, by almost every one; its corollary is, that labour is necessarily unlimited, and that to attempt to limit it is not so much foolish as wicked, whatever misery may be caused to the community by the manufacture and sale of the wares made.
It is this superstition of commerce being an end in itself, of man made for commerce, not commerce for man, of which art has sickened; not of the accidental appliances which that superstition when put in practice has brought to its aid; machines and railways and the like, which do now verily control us all, might have been controlled by us, if we had not been resolute to seek profit and occupation at the cost of establishing for a time that corrupt and degrading anarchy which has usurped the name of Society. It is my business here to-night and everywhere to foster your discontent with that anarchy and its visible results; for indeed I think it would be an insult to you to suppose that you are contented with the state of things as they are; contented to see all beauty vanish from our beautiful city, for instance; contented with the squalor of the black country, with the hideousness of London, the wen of all wens, as Cobbett called it; contented with the ugliness and baseness which everywhere surround the life of civilized man; contented, lastly, to be living above that unutterable and sickening misery of which a few details are once again reaching us as if from some distant unhappy country, of which we could scarcely expect to hear, but which I tell you is the necessary foundation on which our society, our anarchy, rests.
Neither can I doubt that every one here has formed some idea of remedies for these defects in our civilization, as we euphemistically call them, even though the ideas be vague; also I know that you are familiar with the precepts of the system of economy, that religion, I may say, which has supplanted the precepts of the old religions on the duty and blessing of giving to the needy; you understand of course that though a friend may give to a friend and both giver and receiver be better for the gift, yet a rich man cannot give to a poor one without both being the worse for it; I suppose because they are not friends. And amidst all this I feel sure, I say, that you all of you have some ideal of a state of things better than that amidst which we live, something, I mean to say, more than the application of temporary palliatives to the enduring defects of our civilization.
Now it seems to me that the ideal of better times which the more advanced in opinion of our own class have formed as possible and hopeful is something like this. There is to be a large class of industrious people not too much refined (or they could not do the rough work wanted of them), who are to live in comfort (not, however, meaning our middle-class comfort), and receive a kind of education (if they can), and not be overworked; that is, not overworked for a working man; his light day’s work would be rather heavy for the refined classes. This class is to be the basis of society, and its existence will leave the consciences of the refined class quite free and at rest. From this refined class will come the directors or captains of labour (in other words the usurers), the directors of people’s consciences religious and literary (clergy, philosophers, newspaper-writers), and lastly, if that be thought of at all, the directors of art; these two classes with or without a third, the functions of which are indefinite, will live together with the greatest goodwill, the upper helping the lower without sense of condescension on one side or humiliation on the other; the lower are to be perfectly content with their position, and there is to be no grain of antagonism between the classes: although (even Utopianism of this kind being unable to shake off the idea of the necessity of competition between individuals) the lower class, blessed and respected as it is to be, will have moreover the additional blessing of hope held out to it; the hope of each man rising into the upper class, and leaving the chrysalis of labour behind him; nor, if that matters, is the lower class to lack due political or parliamentary power; all men (or nearly all) being equal before the ballot-box, except so far as they may be bought like other things. That seems to me to be the middle-class liberal ideal of reformed society; all the world turned bourgeois, big and little, peace under the rule of competitive commerce, ease of mind and a good conscience to all and several under the rule of the devil take the hindmost.
Well, for my part I have nothing, positively nothing, to say against it if it can be brought about. Religion, morality, art, literature, science, might for all I know flourish under it and make the world a heaven. But have we not tried its somewhat already? Are not many people jubilant whenever they stand on a public platform over the speedy advent of this good time? It seems to me that the continued and advancing prosperity of the working classes is almost always noted when a political man addresses an audience on general subjects, when he forgets party politics; nor seldom when he remembers them most. Nor do I wish to take away honour where honour is due; I believe there are many people who deeply believe in the realization of this ideal, while they are not ignorant of how lamentably far things are from it at present; I know that there are men who sacrifice time, money, pleasure, their own prejudices even, to bring it about; men who hate strife and love peace, men hard working, kindly, unambitious. What have they done? How much nearer are they to the ideal of the bourgeois commonwealth than they were at the time of the Reform Bill, or the time of the repeal of the Corn Laws? Well, thus much nearer to a great change perhaps, that there is a chink in the armour of self-satisfaction; a suspicion that perhaps it is not the accidents of the system of competitive commerce which have to be abolished, but the system itself; but as to approaching the ideal of that system reformed into humanity and decency, they are about so much nearer to it as a man is nearer to the moon when he stands on a hayrick. I don’t want to make too much of the matter of money-wages apart from the ghastly contrast between the rich and the poor which is the essence of our system; yet remember that poverty driven below a certain limit means degradation and slavery pure and simple. Now I have seen a statement made by one of the hopeful men of the rich middle class that the average yearly income of an English working man’s household is one hundred pounds. I don’t believe the figures because I am sure they are swollen by wages paid in times of inflation, and ignore the precarious position of most working men; but quite apart from that, do not, I beg you, take refuge behind averages; for at least they are swelled by the high wages paid to special classes of workmen in special places, and in the manufacturing districts by the mothers of families working in factories, to my mind a most abominable custom, and by other matters of the like kind, which the average-makers leave you to find out for yourselves. But even that is not the point of the matter. For my part the enormous average of one hundred pounds a year to so many millions of toiling people, while many thousands who do not toil think themselves poor with ten times the income, does not comfort me for the fact of a thousand strong men waiting at the dock gates down at Poplar, the greater part of a working-day, on the chance of some of them being taken on at wretched wages, or for the ordinary wage of a farm labourer over a great part of England being ten shillings per week, and that considered ruinous by the farmers also: if averages will content us while such things as this go on, why stop at the working classes? Why not take in everybody, from the Duke of Westminster downwards, and then raise a hymn of rejoicing over the income of the English people?
I say let us be done with averages and look at lives and their sufferings, and try to realize them: for indeed what I want you to note is this; that though you may realize a part of the bourgeois or radical ideal, there is and for ever will be under the competitive system a skeleton in the cupboard. We may, nay, we have managed to create a great mass of middling well-to-do people, hovering on the verge of the middle classes, prosperous artisans, small tradesmen, and the like; and I must say parenthetically that in spite of all their innate good qualities the class does little credit to our civilization; for though they live in a kind of swinish comfort as far as food is concerned, they are ill housed, ill educated, crushed by grovelling superstitions, lacking reasonable pleasures, utterly devoid of any sense of beauty. But let that pass. For aught I know we may very much increase the proportionate numbers of this class without making any serious change in our system, but under all that still lies and will lie another class which we shall never get rid of as long as we are under the tyranny of the devil take the hindmost; that class is the Class of Victims. Now above all things I want us not to forget them (as indeed we are not likely to for some weeks to come), or to console ourselves by averages for the fact that the riches of the rich and the comfort of the well-to-do are founded on that terrible mass of undignified, unrewarded, useless misery, concerning which we have of late been hearing a little, a very little; after all we do know that is a fact, and we can only console ourselves by hoping that we may, if we are watchful and diligent (which we very seldom are), we may greatly diminish the amount of it. I ask you, is such a hope as that worthy of our boasted civilization with its perfected creeds, its high morality, its sounding political maxims? Will you think it monstrous that some people have conceived another hope, and see before them the ideal of a society in which there should be no classes permanently degraded for the benefit of the commonweal? For one thing I would have you remember, that this lowest class of utter poverty lies like a gulf before the whole of the working classes, who in spite of all averages live a precarious life; the failure in the game of life which entails on a rich man an unambitious retirement, and on a well-to-do man a life of dependence and laborious shifts, drags a working man down into that hell of irredeemable degradation. I hope there are but few, at least here, who can comfort their consciences by saying that the working classes bring this degradation on themselves by their own unthrift and recklessness. Some do, no doubt, stoic philosophers of the higher type not being much commoner among day-labourers than among the well-to-do and rich; but we know very well how sorely the mass of the poor strive, practising such thrift as is in itself a degradation to man, in whose very nature it is to love mirth and pleasure, and how in spite of all that they fall into the gulf. What! are we going to deny that when we see all round us in our own class cases of men failing in life by no fault of their own; nay, many of the failures worthier and more useful than those that succeed: as might indeed be looked for in the state of war which we call the system of unlimited competition, where the best campaigning-luggage a man can carry is a hard heart and no scruples? For indeed the fulfilment of that liberal ideal of the reform of our present system into a state of moderate class supremacy is impossible, because that system is after all nothing but a continuous implacable war; the war once ended, commerce, as we now understand the word, comes to an end, and the mountains of wares which are either useless in themselves or only useful to slaves and slave-owners are no longer made, and once again art will be used to determine what things are useful and what useless to be made; since nothing should be made which does not give pleasure to the maker and the user, and that pleasure of making must produce art in the hands of the workman. So will art be used to discriminate between the waste and the usefulness of labour; whereas at present the waste of labour is, as I have said above, a matter never considered at all; so long as a man toils he is supposed to be useful, no matter what he toils at.
I tell you the very essence of competitive commerce is waste; the waste that comes of the anarchy of war. Do not be deceived by the outside appearance of order in our plutocratic society. It fares with it as it does with the older forms of war, that there is an outside look of quiet wonderful order about it; how neat and comforting the steady march of the regiment; how quiet and respectable the sergeants look; how clean the polished cannon; neat as a new pin are the storehouses of murder; the books of adjutant and sergeant as innocent-looking as may be; nay, the very orders for destruction and plunder are given with a quiet precision which seems the very token of a good conscience; this is the mask that lies before the ruined cornfield and the burning cottage, the mangled bodies, the untimely death of worthy men, the desolated home. All this, the results of the order and sobriety which is the face which civilized soldiering turns towards us stay-at-homes, we have been told often and eloquently enough to consider; often enough we have been shown the wrong side of the glories of war, nor can we be shown it too often or too eloquently. Yet I say even such a mask is worn by competitive commerce, with its respectable prim order, its talk of peace and the blessings of intercommunication of countries and the like; and all the while its whole energy, its whole organized precision is employed in one thing, the wrenching the means of living from others; while outside that everything must do as it may, whoever is the worse or the better for it; as in the war of fire and steel, all other aims must be crushed out before that one object. It is worse than the older war in one respect at least, that whereas that was intermittent, this is continuous and unresting, and its leaders and captains are never tired of declaring that it must last as long as the world, and is the end-all and be-all of the creation of man of his home. Of such the words are said:
For them alone do seethe
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark;
Half ignorant they turn an easy wheel
That sets sharp racks at work to pinch and peel.
What can overthrow this terrible organization so strong in itself, so rooted in the self-interest, stupidity, and cowardice of strenuous narrow-minded men; so strong in itself and so much fortified against attack by the surrounding anarchy which it has bred? Nothing but discontent with that anarchy, and an order which in its turn will arise from it, nay, is arising from it; an order once a part of the internal organization of that which it is doomed to destroy. For the fuller development of industrialism from the ancient crafts through the workshop-system into the system of the factory and machine, while it has taken from the workmen all pleasure in their labour, or hope of distinction and excellence in it, has welded them into a great class, and has by its very oppression and compulsion of the monotony of life driven them into feeling the solidarity of their interests and the antagonism of those interests to those of the capitalist class; they are all through civilization feeling the necessity of their rising as a class. As I have said, it is impossible for them to coalesce with the middle classes to produce the universal reign of moderate bourgeois society which some have dreamed of; because however many of them may rise out of their class, these become at once part of the middle class, owners of capital, even though it be in a small way, and exploiters of labour; and there is still left behind a lower class which in its own turn drags down to it the unsuccessful in the struggle; a process which is being accelerated in these latter days by the rapid growth of the great factories and stores, which are extinguishing the remains of the small workshops served by men who may hope to become small masters, and also the smaller of the tradesman class. Thus then, feeling that it is impossible for them to rise as a class, while competition naturally, and as a necessity for its existence, keeps them down, they have begun to look to association as their natural tendency, just as competition is looked to by the capitalists; in them the hope has arisen, if nowhere else, of finally making an end of class degradation.
It is in the belief that this hope is spreading to the middle classes that I stand before you now, pleading for its acceptance by you, in the certainty that in its fulfilment alone lies the other hope for the new birth of Art and the attainment by the middle classes of true refinement, the lack of which at present is so grievously betokened by the sordidness and baseness of all the external surroundings of our lives, even those of us who are rich. I know there are some to whom this possibility of the getting rid of class degradation may come, not as a hope, but as a fear. These may comfort themselves by thinking that this Socialist matter is a hollow scare, in England at least; that the proletariat have no hope, and therefore will lie quiet in this country, where the rapid and nearly complete development of commercialism has crushed the power of combination out of the lower classes; where the very combinations, the Trades Unions, founded for the advancement of the working class as a class, have already become conservative and obstructive bodies, wielded by the middle-class politicians for party purposes; where the proportion of the town and manufacturing districts to the country is so great that the inhabitants, no longer recruited by the peasantry but become townsmen bred of townsmen, are yearly deteriorating in physique; where lastly education is so backward.
It may be that in England the mass of the working classes has no hope; that it will not be hard to keep them down for a while, possibly a long while. The hope that this may be so I will say plainly is a dastard’s hope, for it is founded on the chance of their degradation. I say such an expectation is that of slave-holders or the hangers-on of slave-holders. I believe, however, that hope is growing among the working classes even in England; at any rate you may be sure of one thing, that there is at least discontent. Can any of us doubt that, since there is unjust suffering? Or which of us would be contented with ten shillings a week to keep our households with, or to dwell in unutterable filth and have to pay the price of good lodging for it? Do you doubt that if we had any time for it amidst our struggle to live we should look into the title of those who kept us there, themselves rich and comfortable, under the pretext that it was necessary to society? I tell you there is plenty of discontent, and I call on all those who think there is something better than making money for the sake of making it to help in educating that discontent into hope, that is into the demand for the new birth of society; and I do this not because I am afraid of it, but because I myself am discontented and long for justice.
Yet, if any of you are afraid of the discontent which is abroad, in its present shape, I cannot say that you have no reason to be. I am representing reconstructive Socialism before you; but there are other people who call themselves Socialists whose aim in not reconstruction, but destruction; people who think that the present state of things is horrible and unbearable (as in very truth it is), and that there is nothing for it but to shake society by constant blows given at any sacrifice, so that it may at last totter and fall. May it not be worth while, think you, to combat such a doctrine by supplying discontent with hope of change that involves reconstruction? Meanwhile, be sure that, though the day of change may be long delayed, it will come at last. The middle classes will one day become conscious of the discontent of the proletariat; before that some will have renounced their class and cast in their lot with the working men, influenced by love of justice or insight into facts. For the rest, they will, when their conscience is awakened, have two choices before them; they must either cast aside their morality, of which though three parts are cant, the other is sincere, or they must give way. In either case I do believe that the change will come, and that nothing will seriously retard that new birth; yet I well know that the middle class may do much to give a peaceable or a violent character to the education of discontent which must precede it. Hinder it, and who knows what violence you may be driven into, even to the renunciation of the morality of which we middle-class men are so proud; advance it, strive single-heartedly that truth may prevail, and what need you fear? At any rate not your own violence, not your own tyranny?
Again I say things have gone too far, and the pretence at least of a love of justice is too common among us, for the middle classes to attempt to keep the proletariat in its condition of slavery to capital, as soon as they stir seriously in the matter, except at the cost of complete degradation to themselves, the middle class, whatever else may happen. I cannot help hoping that there are some here who are already in dread of the shadow of that degradation of consciously sustaining an injustice, and are eager to escape from that half-ignorant tyranny of which Keats tells, and which is, sooth to say, the common condition of rich people. To those I have a last word or two to say in begging them to renounce their class pretensions and cast in their lot with the working men. It may be that some of them are kept from actively furthering the cause which they believe in by that dread of organization, by that unpracticality in a word, which, as it is very common in England generally, is more common among highly cultivated people, and, if you will forgive the word, most common in our ancient universities. Since I am a member of a Socialist propaganda I earnestly beg those of you who agree with me to help us actively, with your time and your talents if you can, but if not, at least with your money, as you can. Do not hold aloof from us, since you agree with us, because we have not attained that delicacy of manners, that refinement of language, nay, even that prudent and careful wisdom of action which the long oppression of competitive commerce has crushed out of us.
Art is long and life is short; let us at least do something before we die. We seek perfection, but can find no perfect means to bring it about; let it be enough for us if we can unite with those whose aims are right, and their means honest and feasible. I tell you if we wait for perfection in association in these days of combat we shall die before we can do anything. Help us now, you whom the fortune of your birth has helped to make wise and refined; and as you help us in our work-a-day business toward the success of the cause, instil into us your superior wisdom, your superior refinement, and you in your turn may be helped by the courage and hope of those who are not so completely wise and refined. Remember we have but one weapon against that terrible organization of selfishness which we attack, and that weapon is Union. Yes, and it should be obvious union, which we can be conscious of as we mix with others who are hostile or indifferent to the cause; organized brotherhood is that which must break the spell of anarchical Plutocracy. One man with an idea in his head is in danger of being considered a madman; two men with the same idea in common may be foolish, but can hardly be mad; ten men sharing an idea begin to act, a hundred draw attention as fanatics, a thousand and society begins to tremble, a hundred thousand and there is war abroad, and the cause has victories tangible and real; and why only a hundred thousand? You and I who agree together, it is we who have to answer that question.
This past Friday I finally, after having it on my to-do list for about two years, paid my first visit to the International Center for Anarchy Research (CIRA) in Lausanne. I had a nasty head cold, but went anyway, because I’m dedicated. I had tried to go this past summer with Mas, and as we have a healthy sense of adventure and zero good sense we decided to bike there. It takes five hours to get to Lausanne from Geneva. I advise against doing it on a flea market bike. (Actually, that was the second time I’ve ridden to Lausanne on a crap bike. Like I said, zero good sense.) We finally arrived, sweaty and exhausted and, in Mas’s case, bleeding from both knees, and I looked up CIRA’s hours to see if we could already head over for a visit before closing time. Their website said: closed for summer vacation. We spent the weekend drinking beer instead. (And took the train back.)
So Friday was a second chance. I was already in Lausanne to have lunch with a very pregnant friend, most likely our last catch-up session before her family becomes +1, and since she had to head back home at 5 I decided to blow my nose and make my way over to CIRA since I’m not often in the neighborhood. So, Patti, this post is for you since you wondered what an anarchist library looks like.
Hint: it does not look like this:
Two magnificent trees greet you at the entrance gate — I saw them from afar and knew immediately it had to be the spot — forming a natural gate in front of the beautiful old house. The library houses books of all sorts in many different languages, and archive files are stacked floor to ceiling, wall to wall. It was amazing, and made my cold almost disappear for two hours due to sheer nerd adrenaline. The librarian asked if I needed help and I said YES and she asked what I was looking for. Everything. I threw out a couple keywords, she showed me how to use the computer catalog, and I was on my way.
The best part was their book borrowing procedure. Which was: fill out this paper with your name and address and you can take our books for a month. I asked the lady how many I could take out at a time and she paused before saying “well, I’d set the limit at four…” No government-issued photo ID required, of course. The library user fee is 40 Swiss frs a year, well worth it because I already can’t wait to go back, having had a hell of a time narrowing my selection down to four. On that, here is your library book fix for the day:
I’m reading the William Morris to start with, and because I love him, and you, I’ll end here with a passage from “The Lesser Arts“:
… there are some of us who cannot turn our faces to the wall, or sit deedless because our hope seems somewhat dim; and, indeed, I think that while the signs of the last decay of the old art with all the evils that must follow in its train are only too obvious about us, so on the other hand there are not wanting signs of the new dawn beyond that possible night of the arts, of which I have before spoken; this sign chiefly, that there are some few at least, who are heartily discontented with things as they are, and crave for something better, or at least some promise of it — this best of signs: for I suppose that if some half-dozen men at any time earnestly set their hearts on something coming about which is not discordant with nature, it will come to pass one day or other: because it is not by accident that an idea comes into the heads of a few: rather they are pushed on, and forced to speak or act by something stirring in the heart of the world which would otherwise be left without expression.
Happy Monday Comrades.
I had a happy surprise when I woke up this morning:
This is my sourdough starter. It was born in July 2013 and until mid September or so I was using it pretty regularly. A sourdough starter comes to life from a symbiosis between wild yeast and bacteria present in the flour and the environment of the kitchen. To make a starter is to work collectively with many different organisms. Compared to commercial yeast, a sourdough starter has advantages as to taste and nutrition, and to bring out these qualities we are obliged to change our relationship with how we plan our baking, to rethink the whole idea of waiting and our expectations of regular outcomes (at least while we’re in the early learning stages of baking with it). These are living things we’re working with, so we can’t really dictate the growth of the culture. We can only create a favorable and healthy environment for our microscopic colleagues.
In September I participated in a large local art event. My contribution was a daylong workshop on baking sourdough bread, and so of course in the run-up to the big day I was baking a lot. To be honest I was pretty sick of dealing with yeast and bacteria and flour, and so after my little intervention was over I fed the starter one more time and stuck it in the fridge to hibernate. If you keep your sourdough starter out on the counter like I had been doing, you either need to use it to make bread every day or else toss out part of it and feed the remainder with flour and water to keep it alive. If you don’t plan on baking more than once a week, you can keep the starter in the refrigerator and take it out for weekly feedings.
Thus my starter was relegated to the cold, and I proceeded to starve it for the next month. Every time I opened the fridge to get something, I would see the sad little mason jar sitting there on the middle shelf and think, I really should feed that thing today, but I didn’t until yesterday when my guilt got the best of me. It still smelled yeasty but its once lively bubbles had disappeared. I was pretty sure I’d killed it, but even so I threw away about three-quarters, added flour and water to what remained, and left it on the kitchen table. This morning when I woke up, it was there to greet me, still alive. All praise nature’s resilience!
Now the starter has been mixed with more flour and water and left to ferment on the counter top, forming the sponge that will later become a dough, that will later become (I hope) delicious bread. Time will tell. I’m still very much a novice in all of this, so some of the bread I’ve made has been a bit sketchy, but failure and experimentation are a necessary part of learning.
Using the verb “play” in its broadest definition: I play the ukulele. I’ve been playing for more than a year, very off and on, with the goal of some day realizing in all its glory a project called “Naked Ukulele,” a mobile karaoke unit of ukuleles, harmonicas, melodicas, pots and pans, and cue cards bearing the words to popular hits. (“Naked” meaning bare, honest, unplugged, not as in actual nudity.) Valerio taught me my first three chords one evening in the summer of 2012, gave me his trusty ukulele Giacomino for keeps, and sent me on my way. We’ve busked twice in Geneva at music festivals (for beer, not money) —
(Valerio & Mas)
— but thus far we’ve been severely limited by my lack of repertoire. Valerio can play just about anything, and I can play three songs: the “CCC song” (which we co-wrote), “Bienvenida a Tijuana” by Manu Chao, and “Fuck You” by Cee Lo Green (which I learned for my mom since it’s her favorite song — really). I can also hack my way through a 12-bar blues. This makes for a very redundant play list. Side note, I had a nightmare the other night that I was asked to give a ukulele workshop to primary school students and realized at the last minute that I didn’t actually know how to play well, nor how to play anything remotely interesting or appropriate for seven-year-olds. The dream narrative ended with me constructing a lesson plan involving teaching the children how to make ukuleles out of paper, scotch tape, and yarn. Which is actually not all that bad of an idea…
Why am I talking about this? Because the research for my master’s revolved around the idea of making myself more “useful.” This all started out with the idea of imagining myself in another context, one of survival and of rebuilding community. I studied homesteading videos and website forums filled with people who prepare for the apocalypse, surveyed my friends about their own skills, and came up with a list for myself of the things I felt capable of and interested in learning. One of the things I began learning was how to make music. I couldn’t quite pin down why this fit with the rest of my research, which leaned heavily toward more traditional sorts of homesteading and survival skills (bread baking, tree house construction). For me, there was a connection that could be felt but not really explained other than the fact that we would need homemade music since the apocalypse would wipe out everyone’s iTunes libraries.
Then a few weeks before I handed in my thesis, I had an enlightening conversation with a guy who is deep into survivalism — someone whose life in large part revolves around preparing for the apocalypse. We were debating the sorts of skills one would need for the fall of civilization, as his vision was heavily militarized and mine was more hippie commune. He agreed that community was important — we can’t survive on our own — but stressed that it was above all crucial to choose one’s community with care. “Above all, no intellectuals, government workers, or academics. They’re not good for anything.”
He saw my ukulele sitting on the couch. “Is this yours?” he asked. I said yes, and he picked it up and began picking at the strings. “It’s good you have this. You’ll get accepted into any survivalist community you want if you play music.”
“We need music to get through all the shit.”
A-ha! Here was a true survivalist telling me that my intuition had been correct all along. Music helps us survive.
Finding out that I’d been right didn’t making learning any easier, unfortunately. I find string instruments intimidating, causing my fingers to become clumsy and seemingly balloon in size upon contact with the strings. The ukulele is less intimidating, because it’s easy to learn a few chords fairly quickly that allow you to play a good deal. (That of course hasn’t stopped me from not learning how to play a good deal.) Here are three to get you started:
(You can now play the CCC song.)
I haven’t touched my ukulele in weeks but was moved to pick it up today because the skies are gray and it’s pouring down rain and I’d already had enough coffee and so needed something else to wake me up. As I’m wont to do, I’ve decided to try to learn something far beyond my current abilities:
I’m having a hell of a time finding the uke tabs online but I’m getting a handle on the picking that you hear from the lead player. A few more idle afternoons and I might be able to get close to something recognizable.
(Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s cabin at Ermenonville Park)
The following is my translation of chapter four, “La Vision Romantique,” in Gilles Clément’s Une brève Histoire du Jardin (A Brief History of the Garden). The book is as a whole interesting and helpful for my research, giving a (brief) history of man’s relationship to plant cultivation, both ornamental and for eating, but I think I liked this chapter the most because it deals with a period in history that profoundly impacted the way we see nature and culture, domesticated and wild, ideas of polarities that I’m studying with my research group at Utopiana. Also because in general I’m trying to better determine where I stand with the whole GMO thing. Some anti-GMO activists freak out at any sort of manipulation of plant breeding, grafting tomatoes and potatoes for example, despite the fact that the whole of agriculture since its very beginnings is about that, picking and choosing and mixing plants to best suit our needs and tastes. Grafting is different from manipulating plants at the gene level, of course, but most of the plants we eat cannot really be called “natural” (what does that mean anyway?) because they’ve been bred for generations upon generations to the point that they would have a hard time surviving without human intervention. (Wild wheat, for example, falls to the ground when it’s mature, dropping its seeds, which allows it to propagate on its own. Domestic wheat has been bred to not do this, making it easy for us to collect the grains to grind into flour.)
Anyway that’s a discussion for another time (especially re: wheat — Mas and I have a project revolving around just that). For now here’s Clément’s chapter on how we see the architecture of the “wild.”
“He who is truly free has no need for another’s arms to make his will.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s words are carved into his cabin in the “desert,” a large, wild, light-filled section of Ermenonville Park. For me it’s the least desert-like, the freest in fact.
Rousseau didn’t deny his admiration of this wooded landscape above a lake, where water birds and the occasional fisherman came. He was not a romantic subjected to a dramatized aesthetic of nature. He proposed autonomy. He was a revolutionary.
Rousseau arrived at the lands of the Marquis de Girardin in June 1778: “For a long while my heart called to me to come here, and my eyes beg me to stay forever.” He died there six weeks later. Six weeks to marvel at patterns of shadow and light, a diversity of landscapes covered by forests, hills, and lakes, a place dedicated to the spirit, hovering over it a temple of philosophy. Six weeks to grasp perfectly the landscape, enough to balance the human animal. A balance of the soul. Ermenonville’s park is not a land for production. It’s an ecosystem of calm.
Can we draw lessons of freedom from this?
The Revolution erupted three years later. The tomb of the philosopher took its place at the center of the Ile des Peupliers, becoming a cenotaph in 1794, when his remains were transferred to the Pantheon. Among the many visitors to Ermenonville, a young Bonaparte declared: “It would have been better for the tranquility of France had this man never existed.”
“And why is that, citizen consul?” Girardin asked.
“He paved the way for the French Revolution.”
“It seems to me, citizen consul, that you are not one to complain of the Revolution.”
“Well! The future will show that nothing would have been better for the tranquility of the earth than had neither Rousseau nor I ever existed.”
The napoleons of History loathe freedom; the mottoes of the Republic are inconvenient for them. At least this one expressed it in so many words. Rousseau the revolutionary contributed to the change of perception of the universe as seen by man, his landscape, that which today we call with a bit of distance and worry “the environment.” But the suitable environment in which, unconsciously, he chose to finish his days was an artifact, a garden.
When Louis XIV decided to transform the hunter’s inn of Versailles into his royal palace, he called on Andre Le Notre [a landscape architect], who knew how to make good use of water. From the marsh he made a canal, a masterwork of architecture (1685). From the marsh of Ermenonville Girardin created a lake, an “element of nature” where the water played not only the role of mirror, but also welcomed fauna and flora, putting life before form (1763).
Nearly a century separates these swamp games. Two landscapes, two visions of the world. Here we master nature, there we accommodate it. It’s not yet a question of leaving it alone. Ermenonville, like other large gardens of the period, magnified and dramatized nature’s elements, but did not yet seize it in all its complexity. Nothing else allowed gardeners of the end of the 18th century to better measure the fragility of the relationships between living things. It is here, in this time supposedly fated to the orthodox romanticism of the epoch, that the foundation was built for what would be born much later in the form of a science, then a dream, and then a politics: Ecology.
In the meantime, Ermenonville was a canvas. Today someone asked me my opinion of the garden. Should we fill it with a program of “activities,” present a well-moderated pedagogy, offer it up to interpretation by contemporary artists, paint it fluorescent green for “durability,” or simply regard it with sympathy, examining the poetry of the space? Girardin, author of Methods for the Beautification of Nature with Dwellings, does not limit “beautification” to embellishments around the castle, but also invites the spirit to encounters with words carved everywhere on garden ornaments and rotundas throughout the park. The Age of Enlightenment and the emerging Revolution find themselves assembled in the curious Temple of Philosophy, intentionally left unfinished to represent the imperfection of human knowledge. Dedicated to Montaigne, “who said everything,” it is held up by six Tuscan-style columns, each in memory of an important man “who was useful to his contemporaries through his writings or discoveries.” Newton, Descartes, Voltaire, Penn, Montesquieu, Rousseau… Entablatures and column fragments lie on the ground, waiting to be raised, waiting for the geniuses to come…
(Temple of Philosophy, Ermenonville)
“It’s quite easier to obtain a seat at the Academy than to merit a column at Ermenonville.” (JB de la Borde, Promenade dans les jardins d’Ermenonville, 1788.) Franklin is to be expected, but is not there; I could also see Lamarck or Laborit.
Ermenonville appeared as the first French garden to break with the classic order and take inspiration from the English model. The interest arose for the creation of a “nature garden,” with the Encyclopedists, according to Ernest de Ganay, “encouraging this perversion of taste.”
It’s a matter of art, not nature. John Dixon Hunt called this art the “Third Nature,” consisting in mixing wilderness, or “first nature,” according to Ciceron, with architecture and artifice. Second nature doesn’t figure into the art of the garden in the 18th century: it is concerned with agricultural land and finds its origin in a utilitarian domestication of nature. We could apply this term to vegetable and herb gardens and orchards that accompany the park and the ornamental garden.
If it’s no longer a question today of ordering the elements of nature according to a degree of human artifice, it’s because the word nature itself is being called into question. First, second, and third nature mean nothing anymore; there is Nature, a living ensemble that includes without distinction humanity, plants, and animals, and also rocks, winds, water, the ordinary mechanisms of the planet, considered itself a living thing. There is a planetary ecosystem within which Man gardens more or less skillfully. Isabelle Stengers attributes the creation of the word nature to the ancient Greeks, who wanted to take back the complex environment from gods and superstitions in order to approach it with scientific objectivity. From an intimate being with nature, where the word designating the living exterior of humanity had no need to exist, we moved into a place of distancing where the enlightened human, all-powerful and all-knowing, pronounced the components of nature, tidied them and organized them into families, used them according to his will, transformed them, and overpowered them. Humanity became master of the elements, of energies, and of the living… Or at least it thought so. With the beginning of the 20th century, ecology — considered to be an advent in the history of man’s relationship with his environment, but also in the history of thought — disrupted these beliefs. Humanity was no longer above or at the center of a system it dominated, but rather in a state of immersion with it. Humanity cannot remove itself.
Girardin created Ermenonville inspired by the gardens already established in England, notably the poetic Leasowes, near Birmingham. Ermenonville and all parks of the same inspiration — Retz, Mereville, Jeurre — speak to the “feeling person,” the dreamer. What is the feeling person, if not he who intimately perceives the signs coming from another, or from an environment with which, unconsciously, he identifies?
At this time the dream included the beyond, it fed on exoticism. Plants from far-away lands were acclimated, we created borrowed landscapes, chinoiserie invaded the parks, standing alongside romantic ruins and garden ornaments. Artists exercised their architectural talent with a pyramid-shaped ice house (Retz), the grace of a bridge, the realism of a cave (Méréville, Blanquefort, the Chaumont Buttes), where the course of a stream was animated by waterfalls and “natural” elements. These landscapes called the attention of princes who were weary of the classic order. Near Versaille, the Désert de Retz, held in esteem by the people of the court, saw an important success during the decade preceding the Revolution. Queen Marie-Antoinette was fond of it; in 1789, it was a fashionable place to go for a stroll. Not far from Etampes, at Méréville, they deviated the Juine River to redirect the water and create ponds. Hubert Robert executed the project of the Marquis Jean-Joseph de Laborde, insisting on a gentle framing of riverbanks (1786). The art of the garden, entrusted to architect-gardeners, was handed over to artist-gardeners. The picturesque garden owes everything to the image of paintings. At Sheffield, in Kent, an oval opening in a cave allows one to view a landscape worked “as though by a painter” floating above the lake. The point of view and above all the framing replaces perspective. While the point of view is discovered during the course of a walk, perspective imposes the axis of vision. Contrary to perspective, point of view does not search out the horizon — it excavates the landscape and sometimes, through the logic of reliefs, turns in on itself. Méréville is an example of a closed world, idealized, a clearing offered up to dreams, perfectly disconnected from the windy plateaus of Beauce where already, since the time of Laborde, wheat is cultivated.
“At Méréville, the garden falls silent and poetry is made of light…” writes Monique Moser, an elegant way to describe the abandon in which the park found itself at the beginning of the 19th century. This tangle of nature and ruins suits the spirit of place and project, in a state of climax that Hubert Robert himself no doubt did not expect, “because if the age of man seems to have come to a halt with the abandoned park, nature is more than ever at work.” Méréville, in the state in which [photographer] Jacqueline Salmon found it, shows how abandon speeds architecture towards ruins and disappearance, while giving ever more value to nature and its evolution.
At Méréville, the Juine River and the weather organized the space and prepared the garden: boring into limestone, erosion, sedimentation, meanderings in a flat, clear varenne surrounded by hills; everything was there, including the rocky slopes where one could imagine shelters and caves. It was such that the construction of a natural and happy enclosure depended much more on the artistic genius of scenography that on technological performances glorified by the previous epoch. Marly’s machine, the draining systems of Saclay that carried water to Versailles: Water engineers invented games and gadgets in impressive numbers, to the point that they attracted the attention of Chinese princes who coveted this knowledge. The “European Gardens” of the New Summer Palace at Peking were achieved with the counsel of Jesuit experts summoned by Emperor Qianlong around 1750, where the essential showpiece was water that moves upward (jets) and not downward (rivers). The art of Méréville comes from a strategy of enchantment by a “natural diversion” of the components of the site and not by an enthusiastic, hauled-in construction to prove human genius. It is likely that Jean-Joseph de Laborde, assisted by Bélanger, the architect in charge of the park, were inspired by William Chambers, whose writings, publishing in 1772 in London and Paris, developed the principles of Chinese garden composition according to a relationship with the seasons and a borrowing of the landscape rather than a geometry of space.
Thus in the space of a few years, European princes grew interested in the Orient to the point of bringing about an “Anglo-Chinese” style, while only a single prince of the Orient, fascinated by the magic of technology, fell for the West… We know to what extent this whim caused him to be reproached and how, a century later, the Europeans themselves — the barbarians of the West — would come to destroy the imperial refuge, European gardens included. [Note from Kate: in 1860 the French-English army destroyed the Summer Palace during the Opium Wars.]
Méréville did not escape the influence of the Chinese imaginary in Europe. But beyond these examples, what is important to grasp, according to Monique Moser, are the “incessant and imperceptible transformations” of the landscape, its mixed undulations where the movement of water, the reliefs and lights, created a power whose role and importance were described by Girardin. It all led to “a grand mobile painting, transforming itself thanks to the movements of the clouds, to the passing of time, and to the rhythms of the season.”
We no longer have an accurate picture of the landscape of Méréville, the achievement of the gardens by the Marquis de Laborde, as the garden ornaments have all been transported to the Jeurre Park, near Etampes. The Temple de la Piété Filiale [filial devotion] and Cook’s tomb no longer mark the landscape with their composed, finely stitched architecture. Only their foundations and the vestiges of the bridges, walkways, mills, and dairies remain… At this point of abandonment, the garden visitor can see the importance of the backdrop upon which the will of the pen was let loose. If architecture alone carries the message, the message is in peril. That which delivers the core does not leave without feeling, because it’s not about a blank page where all words have been erased, but an ensemble which is profoundly and inseparably marked by nature and spirit.
In the abundance of nature, this ensemble loses its readability in summertime, but certain traces remain untouched — the parts least exposed, the covered passages, spaces of shadow, the richness of the soil. It’s surprising but also revealing that a photographic work such as that by Jacqueline Salmon, dedicated to the surface of the soil — the garden — opens with three blank pages on the subject of what’s below: the covered path at the Pont des Ruines, the Grotte de la Laiterie, the interior of the Grand Rocher, each discretely captioned, as though an interior shock prevails at Méréville over all vision of the outside.
Sharing a film here done by the art-activism collective Laboratory for Insurrectionary Imagination, a project of Isa Fremeaux and John Jordan. I did a weeklong cartography workshop with them last week that was occasionally surreal, hippie-fying, a profound learning experience, and the start of a beautiful continuation of collaboration with the other people in the group. Isa and John are lovely human beings. I’d like to go crash their farm-laboratory in Bretagne … and possibly never leave …………….
For non-French speakers, some of this is in English, as well as French and Spanish, but even if you can’t understand the words you can understand the images. Description of the film can be found here.
And here’s the film:
(what we planted from late June to late July — the garden groundbreaking was in early June so our planting season was short — in our parcel of 15 sq m)
Some things went well, some things not so well. The squash went really well, to the detriment of some of the other plants. Mas (with whom I share the parcel) and I tried to contain the squash’s doctrine of manifest destiny, but it is not a diplomatic plant, and so it eventually engulfed and suffocated some of the other plants (ô radishes…). It even sent its tentacles skyward to grasp onto the low-hanging branches of a nearby apple tree, and then sprouted pumpkins, thus creating what looked like a freak apple-squash tree hybrid gone terribly wonderful.
To be fair, this was a garden planted by two gardeners who read a lot of critical theory that uses plant metaphors and then think that this translates into understanding how to grow plants. We have common sense and gardening experience in our backgrounds, but not the level of knowledge that comes from decades upon decades of trial and error season-in, season-out. When it came to our neighbors in the community garden, we secretly thought that anyone who had never read A Thousand Plateaus was certainly on the path to failure. We then watched and were humbled as other people carried home their diverse and beautiful bounties, and we had squash for dinner yet again.
[I’m kidding: a) we’re not judgemental jerks, and b) our thumbs are pretty green actually, if I can say that. Also, I’ve only read the rhizome chapter.]
But the squash invasion was a learning experience that led us to look for solutions, such as the following:
(He gets to the squash at about minute 6.)
This is probably the biggest lesson I’ve learned so far this year about growing food in small spaces: go vertical. I’m not used to small spaces, as all my previous gardening has been with my mother, who has an entire suburban backyard and front yard at her disposal. She’s able to grow enormous amounts of fruit and vegetables, enough to last the household through the winter even, but has never had to reckon with how to squeeze everything into 15 square meters like we’re doing now.
The green beans have flourished as well, growing several meters in height and producing enough green beans that we eventually also became tired of green beans for dinner. We also had some good results from the kohlrabi (which I’d never eaten before, it’s good) and a mystery flower that Mas planted which grew into an enormous bush of fuzzy leaves and orange flowers, attracting bees and other pollinators. The lettuce also grew well, but the rest of our crop had either poor-to-mediocre production (fava beans, radishes), or was hit with disaster (tomato blight, moldy basil, spider-infested edamame).
Geneva is in hardiness zone 7 so we still have a good bit of growing season left. A few weeks ago we planted beets and spinach, and the cauliflower and collard greens that we planted already are just now starting to flourish so with any luck I’ll have some additional successes to report in Part II (circa mid November).