faire une pipe

A while ago I received a message from the Chair of our department with the title “your webpage.” (See infra for the full text.)

What’s wrong with my webpage <zouhairghazzal.com>?

Loyola had at the time accepted that my webpage be directly linked to the departmental webpage, that is, my name links me directly to my personal page which carries my own domain-name, hence contrary to what the Chair’s email falsely claims, this is not “your LUC webpage”: I’ve designed it myself over 10 years ago, and it does not sit on the Loyola servers in Chicago. In fact, it is hosted by the Yahoo Small Business unit.

When I did the initial design once I moved to Rome for a year in 2001–02, the year the Manhattan Twin Towers went down, Loyola did at the time host my webpage, and I used to update it regularly, that is, until 2006–07 when updating became a real annoyance: every once and a while the page was “locked” under an administrator’s name, and it had to be “unlocked” simply to add a photo or a text. When I thought that enough is enough (I disliked also that the “address” was too long, ugly, and could not be easily memorized), I created the above domain-name and moved everything to the new website.

The point here is that Loyola has nothing whatsoever to do with this personal webpage of mine. So why was the Chair frustrated? Because “someone” from the “Loyola community” got “offended” that on my Flickr portfolio <http://www.flickr.com/photos/zghazzal/> there is (female) nudity. Actually, to be specific, the message below did not specify what the “problem” really was with the “four images” “in the vicinity” of the link below—nudity (male or female) or otherwise. One has to go to the link to see what the “problem” might be: nudity, indecency, sexual intercourse, penetration (or lack thereof), blow-jobs, and so on. The fact that the “problem” is unnamed but only alluded to is a fundamental aspect of the accusation by this or those anonymous person or persons from the so-called “Loyola community.” Forget about freedom of speech, the first amendment, and academic freedom, you only feel within a “community” once you’re accused of a felony or crime. We’ve known for some time that institutions of higher learning in the United States are Foucauldian in their essence, with a high degree of scrutinization, and with a lot of empty homogeneous time and resources at their disposal. Thus the dumb hypocritical bureaucracy must be running mad in its paper work, servers, viruses and malware, and paranoia, fearing that it would lose its grip on its “audience,” “community,” and “Jesuit education.”

Notice here that my Flickr account is unrelated to Loyola, and that on my webpage there is a link to Flickr only under “photography”; to repeat, both webpages are not hosted by Loyola, but by Yahoo.

“The ones who have generated complaints,” as the text below says, did not generate their complaints to me personally—say, be email—but to the Chair. Not only such decent people prefer to remain unnamed and anonymous, but their complaints only point to an image, which we’ll have to assume “contains” something “indecent” into it, to the point that it must be permanently “deleted,” as the text urges me to do, so that the unnamed “problem” would not reach the ears of the higher officials at Loyola.

The image to which the link below refers to is composed of frames within frames, which are framed with a single “final” frame—that of my camera’s viewfinder. There is the frame of a cheap reproduction of a painting by the Belgian René Magritte. The painting is quite well known and world famous, “Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” This is not a pipe, to which Michel Foucault had devoted a small penetrating book on the ambiguities of language. The painting is indeed a meditation on language: “this is not a pipe” is technically correct because what we see is a painting that represents a pipe, hence as a representation of a pipe “is” not a pipe—per se. The being-of-a-pipe should be taken strongly as one of existence-of-a-thing, its being what it is. But then we know damn well that this is a pipe in the sense that the representation of the pipe still makes it a pipe, that we can all acknowledge it as such without problem. Notice, however, how in the title, “this is not a pipe,” the “not” negates the “is,” as if in an act of defiance to the very existence of the object—and to being and time in general. Moreover, it is the very juxtaposition of the representation-as-image with language which, in the final instance, negates the existence of the represented object, leaving it to an object-of-representation that marks the sublime beauty of this unique work of art of the twentieth century.

Magritte seems to have been under the influence of the Swiss linguist Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913) whose view of language operated under the separation of the signifier from the signified. If the signifier is the “sign”—the linguistic word—which designates a “content,” the signified object, then the relation between signifier and signified remains problematic. For example, if I say “tree”—acting as signifier—the signified in this instance is nothing else but the “image” of a “tree” that I have in mind at the moment—not the “real tree.” I can, of course, designate a “real tree” out there to show to my hearer what a “tree” “is.” But the way we generally (unconsciously) use language is through abstract associations and representations. Every word “makes sense” not by designating a concrete object, but by “defining” it through other words and designated objects. Which renders any “tight association” between signifier and signified a bit problematic, to say the least.

This is precisely what, for example, American abstractionism of the first few decades of the twentieth century has perfectly seized. Artists like Marc Rothco and Jackson Pollock have seized the moment of the “separation” of signified and signifier to declare the non-necessity of figurative art, an art that paints something that is out there, and hence transforms it into a mere object of representation. Abstractionist paintings do not “represent” anything in particular anymore. The representation, if any, must be thought of abstractly or conceptually.

That’s—briefly—regarding the first “frame” in my photograph. The second “frame” consists of a still from a film running on a TV-monitor, presumably from a DVD machine, and what we see—at face value—is a woman giving a blow-job to a man. We only see the face of the woman but not that of the man, whose only erect penis is within the frame. What’s interesting here is that the wo(man) is gazing at the man’s invisible gaze, which, being excluded from the frame we can only imagine—the spectator filling the gap.

The film clip is from a short by Argentinian director Gaspar Noé who became well known with Irréversible. It is its “juxtaposition” with Magritte’s painting that gives it resonance. The frames within frames. Magritte’s painting is only a cheap reproduction of the original, covered in glass with a black frame. Nöé’s film clip by contrast is framed within a monitor, and the two frames have been framed through a camera’s viewfinder and presented as such to the spectator.

Does the title-caption give any clues? The French “faire un pipe,” to do a pipe, simply means in common jargon “blow-job” (léchouille). I leave it to your imagination to decide.

Zouhair:

It has been brought to my attention that some of the images connected to your LUC webpage are objectionable to some in the university community.  Would it be possible for you to remove them?

The relevant images are on page 5-6 of the Flickr page.  There may be others, but those are the ones that have generated complaints to me.  The four images in the vicinity of the link below are most relevant.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/zghazzal/5659574189/in/photostream

If the photos are not removed and complaints are made to higher officials in the university, your page may be removed from the university site.

Thanks.

Tim

Timothy J. Gilfoyle

Professor and Chair of History, Loyola University Chicago

Associate Editor, Journal of Urban History

tgilfoy@luc.edu

femmes

Beirut, the week before the new year

I did not write in the first place. I was not (into) writing at all. I could not do it, nor commit to it. I was not reading much either. Not until I went to college, and it was that complete fiasco of entering into college as a bio-chemistry (premed) major that forced me into excessive reading, then, much later, into wanting to be a writer. The disconnection with society and the world-at-large could not be anymore concealed. Rather it is, indeed, the sine qua non of my shattered existence, or of my parlêtre, as Lacan would say, meaning that being-into-language. What I like about Lacan is that he does not conceive language as a “tool” for “communication,” but as an entity inscribed within the body, without which the body would be shapeless and motionless. That it hasn’t been revealed earlier, in my teens, is a constant source of regret. Was I too docile back then, wearing a mask-of-satisfaction, like a protective shell, that I did not believe in? Is it a character flaw? But even the disaster of the college experience—from its first weeks—did not propel that urge to write. With the urge to read there was no urge to write yet. That damn sense of urgency, that writing should matter more than oxygen, was not there. We tend to think modern Arabic through a détour—that we learn “it,” we learn its potentials, by going through the other major Latin languages: French, English, and to some, German. We learn modernity from the potentials of the likes of French and English; then come back to Arabic as a language of “lacks” of sorts, assuming we ever come back to it. Maybe we’ve abandoned it in the first place, with no desire to learn it, to be-with-Arabic. If language is the house of being, as Heidegger has claimed, then we’re into an orphaned culture without language. This Arabic which has stubbornly maintained itself for more than fifteen centuries, beginning with the notorious poetic and pre-Islamic seven muᶜallaqāt, gives us that feeling of inaccessibility. The Jāhiliyya of the muᶜallaqāt had at least a sense of community, because some of the best poems of the time were “hanged” on the Kaᶜba, which was allegedly a pagan monument, prior to passing to the prophetic hands. I should have done the same since high school, with an urgent sense to write for a (virtual) community. I’ve learned since then to procrastinate and defer endlessly—defer the writing process. When I did my first book, I wrote it in French, but I was ill at ease in the whole process. Not much of a jouissance, not even the modicum of pleasure. I had the writing of the likes of Foucault and Braudel in mind, but had no idea where to situate my first serious project on the political economy of Damascus. Which is precisely the cultural and political problem of the eastern Mediterranean: the absence of a viable narrative, something that would make sense at least for the last couple centuries. I want a prose that makes me feel “one” with the city; I want to feel that I belong to it; and that she belongs to me. Instead, I happen to come and go like a stranger. There is a notion of stranger that I do not mind, propounded by the German sociologist Georg Simmel: a stranger is not only someone who must learn the shared codes of society, but, more importantly, he is seen by others as having “not yet” learned those norms, that he is not one of us, and will never be. But then no one would take you seriously if you simply learn the norms, adapt, and behave well. The stranger must reveal the insidiousness of those norms, how treacherous and uncanny they are.

Hence this whole theory of my hands tied by divine ordinance, parental repression, fatherly superego which forbids jouissance, all of this does not make sense. I was not into writing to begin with, and this has been an agony ever since I’ve realized the importance of writing, of believing in it, of investing into and being committed into it. It’s like being in love: to give what we don’t have to someone who does not want it. Because such a mindset was not there to begin with, say, as a teenager, where it should have all begun, it has always been an agony. Going public has also been another of those agonizing experiences. Instead of repression pure and simple, we should think in terms of shame, anxiety, castration of the body.

Think of photography in terms of the relationship between the object produced by the photograph and the reality of the setting. Ultimately, there is no reality outside the artifact of the object. Likewise, the signifier does not represent a trace of reality, but represents a subject which makes its apparition into the real, by effacing the original trace, while substituting itself into the infinite chain of signifiers that make reality possible—comprehensible by being discursive.

At a downtown bookstore my eyes caught the title of a just published French novel: “the artist of sex.” In one passage picked at random, the mother tells her daughter that men are miles away from women, will never figure out how to bring them to sexual jouissance—not even pleasure. Forget therefore about the missionary position and its affiliates (so-called oral and anal sex, no such terms exist in French), as they won’t even bring even a modicum of pleasure. And the mother raves on: men would do better masturbating on their own, but they need the woman to exhort their masculinity and honor games. Ultimately, the daughter went for the artistry of sado-masochism, though it remains unclear if such move was at the mother’s exhortation. We see her commanding and receiving pain, though it could be only one way: I like receiving pain but not giving it, or vice versa. The woman as dominatrix, subjugating men to her desire—would that bring the much heralded jouissance of the flesh? Which reminds me of Talal Asad on judicial torture in the late middle ages, perhaps a transformation in the 12th and 13th centuries, if not earlier. Medieval Christian torture became a doctrinal necessity to “see” what was “inside” the flesh and soul, as if it was not enough to simply claim belief (as is the case in Islam), as the latter could not be externalized and offered for evaluation by the Other. The body is therefore subject to torture with the hope that it would deliver a certain truth, hence a system of symbolic utterances called knowledge of the soul (or self). Foucault who was into S&M himself wanted his sexual practices for the sheer pleasure of the flesh: but is that possible? Can sexuality be conceptualized outside discourse?

An Indian critic à la Chakrabarty, Aijaz Ahmad, notes how much Said’s Orientalism owes to the Foucauldian topology of epistemic systems, that of the “order of things,” whereby an epistemic structure is valid for a particular time-space framework. My problem with all this Orientalism saga is that it is not even concerned with the massive work that is needed to recover the essence of the third-world texts. Only when such work is done, only when such texts are taken seriously for their own sake, can we speak of a recovered modest dignity.

The smells of this city. Nothing like Damascus or Aleppo, the quintessential city of smells. Everything is more modest here. On a warm Saturday afternoon I took it to the back streets. Many shops had their electricity out, part of the daily three-hour-minimum rationing. That smell of being old: shops that belong to the 1950s and 1960s, simply because they are benefiting from the old-rent law. The oldness is a far cry from Aleppo, which still smells the Ottoman centuries. With my narcissistic psyche, I kept pondering, Why did I leave? Why did I go west? Too late perhaps, now that I’m “enjoying” the city—the jouissance of the pervert. What is it that I know now that I did not know then? Is it a question of knowledge? We do not progress as individuals; what time and duration bring to us is that “insertion” of present knowledge into a past where supposedly it was “not there” “yet.” But it was there—in an embryonic form—and that’s precisely what we appreciate: I love my fate, because it was all there from day one; I can now better appreciate why I did what I did. No regrets; only one failure after another. A friend of mine once gave me the greatest reward: Tu réussis tous tes échecs; you’re so damn good at succeeding in all your failures. So fucking French erotic!

On the long run we’ll all be dead. On the short run, however, even if we indulge into serious relationships, even if we’re committed, we’re at the end of the day alone. Yet, being alone-alone is not like being alone-in-a-relationship. The latter poses the fundamental question, What is it being-with-an-Other?, which the alone-alone would not even dare to question. How to “be” “with” that Other, whether another being, or non-being, remains the fundamental dilemma of our times.

I did not buy this story of the Wall Street broker who all of a sudden turns as photographer of prostitutes and drug users in the larger New York area in order to “discover” the existence of God in himself, like a medieval sufi, leaving behind all speculative wealth—and atheism. It seems that in both instances—from Wall Street to the drug addicts and the prostitutes—there is a jouissance of excess: from the excesses of speculative capital to those of the deterioration of body and soul. In both instances, however, there is that jouissance that emerges from the deterioration-as-excess. It could be reformulated as the “quest for excitement,” to use Norbert Elias’ formulation of sports in general. As to the photography on Flickr, it has a blatant voyeuristic element into it which could be termed “enjoying the pain of others.” The top photographers of the last century have come to realize that what remains outside the frame, and which is left at the viewer’s discretion, is equally important, if not more crucial, than what we see on the “screen” in front of us. In the photography depicting drug addicts and prostitutes in the New York area, we’re told in every frame that “there must be something important to see,” which is right in front of us, and, frankly, as a viewer, I find myself deprived of my imaginative powers, like bombarded with pornographic images. How is this related to God’s existence and religion? The thesis that there is an atheistic rupture between Wall Street and God neither makes sense historically nor sociologically. Max Weber has amply demonstrated the correlations between the Protestant ethic and capitalism. More importantly, the entire history of capitalism, since its inception in the Italian city-states in the 13th and 14th centuries points to a process of “accommodation” between the Church and capitalism, so that, for example, usury is “approved” in spite of earlier prohibitions in both Christianity and Judaism. So let’s not think even for a moment that our financial markets are godless! It is precisely because God is dead, that prohibitions are all over the place, that nothing is permitted. Because religion cannot serve anymore as that grandiose framework that encompasses all aspects of life, God must be exhausted at the sight of all those folks who turn towards him for help, like our broker-cum-photographer: God is in deep pain, not at the sight of drug addicts and prostitutes (he is not into social security), however, but at all those morons who “discover” him all of a sudden—asking for help, because they lost faith in the financial markets!