Glencree Intervention

Below are some images of works from David Lunney‘s solo exhibition Glencree Intervention, which is running at the Lab in Dublin until the 8th of November. I was lucky enough to be asked to contribute a text to the show, which can be found below the images. And if you’re lucky enough to be participating in this weekend’s inaugural Dublin Gallery weekend, I’d strongly recommend dropping into the Lab to see this and, while you’re at it, a show by Emma Donaldson in the downstairs space. Two other interesting shows are also literally right beside it, in ArtBox and Oonagh Young Gallery.





All images courtesy the artist


For the past while I have lived away from the city. It has been difficult, at times, and continues to be. And yet at the same time I appreciate – quite reluctantly – some greater freedom outside the constraints of outrageous rents and ceaseless traffic: it makes sense. People leave for all sorts of reasons, mostly practical, and yet another reason involves simply being outside of some horizon of expectation, of being able to get away with something you couldn’t before. Most people appease this particular desire through short-term ‘Nature,’ with some kind of orchestrated ‘getting away from it all,’ like hillwalking. Things at least appear less complicated there.

David Lunney’s practice revolves around a long-standing fidelity and attraction to these kinds of places: more specifically, it turns towards the Dublin mountains. These mountains, which – though long-claimed by Dublin hubris – are in fact mostly in Wicklow, have a chequered and murky history: both the site of sublime natural beauty and the often-violent dumping grounds of the city below, there the demands of civilisation seem to peter out to a whisper. David spoke to me of strange gory altars being unearthed by unsuspecting walkers; animal organs fastidiously arranged accordant to some purportedly satanic ritual. The mutilated form of a dog was also happened upon, intensifying this image of an oddly potent environs, like the city’s image in a mirror, darkened and bloody.

Of course, these mountains are also where people go simply to get away from the city, quite innocently, or to just walk their dogs. The interventions that take place here, for the most part, are inconsequential and benign. It is somewhere within this schema of interventions – from the violent to the absolutely quotidian – that Lunney’s is to be placed.

The incident I refer to starts with a work made by the artist in March of this year, which was installed and left in a picturesque woodland clearing in the Wicklow valley of Glencree. From the documentation that remains, it comprised a large steel frame that seemed to emerge from the soft soil, with its lengths welded so as extend out in a triangular form. The steel is clad diagonally in a blanket of coarse muted threads; on top of these, six taut lengths of twine in rich reds and blue reach down the two opposite vertices of the triangle. The result is a strangely hallucinatory image, a kind of sculptural punctum against a backdrop of beautiful and lush, if monotonous, forestry. The installation breaks up the landscape, and its sense is one of definite but esoteric purpose.

At a later occasion, Lunney returned, only to find the installation greatly altered. No longer a break in the constancy of the wood, it was now exposed against a newly bare and deforested scene. The logic of the work was changed: it now seemed less aleatory, and somehow more grandiose, as though it in fact had caused the trees to unfurl and retreat around it. It was now more vulnerable, too. Two mixed-media works in the exhibition illustrate the shock of this before, and after. Strangely, the workers who carried out the felling appeared to have treated the sculpture with some baffled reverence, gingerly working around it, and leaving it unscathed amongst the fallen timber. Unfortunately, we can only speculate regarding the amusing conversations it surely provoked (Lads, will we just leave it…?).

On a more recent visit Lunney found the installation irrevocably damaged. Its steel lengths were now ripped apart and dispersed, with some violence. If there is a sense that those mountains are where someone, anyone, can get away with something, it appears this anonymous vandal’s ability to do so, trumped the artist’s. The damage was senseless, but enacted with a purposefulness that contradicted its senselessness. Bored youths, perhaps, but carried out with a worrying degree of laboured intent. To bastardise that Berkeleyian riddle: when an artwork falls in a forest, does it make a sound? Can this destructive act even be termed vandalism?

In many ways, the work here exists in a kind of post-traumatic state: desirous of a retracing, of forming conjecture, and of trying to fill the gaps in knowledge. It is of course an impossible task. All that is left is an attempt to muddy perception of this place, to mystify and demystify in one and the same effort. To this end, Lunney uses material in a way to break up the narrative specific to the place, to atomise and refract it in creating something wholly other – to the point that it becomes almost unrecognisable. A mirrored sculptural device is created, purely functional but nonetheless still embodying some kind of hulking grace. A camera rests atop one its wooden lengths, pointed so as to capture the image through the yawning gap that the pair of mirrored panels creates. The images that result are spatial composites, the sculpture’s legerdemain forming a disjointed and expansive representation of the rural scene.

A series of tacitly pragmatic decisions constitute Lunney’s recent body of work. Typically it starts with the familiar – the Wicklow countryside, chosen simply for its relative proximity to where the artist grew up. This is then broken up and disrupted through his practice of drawing and image making. The choice of materials, too, is direct: coloured pencils are used to render the images on account of their uncomplicated and familiar quality. The resulting drawings have a strangely duplicitous nature: at once comfortable and almost innocent, and at the same time somehow technological and unreal, nearly like some kitschy ‘drawing’ effect in Photoshop. To me these drawings belie the matter-of-factness of their making: instead the process they are inserted into, becomes key. The location, much like the materials, is chosen for its semantic blankness: their reluctance to connote makes them ideal for insertion into a process that is paramount above all else. Through this process, the subject matter becomes re-complicated, and rethought.

Each artwork, of course, has a life and a death. Lunney’s installation in the Glencree valley was not expected to last forever, but to degrade naturally over time, the elements working as they do. In the fear of anthropomorphising, its life was instead cut short. Here, it is put back together in another, much darker, iteration. Two of its twine-covered limbs are hung in parallel up the gallery wall, within a crucifix form: its horizontal lengths comprise two manipulated photographs of the work, one of when it was whole, the other of some vestige of steel in the wake of the incident. These photographs’ manipulation, through the rudimentary application of glue and sawdust directly onto the glass, mimes the violence of the sculpture’s tampering. The result is totemic – an image representative of its chequered existence. It’s not all loss, though: the sculpture here has a serendipitous afterlife. For the sculpture to be destroyed, after all, gets right to the rub of the place – a place that is simultaneously pastoral and vicious, natural and all too human.

More than human

Recently I have done quite a lot of research on technology. In particular, I’ve looked at technology with regard to ‘the contemporary,’ and how it might be claimed to be a central marker of the present moment. This thought presents a weird conundrum: on the one the hand, technology – throughout history – has enacted a kind of existential anxiety, a sense of the uncanny. Long before the internet, or even a whisper of A.I.,  the advent even of electricity was accompanied by unease[i]. On the other hand, though, technology does in fact seem to play a more dominant, or perhaps more embedded, part in contemporary life. In the absence of knowing any other era other than my own, my life feels saturated, almost thoroughly bisected, by technology. On this unstable ground the difficulty lies in both being attendant to technology, and resisting any existential and/or conservative hyperbole. It is a difficult stance.

One of the things I have grappled with is the way in which humanity is being mediated by technology. Of course, this has always been the case – one can say that what we call the human is predicated on it becoming technological in nature. Culture, for instance, is technological. At the current moment, though, technology appears to take root in a bodily sense – it mediates the production and indeed perpetuation of life itself. This being entertained, does this not also lead to a different conception of the human?


Let’s look at the sphere of work. Increasing automation, an offshoot of digital and remote technologies, means that the realm of work is becoming reconfigured (see above figure). Roles that workers once filled are now inarguably filled  by computers, or algorithms. This will only intensify by manner of degree. Increasingly, also, it is low-skilled, generally low-wage jobs that are being eliminated through automation[ii]. Through this, the realm of work – an undeniably crucial factor of human life – is being redefined, with jobs being valorised only to the extent that they embody something almost supernaturally human: that is, wholly creative. This might, of course, be thought in positive terms – with humans now being able to fully devote themselves to creative and fulfilling activity. To take one such positive – no, rapturous – view:

Advancing technologies will cause so much disruption to almost every industry that entire professions will disappear. And then, in about 15–20 years from now, we will be facing a jobless future, in which most jobs are done by machines and the cost of basic necessities such as food, energy and health care is negligible — just as the costs of cellphone communications and information are today. We will be entering an era of abundance in which we no longer have to work to have our basic needs met. And we will gain the freedom to pursue creative endeavours and do the things that we really like [iii].

With regard to such automation, the impetus is to become even more human (if that makes sense): the pressure consists in the ability to do something only a human could do, and economic worth constituted only to the extent that we differentiate ourselves from a computer. But what if we can’t do that? Or, contra that: what if a computer could in fact be more creative than a human? How would we define ‘the human’ if it is carried out more successfully through an algorithm, for example.

Recently I watched Alex Garland’s directorial debut Ex Machina. It is an accomplished film, shot and in particular paced marvellously with a ever present sense of dread [iv]. The possibility of A.I. is in the film given form in Ava, an advanced robotic prototype secured under lock and key by Nathan, a tech genius seemingly incapable of humility. Nathan is a pseudo-Google tech-guru monstrosity: both staggeringly rich and arrogant, he employs women (Kyoto) who (apparently) speak no English in order to demean them without recourse. (That being said, it’s likely he’d do that even if they did.) Into this picture comes Caleb, a suspiciously low-ranking, albeit talented, employee of Nathan. Brought to Nathan’s modernist fortress on the pretence of carrying out a Turing test on Ava, Caleb submits to Nathan’s eccentricity, conducting the test through an unconventional series of face-to-face conversations with Ava. Of course, she passes. She is inarguably intelligent, capable of making jokes, of thoughtful self-evaluation, even of sincere empathy. The imaginative potential of Caleb and Ava’s relationship – and the actions made upon this potential –  shape the rest of the film.

The crux of the film, as I understood it, is the muddying of the waters of the human/non-human. More specifically, actually human characters and their inverses – Nathan and Caleb/Ava and Kyoto – seem to swap places. Nathan is – by traditional and sentimental understanding – almost inhuman beside the heavy humanity of Ava. And yet though she might be moral she is a machine – a highly intelligent one, but a machine nonetheless. In such a way, the film for me presented new ways of thinking humanity and indeed inhumanity. If we are living in the anthropocene, and the means by which humanity and its environment are increasingly delimited by human (say, scientific, or technological) markers, then doesn’t a definition of humanity in itself, by extension, also change? What would it mean, then, to become even more human, and what happens if we can’t?

[i] See, for example, Melissa Gronlund (2014) Return of the Gothic: Digital Anxiety in the Domestic Spheree-flux no. 51 (January 2014).

[ii] For more on automation and employment, particularly with regard to the internet’s role in it, see Andrew Keen (2015) The Internet is not the Answer.

[iii] Vivek Wadhwa (2015) When Machines Can Do Most Jobs—Passion, Creativity, and Reinvention Rule, available at

[iv] The soundtrack in particular, by Portishead’s Geoff Barrow and composer Ben Salisbury, adds to this sense of dread. It is available for stream here.

The Pattern Exchange

Below is a text I was invited to write in response to The Pattern Exchange, which just concluded its run at the Temple Bar Gallery and Studios. The exhibition, curated by Rosie Lynch and Hollie Kearns, featured works by Paul Bokslag, Sarah Browne, Gareth Kennedy, Sarah Lincoln, Fiona McDonald, and the design collective Studio Weave, and encompassed a rich meditation on themes like communality, work, tradition, place, and labour. I tried to express some of these ideas – hopefully much more thoughtfully than I just did here – in my response. The text can also be downloaded as a much more aesthetically pleasing PDF here


Fredric Jameson, amongst many others, writes of the schizophrenic as a subject symbolic of the postmodern age[i]: as we become less fixed or stable in parallel with the incessant flux of contemporary capitalism, we begin to experience time and space in radically different terms. As he writes; now ‘temporal continuities break down, the experience of the present becomes powerfully, overwhelmingly vivid and “material”… But what might for us seem a desirable experience… is here felt as a loss, as “unreality.”[ii] In such a view, perception of the contemporary world is coupled with a peculiar estrangement from the present moment. The contemporary subject feels – and has recourse to – all times at all times, within a capricious present that paradoxically eludes her. Within such a horizon, subjectivity, labour, and even places become subjected to radical destabilisation also.

One symptom common in schizophrenic behaviour is a kind of pattern creation – of attributing sense where usually there is none, and of perceiving hyperbolic webs of meaning in which the protagonist plays a typically central, if not messianic, role. This experience goes by the name of apophenia. Considered analogously, the postmodern subject operates similarly, striving to create meaning and patterns of sense within a dizzying and multiple experience of reality. I often think of contemporary art as one such attempt: functioning as a sense or pattern-making machine, it grants a kind of unresolved and uneasy traction on the contemporary world. The Pattern Exchange offers a number of such artistic points of entry – each cognisant of a world that seems to grow ever more vertiginous and abstract. All of these entry points, in their own way, work to glean some sense of this world – even, perhaps, when there is none.

It was these thoughts that occupied me as I studied Sarah Lincoln’s digital film work, how things float (2014). In it, Lincoln steadies her gaze on the Waterford coastline, with particular attention being paid to the set of material conditions that convene there – conditions that slowly dim the fishing industries, and further contract the economic vigor of Ireland’s southeast. Sonically and visually, there is a degree of disorientation to the work, as though trying to test out and discern this place’s particular pattern. A picturesque seascape of a summer’s day is cut off hastily, and seeps into a wild vista, from the deck of a trawler. The Waterford coastline is unearthed as a site of convergence: from EU fishing quotas to tourism, coastal erosion, and economic stasis, meaning is created through forces external to its remit. No longer singular, it becomes the site of a clouding all-at-onceness.

This all-at-onceness, too, is to be sensed within contemporary experiences of subjectivity, and in particular, labour. It has become a commonplace to state that as industrial production is outsourced to the so-called developing nations, the Western worker is increasingly subject to the demands of what is termed ‘immaterial’ labour[iii]. Though valorised through ideals like ‘autonomy’ and creativity,’ this shift introduces an even further abstraction with regard to the conditions of contemporary labour. At the same time, though, the distinction between material and immaterial labour is misleading: all capitalist labour is founded on a fundamental abstraction – namely, the abstraction of the commodity form, wherein, as Marx claimed, the relations between people come to assume the relations between things[iv]. Both material and immaterial labour, then, are founded on fundamental processes of displacement, and of abstraction.

Sarah Browne’s work presented here, which assumes a two-pronged form – a series of small black and white laser prints (Hand to Mouth, 2014); and a modified clock, Zero Hour Contract (2013), alongside a Shetland Islands knitting belt – appears to similarly problematise this distinction between material and immaterial labour[v]. The series that comprises Hand to Mouth, constructed through the physical weaving of mutually incongruous images, cause a shock of recognition: in them, the contrast between the craft-industries – here, represented through historical images depicting women of the Shetland knitting industries – and the contemporary freelance worker, interminably multitasking and ‘24/7,’ is undone. The Scottish women, too, were multitaskers, invariably on the brink of precarity: to such an effect, the knitting belt was often used – and continues to be used – so as to allow the worker to carry out other tasks simultaneously. Browne reneges on the conceptualisation of any one idealised labour: instead, each form – material or immaterial – is the net result of external – namely economic and social – demands. In so doing, she problematises the dominant thinking around contemporary immaterial or ‘creative’ labour as a simple good, or as an end in itself.

Quite understandably, the ways in which we attempt to gain traction on this contemporary world often involve forms of ritual: comforting in their make-up, rituals re-inscribe the subject within a wider and more vital set of meanings. They also stop time, in a sense, by connecting this ritual to those that have happened, and those that will happen again, in the future. Gareth Kennedy’s works, I feel, operate in an analogous fashion: his ritual, though, wears the signs of its fabrication freely. Here Kennedy starts anew, commissioning an object – a butter churn – and creating its accompanying tradition. Made for a 2011 public art commission in a rural county Kerry town, the project is documented through a nostalgic super 8 film, IKEA Butter Churn for Gneeveguila (2011), which tracks the churn’s progression through the town’s main street, dragged along high atop a flat bed lorry. Finally, butter made by it is ceremoniously put into the ground. Alongside this film, the churn itself is presented with some buckets, atop the IKEA counter from which it is made.

At the same time, though, ritual is almost incommensurate with the contemporary moment. Through its composition of IKEA materials, Kennedy’s butter churn strives at a kind of deep time, to which it is structurally foreclosed. IKEA, which as Jameson might say, remodels the modern as style[vi], is synonymous with the short-life, mass-produced epiphenomena of the contemporary. Kennedy’s ritual, then, is to me one of contemporaneity itself: it comprises a heterogeneous conflation of styles and times, which at no point reaches resolution. This contradictory – and absolutely contemporary – sense of ritual is for me also present in Paul Bokslag’s work, Resonance (2015). This takes the form of six large paper works, combined so as to form a sculptural construction that bisects the passage of light into the gallery space. Cumulatively, the paper seems to teeter on the edge of its collapse: one more cut, and the balance of empty space and paper would be disrupted irrevocably. Resonance, then, is an exercise in control, and in instinct. The hand instinctively knows – or feels – when to stop. These parameters, then, are not learned, but tested out and intuited: much like with the ritual, the demands of the work are wholly given through an engagement with the material, in the moment. In this contemporary moment, though, ritual becomes a sequence of disconnected moments, adrift and almost like the process of Bokslag’s paper cuts – each mark made separately, and disjointed from the next.

Let’s return briefly to place. Many theorists have discussed the postmodern turn as one encompassing the supersession of space, over time[vii]. In short, this hinges on a reorientation of value – it is in terms of place, and of space, that the contemporary moment is staged: more importantly, who has access to these places and spaces? Privatisation of once-public spaces (or indeed services) create an economy of access: increasingly, these spaces recede – or are receded – from view. Fiona McDonald’s work here is similarly marked by a preoccupation with access, through a study of Dublin’s Great South Wall. Completed from 1730-1731, the embankment constitutes an iconic landmark, constructed to bisect Dublin Bay, in so doing rendering it more amenable to trade. The Wall juts out into the Bay, the Poolbeg Lighthouse – its days also now possibly numbered – towards its most easterly frontier. McDonald traces its path, both historically and physically: on one wall, five spare diagrammatic pictures illustrate the public’s access to the wall, over time (Mapping: Public Access, and 2015 Mapping Levels, 2015); alongside these, a slide projector on the floor documents her route along its reaches through a series of light drenched stills (Walking the Wall, 2015). The Great South Wall, too, is under threat. It is now a site of conflicting interests, economic, political, preservationist or otherwise. It appears though as Dublin grows strangely atemporal – 24/7, and all times, all at once – it grows ever more contested on spatial terms.

Above are some slight thoughts in response to The Pattern Exchange. The works, as I claimed above, offer different paths and responses to a world that grows – at least in some respects – increasingly imperceptible, and maddening. Their approaches, too, are slight: each strives to reorient a certain thinking about this or that, or to muddy one particular way of looking at the world. Their world is the contemporary one: by all accounts fast as light, weightless, and even invisible. But the artists offer a kind of sense-making machine – or even a pattern – a way of implicating the viewer within situations seemingly exterior and unrelated to them. They build spaces to which we have access.

[i] See also Deleuze & Guattari (1972) Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, and

(1980) A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Also, Jean Baudrillard (1983) The Ecstasy of Communication.

[ii] Fredric Jameson (1983) Postmodernism and Consumer Society, pg. 120.

[iii] For example Maurizio Lazzarato (1996) Immaterial Labour, in Paolo Virno & Michael Hardt (eds.) Radical Thought in Italy, pp. 132-146.

[iv] Karl Marx (1990) Capital vol. 1: A Critique of Political Economy London: Penguin, pg. 373-4.

[v] Browne’s two contributions to the exhibition ran sequentially, with Zero Hour Contract and the knitting belt being installed first, and the series Hand to Mouth after. Unfortunately I did not have an opportunity to see the first instantiation.

[vi] Jameson (2002) A Singular Modernity, London & New York: Verso.

[vii] Most recently Jameson (2015) The Aesthetics of Singularity, New Left Review 92, March-April 2015, pp. 101-132.

Beyond Metaphor, Mapping Social Systems

The following is a response to recent work by Dr Francis Halsall and Kelley O’Brien, carried out as part of their on-going collaborative project Beyond Metaphor, Mapping Social Systems. In particular, this text responds to some of the issues unpacked in their lectures delivered recently in the Philippines and in Detroit. Those lectures can be viewed here. I know the guys are keen to get a conversation going, so do feel free to leave any comments below.


In Todd Haynes’ 1995 film Safe, Julianne Moore plays Carol, a strangely disinterested south California woman. Carol fills her days by working on ‘some designs’ for her home, meeting similarly disposed women for lunch, and attending joyless aerobics classes. After one such class, a woman exclaims to Carol “you don’t sweat!” She responds, sheepishly, in the affirmative; “it’s true.” However this hint of atmospheric imperviousness is a red herring: throughout the film, we learn that Carol does not underreact to exterior conditions, but rather feels them with far too much acuity. Quickly and mysteriously, she succumbs to what is termed multiple chemical sensitivity (MCS): Carol is by all intents and purposes allergic to the contemporary world.

For Carol the boundary between self and world is rendered far too thin. I was reminded of this film as I listened to these recent lectures. For it is only through an appeal to a systems-oriented conception of the world that a case like Carol’s can happen – and whether her symptoms are made manifest physically or psychosomatically is absolutely beside the point. Something like MCS attests to the inchoate boundaries of human and inhuman, and of the absolute interdependence of these systems: it is in fact a kind of aestheticisation of it. Much like Jameson’s (or Deleuze & Guattari’s, or Baudillard’s) conceptualisation of the schizophrenic, the subject of MCS represents another actualisation of postmodern subjectivity – one radically ajar to the dizzying abstraction of contemporary life.


As Halsall affirms, the adoption of a systems-oriented conception of the world is troubling for a number of reasons. Preeminent among them is the necessary requirement to think in terms of overviews, rather than in terms of individuals or persons[i]: social systems, economic systems, technological systems – each of these does not start with the human per se. Instead agency is refracted and dispersed within a systems view of the world, and the body becomes instead a site of convergence. This has as its effect an inability to figure the vertiginous totality of the world to any coherent or binding standard. This foreclosure to (social) totality, to paraphrase Jameson[ii], results in the failure to imaginatively concretise, or ‘map’ it: by extension, the formation of a viable counter-image is stymied also. For Jameson, then, the inability to figure the totality of the system represents a fundamental impasse to the possibility of socialism, based as it is on a kind of imminently thinkable figuring of totality.

Capital is not thinkable: it is not a thing, but a process. Likewise, it is not located in any one place, but constantly shifts and morphs, traversing and binding other systems. How might it be possible to forge an alternative to it, or even any form of viable critique on which this alternative might be founded? And furthermore: how might a systems-oriented striving towards totality be capacious of holding such a critique? How do systems not simply reiterate the conditions of global capital?

The filmmaker Adam Curtis describes his practice as a means of creating – admittedly wholly subjective – narratives within a general atmosphere of contemporary abstraction. As he says: ‘I believe that it’s possible to make the world intelligible – however complex and chaotic it is. That is the progressive job of journalism. The other reaction – which is to say, ‘Things are just so complex and unpredictable that you can never make sense of them’ – is, I think, one of the main motors that supports the conservatism of our time[iii].’ I think, instead, that is not a one or the other choice – narratives and intelligibility can indeed be created, but only within a backdrop of unintelligibility. A systems view of the world can be sharpened and politicised – and I think Curtis’ work does this to some degree – but only within a schema of general noise. This view might be a means of thinking many things, simultaneously.

Jameson also refers to the preponderance of paranoid conspiracy theories as ‘the poor person’s cognitive mapping in the postmodern age[iv].’ Certainly I don’t know how many people recommended Zeitgeist to me when I was in art college, but it was a considerable amount. Typically, there was a tangible excitement as they recommended it – like they’ve been granted access to a kind of valuable and sacrosanct Truth. And in many ways, this makes sense: these typically ludicrous confections imbue the world with a kind of ecstatically perceptible cogency – they provide an entry point, or a kind of pseudo-Copernican viewpoint on which to ground subjective existence. And, as Jameson says, they do in fact provide a kind of truth: the parameters of their untruths are grounded in the ‘degraded figure of the total logic of late capital, a desperate attempt to represent the latter’s system, whose failure is marked by its slippage into sheer theme and content[v].’ The conspiracy theory embodies a particular yearning for sense: similarly, Jameson’s postmodern subject par excellence – the schizophrenic – is typified by the presence of apophenia: that is, the perception of patterns or connections within meaninglessness.

Within his lecture on system aesthetics, Halsall referred to three case examples: the first, the supporting of ‘immaterial’ technology, and its disavowed irreducibility to the body within the outsource centres of the Philippines; the second, the topographies of Detroit and the infamous practice of ‘redlining’; and the third, the container ships through which global consumerism is supported and perpetuated. All three present key sites of convergence – or indeed visibility – wherein particular systems meet, effectuating an almost grotesque material signifier. I would add another: the contemporary luxury storage facility, where a vast amount of art is currently stored. Here, global capital just stops. This is the obscene counterpoint created by contemporary capitalism: halting, stopping, and taking these goods out of a global economic system. Capital renders them spectral, like a landfill in reverse.

Contemporaneity is fundamentally inflected by the discourse of system: whether technological, economic, political, or subjective, each conceptual horizon’s parameters are dispersed to scopes almost sublime in makeup. The rub, as Jameson has affirmed, is that postmodern ideology is enacted on the basis of reality itself: a systems reality is thus arguably commensurate with the dominant – namely late capitalist – ideology. Now, this is just thinking aloud here, but: how productive is it, in this light, to think the world-as-system? It obviously is one: from what point can its critique stem? O’Brien’s modest (albeit time consuming) project in the Philippines offers one possible example. Having noticed the vast dominance of the national fast food chain Jollibee, over McDonalds, O’Brien went out to photograph each and every of the two hundred and fifty-six franchises in the national capital region. These photographs offer a cumulative affront to global capitalism, and a point of possibility. Within a system of global capital, blips happen – the system can create moments of idiosyncrasy, rather than simple abstracted homogenisation.

[i] Halsall & O’Brien (2015) Beyond Metaphor, Mapping Social Systems, University of the Philippines, available at

[ii] Fredric Jameson (1988) Cognitive Mapping, in Cary Nelson & Lawrence Grossberg, eds (1988) Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture. Urbana & Chicago: University of Illinois Press, pp. 347-58

[iii] Paul MacInnes (2015) Adam Curtis: “I try to make the chaos and complexity intelligible’ The Guardian, 25th January 2015, available at

[iv] Ibid ii, pg. 356

[v] Ibid


Below is my text ‘Attentive Festivalisation’ for the January-February edition of the Visual Artists’ News Sheet, just in case you haven’t got a chance to get a copy yet. Some really interesting articles in it too, an interview with Duncan Campbell, and another particularly good one with Mairéad McClean. Very annoyed that I didn’t make it up to see her piece, ‘No More,’ in the MAC. Anyway, here’s the text. Back into my PhD-hole.

FESTIVALISATION, insomuch as I understand it, involves a specific kind of process or set of tendencies: it outlines a movement whereby singular events become exploded into a multiplicity of forms and platforms. Certainly it bears some relation to the art critic Peter Schjeldahl’s pejorative term ‘festivalism,’ which he uses to evoke a contemporary tendency prioritising temporary spectacle – particularly installation art – within large-scale exhibition making[i]. This, he describes as ‘festival art’: ‘environmental stuff that, existing only in exhibition, exalts curators over dealers and a hazily evoked public over dedicated art mavens[ii]. Here, permanence is sidelined in favour of ambitious but temporary projects: artworks, which are always already on the point of leaving. Logically, then, festivalisation names a process whereby strategies of festivalism assume dominance within the broader milieu: clearly, too, this denotes a set of processes in step with the contemporary tendency towards the short-term ‘project’, in lieu of permanent engagement[iii]. Contra this, I would like to affirm Saskia Sassen’s term ‘placeboundedness’ as an important conceptual horizon on which to base expectations, and to gauge the success of contemporary festivalisation within the discourse of global art [iv].

Festivalisation is of course culturally ubiquitous, and not solely reserved for the visual arts: partly an economic necessity, and partly representative of quantitative desire – i.e. to experience a lot, in an efficient manner – its effects are broadly felt: this year in Ireland there were more than two hundred cultural festivals[v]. Clearly, then, the festival is a thoroughly appealing format, something in it presenting an invaluable opportunity for the arts. Of key importance here are the whys of festivalisation, and thus to examine it materially as symptomatic of strategies of globalisation, and neoliberal capitalism more broadly. Does the festival format retain any space – interstitial or otherwise – within which to create something new and/or antagonistic, and not merely to reproduce the wider conditions of which it is a symptom? Put bluntly, is the contemporary festival-form now irrelevant as a form of exhibition making within the arts?

The short answer is, of course, no: globally, some of the best contemporary art is made specifically for art’s festival-form par excellence, the ‘biennale’[vi] (Documenta, Venice, Liverpool, etc.), and quite simply these events present the most efficient means of seeing a surfeit of exceptional art, not exactly under one roof, but close enough. What Schjeldahl terms ‘festival art’, too, is necessarily exceptional in character. Similarly, year-long festivals such as those staged under the auspices of the European (or UK) cities of culture often provide a much-needed boost – both economic and reputational – to the local environment. Indeed it appears as though these events, although of course positive in terms of artistic content, are even more beneficial by virtue of their powers in rethinking and rebranding, by altering perceptions and by imparting a degree of creative gravitas to a place. Indeed, in a sense the contemporary festival-form could be thought almost as a victim of its own success: in such a way, festivals are wont to evaluate their own achievements not on artistic merit, but rather by the extent to which they have fulfilled economic or political expectation – numbers of tourists, amount of ticket sales, secondary revenue, etc. As the sociologist Monica Sassatelli writes:

[T]he fact that a good proportion of the scarce literature on contemporary festivals has been driven by economic research focusing exclusively on economic returns, and thus on an instrumental vision of festivals, has also contributed to reinforcing the idea that contemporary festivals are – from a cultural point of view – of little relevance, as they are dominated by commercial, ‘inauthentic’ logics[vii].

Arguably, then, the festival-format increases in visibility to the extent by which it recedes in relevance as a cultural from. The more economically successful it is, the more its overall success is gauged solely on those terms. And yet at the same time this is inevitable: how do political departments or other funding bodies – often without real knowledge of art – gauge its value if not through economic criteria? As a result, a kind of unhelpful dichotomy persists with regard to the contemporary artistic festival: the commercial, ‘inauthentic’ festival, on the one hand: and on the other, the festival that resists commercialisation, in so doing opening up a space for some kind of ostensibly valid artistic gesture. This dichotomy, I argue, is hopelessly inconsequential. It is neither possible nor desirable to enact a festival on the basis of its refusal of the dominant appraisal of value; that is, monetary. Rather, new and supplementary criteria of gauging creative success should put forward, counteracting the homogeneity of solely economic reasoning.

Festivalisation, in this light, might be distinguished from biennales on the basis of an engagement with the above dichotomy: the former failing to do so; while the latter – when they are successful – acting to create new forms of value and engagement within the broader conditions of the late capitalist milieu. As such, the latter always runs the risk of slipping into the former, and so of merely unquestioningly reiterating these aforementioned conditions: temporary and cursory artistic engagement serving only to reiterate the self-same strategies of globalised, capitalist engagement. The biennale runs the risk of becoming pure festival, pure spectacle, in the absence of some attendant contradiction of capital. Given the language of sociality and exchange that pervades the socio-economic milieu, the contemporary festival fails to offer a point of intrinsic contradiction: structurally, it instead reiterates the grounds on which a contemporary understanding of (social, immaterial etc.) capitalism is predicated. As Peter Osborne writes;

Art is a privileged cultural carrier of contemporaneity, as it was of previous forms of modernity. With the historical expansion, geopolitical differentiation and temporal intensification of contemporaneity, it has become critically incumbent upon any art with a claim on the present to situate itself, reflexively, within this expanded field[viii].

Understood within such a horizon, the festival functions as an agent not only of neoliberal capitalism, but also of contemporaneity itself. Boris Groys describes the contemporary as a period of doubt and hesitation, indicative of a desire for ‘a prolonged, even potentially infinite period of delay’[ix]. Traditionally the festival is to be conceived analogously, by offering a means of subversion or a halting of daily quotidian life: a ‘time out of time’[x]. Thus both the concept of the contemporary, and that of the festival, foreground the possibility of the present moment as a point radically at odds with the homogeneity of time. As Groys affirms, in both, ‘the present is a moment in time when we decide to lower our expectations of the future or to abandon some of the dear traditions of the past in order to pass through the narrow gate of the here-and-now’[xi]. The contemporary, then, reiterates the traditional festival’s operation. Indeed we might think it as being inherently festivalist, but purged of the utopian impulse on which the latter was traditionally founded. The contemporary festival, then, does not inherently offer a break or rupture of the existing milieu, but only its formal intensification.

Here in Ireland there have been both successes and failures in negotiating this particular bind. To illustrate this, we might contrast two recent large-scale art exhibitions: Dublin Contemporary, with EVA International. The former was founded as a quinquennial in 2011, like Documenta: the latter, a Limerick-based biennale, first staged in 1977, with its latest iteration-taking place in 2014. In their differences, we can perceive the importance of placeboundedness within contemporary large-scale exhibition making. The problem with Dublin Contemporary was that it illustrated very little of it: aside from the actual physical setting of the exhibition, and the presence of some Irish artists, it remained only nominally place bound. EVA, by contrast, consistently appeals to a more local context, whilst nonetheless retaining the ambition and rigour present within the highlights of Dublin Contemporary. Given that Dublin Contemporary was staged during the 2011 Venice Biennale, it also badly needed a point of differentiation to foreground its necessity: largely failing to do so, it not only estranged tourists, but the local Dublin context, too[xii]. EVA feels more vital, more entrenched within its context; and although possibly more urgent or necessary – economically – in Limerick, does not appear to be predicated on only these grounds. Dublin Contemporary – and perhaps here it was a victim of taking place within the capital, rather than on the periphery – seemed indicative only of a desire to do something: arguably, this something failed to differentiate itself and was as much a result of branding, than any concerted effort to engage with the problems and inconsistencies inherent to Dublin, as opposed to anywhere else.

Certainly it is no coincidence that festivals – and in particular biennales – predominantly take place in cities: indeed as Richard Florida affirms, under current conditions it is specifically creativity that has become the preeminent driving force in capitalist expansion and growth, not only in cities, but in regions and nations more broadly[xiii]. This is apparent in cities like San Francisco and London, but indeed Dublin also: recent dizzy hyperbole surrounding the Web Summit serving only to emphasise creativity’s unparalleled valorisation as a force for contemporary growth. It is into this discourse that any conception of festivalisation must necessarily inhere. Understood this way – as a particular symptom and vehicle of economic growth – the festival format is almost naturalised as a product of global capitalism. Importantly, though, what is crucial is the means by which this creative growth takes form within the particular format, avoiding a situation that sees the festival estranged – as with Dublin Contemporary – from its own particular conception of place: here, San Francisco’s blacked-out tech-buses transporting workers from their city homes, to the valley, function as a fitting analogy. Capital has no responsibility to place; it has, instead, an ever-diminishing sense of what Sassen terms ‘placeboundedness’. In opposition, the arts and its attendant festivals might instead offer an engagement that is inherently fidelitous to place, seeking instead to affirm a ‘strategic terrain for a whole series of conflicts and contradictions’ [xiv]. These conflicts and contradictions of place might not all be productive – or at least not in economic terms.

In Forgetting the Art World (2012), Pamela M. Lee offers a trenchant affirmation of the ineluctable bondage of the ‘art world’, to the world ‘out there’. As she says: [T]o speak of “the work of art’s world” is to retain a sense of the activity performed by the object as utterly continuous with the world it at once inhabits and creates: a world Mobius-like in its indivisibility and circularity, a seemingly endless horizon’[xv]. For Lee the ‘work of art’s world’ is inseparable from the wider conditions of its making. Thus the city is of course the perfect site for a contemporary large-scale art festival – as it is for any kind of global capitalist exchange: the difference being, the latter necessitates no real engagement, aside from one purely economic in nature.

Festivals, though symptomatic and indeed catalytic of capital, should engage neither transitorily nor parasitically, but with a productivity that seeks to sharpen and foreground the gaps and inconsistencies of place. New criteria and evaluative tools must be put forward; at the very least, some engagement as to why, in fact, people will travel and spend money on art. Recent political furor has foregrounded the possibility that Irish politicians do not even want to understand art, let alone know why they should fund it[xvi]. But if art and its attendant festival form are indeed lucrative then surely politics needs to understand why they are so, in ensuring increased differentiation and thus revenue, in the future. Declan Long, writing recently in the Irish Times, asks a pertinent question: in light of Scotland, and more particularly Glasgow’s artistic achievements, is it possible to think that an Irish city might be thought of in similar terms, in the future[xvii]? What would need to happen for this to take place? Festivalisation, thought specifically and with attentiveness, might be one way of achieving this: neither negating nor appeasing the economic rationale that gives rise to it, but instead seeking to problematise its relative demand on place. To what purpose is art being instrumentalised; and to what ends?


[i] Peter Schjeldahl (1999) Festivalism, The New Yorker, July 5, 1999, pg. 85

[ii] Ibid

[iii] For more on the cultural significance of the ‘project’, see Lane Relyea (2013) Your Everyday Art World, Cambridge, Mass & London: MIT Press, pp. 4-6

[iv] Saskia Sassen (1998) Globalization and its Discontents, New York: The New Press, pg. xxiv

[v] For more information, see: (accessed 12/11/14). This figure does not include specifically commercial events, e.g. music festivals.

[vi] I use this term loosely: Documenta, for example, happens every five years.

[vii] Gerard Delanty, Liana Giorgi, and Monica Sassatelli, eds (2011) Festivals and the Cultural Public Sphere, New York & London: Routledge, pg. 17

[viii] Peter Osborne (2013) Anywhere or Not At All: Philosophy of Contemporary Art, London & New York: Verso, pg. 27

[ix] Boris Groys (2009) Comrades of Time, e-flux no. 11, Dec. 2009, available at (accessed 10/11/14), pg. 2

[x] Alessandro Falassi (1987) Time out of Time: Essays on the Festival, Albuquerque: University of Mexico Press, pp. 1-10

[xi] Ibid iii

[xii] Certainly the local critical reaction was ambivalent at best. For examples, see Declan Long What Else? On Dublin Contemporary, The Irish Review, Issue 45, Winter 2012; and Francis Halsall It’s Hard to Satirize a Guy in Shiny Boots, Paper Visual Art Journal: Dublin Edition, November 2011

[xiii] Richard Florida (2004) Cities and the Creative Class, New York & London: Routledge

[xiv] Ibid, pg. xxv

[xv] Pamela M. Lee (2012) Forgetting the Art World, Cambridge, Mass & London: MIT Press, pg. 8

[xvi] In particular, I refer to the recent furore regarding John McNulty’s appointment to the board of IMMA, and the particular breed of political cynicism (or antipathy) suggested by such a move. The notes from the ensuing debate are highly illuminating in this regard, in particular Senator Marie-Louise O’ Donnell’s words: To me modern art has no explanation and at times we have hundreds and thousands of psychologists, sociologists and culturally aware people trying to explain it. When one has to explain things one is losing, as we know’. The debate is online in full here:

[xvii] Declan Long The artistic vision of Scotland’s golden generation, The Irish Times, 19th August 2014, available at (accessed 10/11/14).


Weaponising Speculation book

The book that documents the proceedings from the Weaponising Speculation conference, which was organised by the Dublin Unit for Speculative Thought (D.U.S.T) and took place in March 2013, has now been published. Edited and designed by Caoimhe Doyle, and published by Punctum, it contains some really great contributions from a variety of excellent people. My own perspective has probably shifted somewhat in the past year, but I think it’s important not to attempt to modify that. Anyway, the book is available to buy here. Here’s the blurb:

This book contains the proceedings from Weaponising Speculation, a two-day conference and exhibition that took place in Dublin in March 2013. Weaponising Speculation was organised by D.U.S.T. (Dublin Unit for Speculative Thought) and aimed to be an exploration of the various expressions of DIY theory operative in the elsewheres, the shafts and tunnels of the para-academy. The topics covered all come under the welcoming embrace of speculation, spanning a broad range: from art, philosophy, nature, fiction, and computation to spiders, culinary cosmology, and Oscar the Grouch. The book itself aims to be more than just a collection of essays and catalogue of artworks, but also a documentation of the event as a whole. An object that both those present at the event and those who missed it would want to own — bringing something new to both sets of readers.
The range of topics covered in this collection, along with the added elements of design and photography, result in a book that appeals beyond the (para)academic circle within which the Speculative Realist community currently resides. One of the original aims of the Weaponising Speculation conference, and by extension the book, is to expand what might be considered the expected reach of the subject, bringing Speculation to a new audience — artists, designers, fans of fiction, photographers, biologists, film theorists, comedians, culinary artists, illustrators, computer programmers, and individuals from any number of fields.
Before the storms the para-academic needs to equip herself. Not only with tools, but weapons. In this way this collection is not only a book to read, an object to own, or a tool for learning, but a weapon with which to break open academic discourse, to invade and conquer as yet unknown territory, and to aid thinkers in the siege to reclaim the real.
TABLE OF CONTENTS: Continental Realism and Computation: Turing’s Propaganda — Robert Jackson // A Seductive Union: Speculative Realism and Contemporary Art — Rebecca O’ Dwyer // Objects, Actors and Sites of Contingency — Alice Rekab // Taken from/Put in Oscar’s bin — Sam Keogh // How to Make Space-Time and Influence People — Isabel Nolan // ‘[os mentis] mouth to mouth’ with Nicola Masciandaro — MOUTH // Sweet Dreams Are Made of This: Speculation — Ridvan Askin // All That is Liquid Melts into Solid — John Ryan // Mutant: Infiltration of the Hallucinated Mountain — Rob Murphy // The Fossils of Sensation — Alan Boardman // restless tongues expending into rest — Teresa Gillespie // House of Sheaves: The Asymptotic Horror of Nested Nature — Ben Woodard // Spider Universe: Weaponising Phobia in Bataille, Nietzsche, Spinoza — Scott Wilson // + ARTWORKS by John Ryan, Rob Murphy, Alice Rekab, Andy Weir, Teresa Gillespie, Alan Boardman, and Ciara McMahon.