I--The singular doctrine

Idiocy is neither silliness nor stupidity, nor, even less so,

imbecility. It is their opposite. What is called for, with the advent of modernity, is to see how idiocy in art has turned into a strategy of resistance declared upon those figures of intellectual destitution.

The fact that idiocy in art--idiocy as praxis and ethic--has never been quintessentially grasped is because we have never agreed to see where exactly it actually lay. A certain Puritanical concern and a fetishist attachment to artistic nobility have ceaselessly worked against an objective viewpoint. There has been a move to make idiocy--which is not properly an aesthetic category--an outskirt of the history of modern art, a sort of incoherent, diverting, gratuitous froth, around a tradition that has invariably been the noble lineage of permanent monuments and intimidating masterpieces. Art as the proof of man's genius, tossed again and again into the arena. Based on this accepted meaning, the Incoherents--Ubu roi, Alphonse Allais, Erik Satie, young Andr‚ Gide's Paludes, the Almanach Vermot aspect of Marcel Duchamp's work, Francis Picabia's Monstres and Transparences, the Bul line of thought, theorized between 1955 and 1985 by Pol Bury and Andr‚ Balthazar (Daily Bul: "Whatever you do you're ridiculous!"; "It's time to debag dignity"), Dada, needless to say, but also Ren‚ Magritte's Vache period, G‚rard Gasiorowski's R‚gressions and a major chunk of contemporary art, all this is deemed to form a sort of parasitic underworld, a surplus fringe on the work of Genius. The issue is to show that this margin is nothing less than a core, and that idiocy has never formed the dregs or spectacular cast-off of modernity, but rather its driving force and its very spirit. If we agree that the Dada movement was modern, we must also accept that it is the embodiment of modernity itself, which might mean that it illustrates it neither exhaustively nor ideally, but they are drawn together by one and the same substance. And that this modernity does not accordingly turn idiocy into its decorative and folkloric finery, but the very sinew of its ideological impulses.

Richard Huelsenbeck: "Dada is idiotic. The real Dadaist laughs and laughs". (First Dada manifesto written by Huelsenbeck, and read out by him at the Lecture Evening of 12 April 1918 in Berlin).

Another Dada manifesto, dated 12 January 1921 and distributed in Paris raises the whole issue: "[...] The imitators of Dada would introduce Dada to you in the art form it has never had--Citizens, today you are being shown in pornographic form a vulgar and Baroque spirit which is not the PURE IDIOCY advocated by DADA--BUT DOGMATISM AND PRETENTIOUS IMBECILITY".

Kurt Schwitters may have been kept on the fringes of the Berlin movement, but he still demonstrated a similar state of mind when he declared: "I am middle-class and idiotic". Idiocy contrasts with pretension, with what strives to get people to believe in depth where there is only seriousness--the pretension that is not so much the effective use of intelligence as a use of culture to intimidate others.

"Idiocy", quite simply, is the most functional term for describing the bulk and corpus of modernity. It is Cl‚ment Rosset, in his essay Le R‚el, trait‚ de l'idiotie, who proffers an explanation. He conjures up the etymology of the word, and writes: "Idiotes, idiot, means simple, peculiar, unique [...] All things and all people are thus idiotic the moment they only exist per se." We can grasp how idiocy, in this primary accepted sense, concerns modernity in art, that tradition of rupture, to borrow a hallowed term, within which the strategy of the new turns out to be necessary and adequate. It is important to appear in a singular, unusual way, impose a signature that may entail neither contestation nor confusion. The forms used by the artist tend towards those of a personal description, something heraldic--stylistic tools fashioned, in the final analysis, for the purposes of self-propaganda and self-proclamation. The modern artist--that symbolic figure--is the designer and servant of his own coat of arms. So the only, or, rather, the main argument he can adopt to incorporate the posterity of his art is novelty and newness. The need to break with things, over and over again, turns a buzzword like "Doing something new" into the argument for his paradoxical tradition. When Baudelaire wound up his Salon in 1845, he called for the "advent of the new". Ezra Pound said: "Make it new". It is disconcerting that this principle, called superstition by Val‚ry, was actually the mere reversal of the Church's doctrine: Non nova, sed nove (Not new, but anew). Where the art object is concerned, idiocy thus simply means that anonymity and tradition have become untenable conditions for the creative person, that his signature can be confirmed solely by what is unique and new. This signature, in its modern age, recognizes not so much its invention as it normalization, as Andr‚ Chastel observed. What, on the contrary, this age dictates is thus an equivalencereason." between originality and idiocy--a conception of objects and behaviour which have never been currency before they existed, which do not recognize any double, and where duplication is in fact banned.

II/ Defamatory self-portraits

A question comes to the fore, over and above this objective, linguistic fact. Why should the artist overlay an explicitly idiotic type of behaviour on the necessary idiocy of his work? As well as being idiotic, as depicted by his work, the artist actually also plays the idiot. In other words, in response to the idiocy that is the most faithful to its etymology--the idiocy of the singular fact which has no model and is stripped of genealogy--the creative artist wallows in the interpretation, in his own name, of the term's second and more common meaning, that has come to describe lack of intelligence and common sense, and is liable to comment on the most varied range of irrational experiences, including pathological conditions. Cl‚ment Rosset also focused on the quantum leap of the term, the idiot becoming "by a semantic extension whose philosophical significance is broad, a person stripped of intelligence, a being without reason."(1) So it is that Bouvard and P‚cuchet, the Dostoyevskian idiot and Bartleby, and Benjy in The Sound and the Fury are not exactly modern creations, but, in a cruder way, the precise projection of the modern status of the creative person. For the idiot, no experience is as valuable as the lesson. Or else this lesson should not be learnt, for habit does not house any didactic virtue. From singular--i.e. strange-- "idiotes" has ended up defining someone who knows nothing about any praxis, and was ignorant of its techniques or systematically sided with approximation and hence re-invention. Here, modern art has developed and implemented an actual poetics of incompetence.

Whence the possibility of telling the artistic (hi)story of this century the way one might visit a gallery of self-portraits of artists depicted as idiots, otherwise known as "Defamatory Self-portraits". There is a reference here to a tradition that is not artistic but judicial, and firmly rooted in the social history of Italy from the 13th to the 16th centuries. Defamatory painting consisted in "striking the individual's dignity and honour, exposing him for a reasonable length of time to the mockery and contempt of the community" by means of a portrait painted on a public building, where the traitor to the city, the bankrupt and the murderer were depicted in debasing postures. Only a few of these paintings have come down to us, although justice decreed that, for three centuries, they should cover the walls of Parma, Bologna, Florence, Padua and Rome. This type of pictorial production has been examined essentially by art historians, who have focused on moments when the great painters of the 15th and 16th centuries devoted themselves to this activity: Andrea del Castagno, Botticelli, Andrea del Sarto. Moments which, paradoxically, tally with the period when the practice in question lost momentum and then vanished. It is reckoned that the very last instance when this punishment was applied dates back to 1537, in Florence, "when Lorenzino de Medicis was painted on the fortress as a traitor, hung by a foot, head down, guilty [...] of having murdered his cousin Alexander(3)", duke of Florence. This is an amazing conclusion, overlooked by Musset, where we see Lorenzaccio debase himself, oblige his real nature to ignominy and impurity in order to get close to his cousin and kill him, and end up exposed to public contempt by way of a defamatory effigy. Because these images have turn by turn summoned up the art historian and the historian of attitudes, and prompted a commentary on their place in the pictorial tradition like an analysis of their psycho-sociological function, they form an epistemological and highly debatable though practical thread upon which other images can conveniently be read--images of singularity or strangeness, self-proclaimed for its part, that of artistic idiocy instead of defamatory punishment. A comparative study of these two sources would derive advantage, as a mere guarantee, from the critical experiment conducted by Aby Warburg. Or how, driven to invent a discipline which, like his famous library, would be "a collection of documents about the psychology of human expression", Warburg in fact facilitated this "iconology of the interval" which he hoped for in a note dated 1929. The punitive singularization of the pillory sheds light on what modern idiocy imposes on, or suggests, to, the artist in terms of deviant behaviour. And one thinks of the great majority of American artists working on the west coast since the 1960s, a tradition handed down to the latest generation by now mythical figures like Paul McCarthy, Raymond Pettibon and Mike Kelley. One also thinks of the eminently, and extremely idiotic history of extreme Belgian modernity, with Jacques Charlier, and Jacques LizŠne who introduces himself as an "artist of mediocrity, a petty master from LiŠge in the latter half of the 20th century", or the charcuterie-like self-portraits of the young Mr. Delmotte.

These defamatory self-portraits reveal more clearly the link between idiocy and infamy, where "infamy" should be broadly understood as close as possible to its etymological sources, thereby describing everything that clashes with la fama, in other words forced to the point of denial, renown, notoriety and incremetal name.

III/ Forging the senseless

"The pure work involves the elocutionary disappearance of the poet, who yields the initiative to words, by the clash of their mobilized unequalness".

St‚phane Mallarm‚, "Variations sur un sujet", in La Revue blanche, La Pl‚iade, Paris, 1945.

These non-heroic depictions contrast explicitly with a modernist mythology which, at a late stage, found its most decisive but also its most saturnine expression with Maurice Blanchot's pen. Blanchot is accommodating with regard to the Hegelian wager that art is "a thing of the past for us", and fond of the Mallarm‚an prospects from which one clearly sees the author absent himself form the work; he comes to think, in turn, that the Book "takes place all on its own: fact, being". Above all, "literature heads towards itself, towards its essence, which is its disappearance". (5)

Le Livre … venir opens with the song of the Sirens. which is not a song, simply its promise, extending an invitation to the abyss, "to vanish therein". "What would happen [...] if Homer could only tell tales in so much as, under the name of Ulysses, a Ulysses unshackled though static, he goes toward that place from which the power of speech and narration seems to be promised him, provided that he disappears(4)?" But Ulysses does not disappear, he remains on the surface, and to avoid plunging into the deep, has himself lashed to the ship's mast. And what is troubling here is the way Blanchot describes the appearance, the attitude of the hero subjected to and savouring the song from the depths: he contorts himself "ridiculously, with grimaces of ecstasy in the void"(4). Ulysses does not accept that he must vanish and ends up putting on a show, ridiculous and idiotic.

Akin to Ulysses with his preference for the artfulness and absurdity of his stratagem to the heroism and definitiveness of the dive, the modern artist often remains on deck, or, if he does dive, it is to make a bellyflop, because he lacks technique or because there is not enough water.

Huysmans: "Feeling that he had real talent, which artists should appreciate and the middle-classes revile, he hurled himself, head down, into the swamp of literature. Unfortunately, in the spot where he dived, there was not even a foot of water; he bruised himself so badly on the stones on the bottom that he emerged discouraged before even attempting to reach open water". This is a burlesque, here an unintentional one, suffered to the point of shame, on the leap into art, where there is a refusal of any depth. The issue was to reach the open sea, and vanish beyond the horizon, and there is an obligation to hoist oneself up, redeploy oneself, and re-incorporate the most ordinary of visibilities. Idiocy, here once more not claimed but suffered, overlaps with the impossibility of disappearing into the work, or following the sirens, of gaining access to absence by a trans-substantiation of the being in name, in the form of a signature.

Ulysses gesticulating, and flouting his fate and the power of myths within myth, is thus a distant cousin of Huysmans' abortive artist, for his part aspiring to the plunge, but doomed to stay on the surface, and confined to the grotesque sketch of his fiasco. Idiocy in art--which is deliberate idiocy, claimed and instrumentalized, is a way of standing up to disappearance, in other words, of casting doubt on the Blanchot-inspired hypothesis about what this disappearance might hold. Faced with the Christ-like and Promethean models which have been so often used to paint the destiny of modern artists, and faced with the figures of those sacrificed, we have the compromising alternative of Ulysses lashed to his mast, stupidly contorting himself, and refusing to take the plunge by dint of idiocy. This interplay of idiocy is, furthermore, nothing new for the son of Laertes. On another occasion at least this fake incoherence coincided with his fear of plunging, into war, as it happens. So he had not been married to Penelope for long, when the issue of the Trojan war came up. The love he felt for his young wife caused him to invent various ways and means of wriggling out of this campaign. In particular, he imagined mimicking the senseless, not to say insane. And to get the idea across that his mind was alienated, he took it upon himself to work sand beside the sea, with two different beasts, and sow salt there. But Palamedes, king of the island of Euboea, unearthed the pretence by putting the young Telemachus on the furrow line. Ulysses did not wish to harm his son, so lifted up the ploughshare, and thereby let it be known that his idiocy was just a sham.

IV/ Seeing disappearance, or not

The work is consequently doomed to idiocy if it is to exist as something modern. It must needs never have existed before itself, it must not acknowledge any lineage or genealogy. To borrow the examples envisaged by Blanchot, the works of Kafka, Mallarm‚, Val‚ry and Flaubert made their way into the history of their art by way of this primordial idiocy, and because of it, the specific and necessary form of their genius. And their authors experienced and saw their disappearance in those works. In every instance, according to Blanchot, this could be nothing other than a particular kind of suicide.

From Kafka to Kafka: Maurice Blanchot discusses things with a Kafka who can still not know who he will be, a young man who is not capable of imagining that a Metamorphosis will give rise to his disappearance. The artist: a subject that did not exist, does not cease any the less to exist in favour of the masterpiece. "Seeing disappearance". Seeing disappearance, his own, and being the wish and cause behind it, this is actually the formula proposed by Blanchot of the literary experience.

Something akin to the theological hypothesis, deemed to be heretical at the very least, that John Donne (1572-1631) put forward in his Biathanatos, published in 1644, 13 years after the poet's death. This treatise is known as being the first Christian apology for suicide. But above all, and in order to back up his theory, John Donne develops in this writing the idea that Christ took his own life. In so doing, he bases his thinking on passages in the scriptures, including the verse: "No one takes life from me, I give it" (John, X, 18).

And Borges comments thus: "Before Adam had been formed from the dust of the earth, before the firmament separated the waters with water, the Father knew already that the Son was to die on the cross, and he created the earth and the heavens to act as a theatre for this future death. In Donne's suggestion, Christ died an intentional death, and this means that the elements, the world and the generations of people, Egypt and Rome, Babylon and Judah were taken from nothingness to destroy him. Perhaps iron was created for nails, and thorns for the crown of mockery, and blood and water for the wound. This is the Baroque idea that we glimpse behind the Biathanatos--the notion of a God who builds the universe to construct the gallows".

With his quite specific ability to shed light on literary issues using a theological source, Borges simplifies this superposition of the mirror-like construction applied by Blanchot, and Donne's hypothesis of the divine suicide. The work of art, like the other creation--God's--hardly matter in their physical form, but they exist in the guise of a pretext--pretest of a place in fact, but a theatrical meeting place where the sacrifice must take place. A set, in a word, or an accessory.

Modernity has stirred up and obligingly reinforced these melancholy and saturnine Blanchot-based readings.

The idiocy decision, whose most radical or most burlesque argument is the absence of works, and non-production, thus seems clearly driven by a principle of contradiction. The idiotic decision not to create world-work in order to disappear into it presupposes that there is a preference for the option of creating nothing else but one's life in the world, with no works. Jacques Vach‚, Arthur Cravan, Roberto Bazlen, and Joseph Joubert have sidestepped the need for the work in this way.

When the work nevertheless comes into being, the emphasis of the artist himself and his figure, in a work, needless to add, but one with an idiotic spirit, casts a slur on the sacred element still held by art. This is how certain artists withstand their own disappearance in the work.

In 1974 we saw the burlesque and pathetic self-portraits of G‚rard Gasiorowski, complete with captions, including this one: "Somewhere with a dash of something deeply idiotic". Or Gasiorowski again mimicking the wounded artist, aping a kind of trepanned Apollinaire in a nightshirt that is too short. This is Magritte's Vache period, with some thirty canvases challenging the idea of him entertained by the Parisian Surrealists, and which earned him, by thus playing the fool, that famous threat issued by Eluard in the visitor's book in the Faubourg gallery: "He who laughs last laughs loudest". This sums up the entire work of Martin Kippenberger and Roman Signer.

We also have those limited cases where as long as the artist refuses to plunge into his own work, he stands against it, contests it or at least, like Ulysses defying the sirens, laughs at his own expense, and invents distances for himself. The best known case, obviously enough, is that of Erik Satie, interrupting the playing of his works, advising the public to go and do something else more interesting. Then there was Charles Lamb, friend of De Quincey and Coleridge, who was numbered among the most important writers in the English Romantic movement. Charles Lamb, author of The Essays of Elia which appeared as a collection in 1823, also had his first play put on the year before. The performance was a resounding failure and the dramatist himself was the first to get to his feet in the auditorium and boo his own work. Or the work is no longer a destiny where one must become engulfed, but an exterior, a sudden change of fortune that may be serious, even if one does not wish to remain attached to it.

Such cases of idiocy have nothing to do with the burlesque, which is designed to divert, and entertain. Or if it is a matter of diversion or distraction, this is not so much aimed at someone other than the person concerned by the subject and the intuition he has about his artistic status. The words distract and divert are thus understood in two accepted meanings, depending on whether it is the onlooker or the artist in question. Where the artist strives to deter his destiny, where, in other words, he quite literally tries to retrench, and divert his life from what art may hold out for it, the onlooker is eager to see distraction/diversion, in the sense of amusement, fun, and recreation.

V/ A whimsical Acapulco diver

In his Pan‚gyrique, Guy Debord achieves the optimum level of jaw-clenching tension where the resistance of the materials of the fictional and the real is felt. Debord announces more than a book, he looks for the note which will put the work in evident, i.e. indisputable, connection with the cathedral of words which, from age to age, from Saint Simon to Chateaubriand--the former "writing to the devil for immortality", to use the words of the latter who did likewise--managed to elevate their author to statue-like rank, and to scale with their century.

"All my life, I have only ever seen troubled times, extreme ravages in society, and huge destruction; I have taken part in these upheavals". If the author claims to develop an undertaking, he tosses out this incredible claim that, for him, will involve not so much reporting on the age as getting across the way this age is stripped of meaning, untranslatable beyond Guy Debord and his persona. Not that he can help us to penetrate the arcana like a well-informed guide, but because he was himself that age, embodying it and doing so in the very period of his revolutionary project. The project of the work as stated is vast and its author hoists himself up to a very great height to set the tone: something akin to the last dying embers of Romanticism at a very late stage when lyricism no longer applies to anybody except a handful of variety singers. The fact is that the height here is not motivated by any fear of ridicule but, as we shall see, by a desire for idiocy. Like a whimsical Acapulco diver, Debord the author, from his great height, and obviously on an overhang, will not dive. Pan‚gyrique is not constructed, wrapped in the bluster of his advertisement, its author will cynically exhaust the momentum in 80 short pages. Central to all this is drunkenness. Here, in a few wonderful and indulgent pages, we have the most direct avowal of this experience of idiocy.

Guy Debord suggests that we read the stormy chronicle of a time of upheaval. Where the work is concerned, we are entitled to the author's confession, revealing or confirming his passion for inebriation, this passion being the cause of the work's absence: "We see that all this has left me little time for writing, and this is just what is called for: writing should remain a rarity, because we need to have been drinking a long time before we come upon excellence".(7). So much bragging ending in a cackle intended to be explicitly idiotic and overdone in infamy, a tale rather of unravelling what was presented as infallible credibility: "I am, moreover, a little taken aback, I who have had to read so often, about myself, the most exaggerated slander and highly unfair criticisms, to see that, in the end of the day, thirty years, and more, have elapsed without a malcontent ever making much of my drunkenness as an at least implicit argument against my scandalous ideas; with the sole, albeit late-in-the-day exception of a piece of writing by a few young drug addicts in England, which revealed in about 1980 that I was then dulled by alcohol, and that I had ceased doing harm".(7). So Pan‚gyrique flags in a burlesque manner. A dangerous man will show you the esoteric thread of a period. A book will be the vestige of this historical evidence. The man in question is actually a drunkard who only knows how to talk about himself. All that remains is Guy Debord as Ulysses crossed with Diogenes, lashed to his mast, without any work, so that he will not vanish into them. The blank, black or white shots in his films attest in their own way to this decision to envisage creation only sparingly. Giving too many images might overlook the fact that the author introduces nothing about his persona. Paradoxical publicity for Debord placing his name, more paradoxically, in the midst of a work which he does not carry out and an image that he does not run.

VII/ Who are we laughing at?

"Katrine: I've come back to behave like a moron.

Stoffer: You can stay then. If you've really come back to behave like a moron... there's room for you."

Lars von Trier, The Idiots, scene 15.

With The Idiots, which is only valid because the wager of idiocy is made in it as much from the viewpoint of the direction as of the characters themselves, Lars von Trier signs a major work which is, in some ways, an answer to Bouvard et P‚cuchet, and winds up a century of idiocy. Lars von Trier, a convert to Catholicism, comes to idiocy at the end of an itinerary that has taken him from inhuman German guilt and the implicit, contemptible collaboration of all of Europe (Europa), to the hypothesis, spiced with mysticism and superstition, of a possible redemption (Breaking the Waves). Breaking the Waves anxiously examined--with an anxiety that rather revealed the beautiful, inane postcards hoping to communicate some certainty about the harmony of the Creation and the statistical possibility of Good--what the weight of the sins of mankind might add up to in terms of sacrifice.

With his last film, only idiocy seems capable to replying to this searching question of the creator with regard to the conditions of a subversion that would not compromise redemption. In its ludicrous glory, idiocy mingles the redemption of Christ and the infamy of Judas. Playing the idiot is committing that particular suicide of self-esteem; it is like doing away with the intellectual construction whereby we bring all our means into the picture, in order to exist in a social way. Needless to say, the idiot is also set apart, aloof. But handicap gives a different hue to a famous opening gambit of classical literature: Omnis homines qui sese student praestare.. ("All men who endeavour to be outstanding..."--Sallust), whatever the circumstances of their birth, and whatever their ambition: political, military, artistic or literary.

And Lars von Trier, it goes without saying, films his Idiots as an idiot himself. In other words, not by sacrificing his intelligence, but by betraying his art.

As for the idiots themselves, disconcerting reincarnations of Ulysses and the sirens, in the film they are often by a swimming pool, attracted by the water, and scared of it too. In ordinary civilian life, they are sales abd marketing people, teachers, doctors...In fact, they are artists, or revolutionaries, and it is beside the pool, hesitating to plunge in, that they put their passion to the test. Even when they are in the water, as in scene 17, the idiots show a panicked fear of the water's depth, and going under. Lars von Trier's script notes: "Everything is quite normal in the swimming pool when Henrik suddenly rises up out of the water, among the swimmers. He has four cork buoys with him, as well as waterwings and two boards. The people stare at him. He swims to the shallowest part of the pool, looking frightened. The others shout and scream, and jump up and down on the edge of the pool."

It is around this figure--the way we might describe an obligatory sports test--of the dive and disappearance that he mechanically implies, that we have sketched two contradictory trajectories of the modern artist: on the one hand, the Blanchot-like wager, serious and with its suicidal connotations, of the work as form and ritual of offering; on the other hand, taking sides with the idiot, an option that is both lively and unfortunate, precisely in a period when, by tradition, it has been decided to no longer bewail in the open sea for a crowd of sirens.

And yet this means asking ourselves, a little later, about what these two options might have that is phonily contradictory, the two options being the Christ-artist and the Ulysses-artist, the former being self-sacrifice, and the latter, the spectacle of self.

In the modern tradition bent on seeing the artist as a Christ, some people have gone for just the idiocy of Christ, the better to unravel, in the absence of sacrifice, what they deemed to be false. The Biathanatos suggests this as well, that the Messiah is nothing in so much as his sacrifice does not detract from his human part. This human part and this divine part which, in fact, form Christ as idiot--a demanding and perfect idiot that cannot be achieved, to this degree, by the person who is only singular in the horde of his species, and is not God, either, who is everything in the totality of his eternity. Let us bear in mind that it is because he could not depict a Christ that Dostoyevsky would produce Prince Myshkin. Let us also bear in mind that according to Champfleury's quintessential Histoire de la caricature antique et moderne (1866), the very first identifiable caricature, per se, is a chalk drawing, found in a Roman catacomb, depicting a grotesque, donkey-headed Christ. It is from the height of this ideal idiocy that the Saviour calls on the blessed. In the Sermon on the Mount, as St. Matthew recounts it, we are told who exactly they are: "they are those who mourn, the meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, and those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake". But in the very first Beatitude, they are called the "poor in spirit". This is a moving image of the Man-God in the perfect idiocy of his incomparable nature, giving in to the hecatomb to save other creators who, in no longer taking themselves for Christ, will yield to imperfect idiocy, otherwise put an idiocy that is lucid and sad, burlesque and profound, and quite simple human, and befitting modern times.

Translated from the French by Simon Pleasance & Fronza Woods

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