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MLN, Volume 129, Number 2, March 2014 (Hispanic Issue), pp. 412-432
(Article)
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DOI: 10.1353/mln.2014.0015
Eugenio Di Stefano
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1
I have written about the limitations of human rights elsewhere. See my essay From
Revolution to Human Rights in Mario Benedettis Pedro y el Capitn. Some of these
limitations will be discussed in the last section of this essay. Scholars such as Williams,
Gundermann and iek have also critiqued aspects of human rights discourse.
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Eugenio Di Stefano
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Botero stresses that he was inspired not by the photos but by reading
several articles, including Seymour Hershs New Yorker essay, the first
major essay that reported on the violations (Juan Carlos Botero 16);
Boteros mention of Hershs essay highlights the fantasy not only to
create an image from one that was not there, but also to produce a
distance from the photos that were found everywhere. We also see this
distancing in the collections complete absence of references to iconic
photos such as the hooded man, Sabrina Harmans smile or even
Lynndie England holding a leash.6 In fact, the perpetrators, who are
present in most of the iconic photos, smiling and posing, are almost
nonexistent in the paintings. Instead, the paintings illustrate prisoners
who are agonizingly by themselves, suffering in dark corridors, confined to their cells and their own immediate pain. Moreover, the rich
tones of the figures who are painted in deep, saturated yellows and
reds intensify the presence of these rotund bodies in pain. As several
critics have suggested, Boteros Abu Ghraib brings to mind Baroque
representations of Christian martyrdom.7 Yet, this gesture toward the
Baroque in Boteros Abu Ghraib has less to do with a theme or style
than with a certain exaggeration of aesthetic form that is vital to the
Baroque; that is, the commitment to the amplified figurative representation marks a shift away from the grainy realism of the photos. The
idea here is that Boteros series attempts neither to create another
version of the photos, nor to reproduce the pain that the photos
make evident. Instead, the idea is that Abu Ghraib sets out to create a
space in which Abu Ghraib can exist without the photos. That is, the
distance between the photos and these representations functions to
assert a space for aesthetic form.
A closer look at the composition of these paintings reaffirms this
investment in aesthetic form in relation to the photos. In Boteros Abu
Ghraib, one is immediately struck not only by the absence of perpetrators, but also by the prisoners who never look outward toward the
beholder. Unlike, for example, the iconic photo of Harmans smile,
Boteros figures are either looking off to the side, blindfolded, or have
their bare backs openly facing us. These figures deliberately turn away
from us, denying not only our presence, but also whatever reaction
we may be experiencing. This disregard for the beholder is doubled
by other techniques that are internal to the paintings, techniques
6
For an intriguing discussion on the abuses that occurred in Abu Ghraib prison and
their relationship to the photos, see Errol Morriss documentary Standard Operating
Procedure and his book Believing Is Seeing: Observations on the Mysteries of Photography.
7
See, for example, Emory and Danto.
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that not only point inward toward the lives of these representational
subjects, but also produce a sort of spatial fissure between these figures
and the beholder. For example, in Abu Ghraib 56 we see two prisoners that are hooded and turned away from the beholder, facing each
other, one looking upward toward the sky, perhaps praying, while the
other prisoner is forced to look downward, as a blue glove from a
military police pushes him forward. Prison bars, noticeably, are placed
between the prisoners and the beholder, which, as the critic and artist
Juan Carlos Botero notes, creates a sort of distance, a visual barrier
between the viewer and the brutality of the scene (20). Abu Ghraib
65 presents another version of this distance between the beholder
and the figures in the paintings by adding a perspectival movement
toward a vanishing point. Here, a hooded prisoner stands in a long
corridor, hands tied behind his back and ankles shackled; his naked
body is turned away from us, turned toward the end of the corridor
where a barred window lets in some light. The painting directs us first
to his body and then farther toward the end of the corridor, away from
our position as viewers, away from whatever experience we may feel.
What these prisonerswho are utterly absorbed in their own realityreveal, and what these visual barriers reconfirm, is less a physical
or emotional distance than a conceptual distance that functions to
reinforce a space for the work of art. Indeed, these figures, who turn
figuratively from the photos and literally from the beholders, serve to
better delineate and define the aesthetic proper. As such, we might
say that Boteros Abu Ghraib finds its theoretical equivalent in what
Michael Fried has called absorption. In his 1980 book Absorption and
Theatricality, Fried examines a period of French painting that centers on
the work of Diderot, and how this shift away from the beholder came
to be a primary concern for painters of this period. Fried describes
absorption as paintings that treated the beholder as if he were not
there (5). For Fried, absorption, of course, does not signify that the
artist does not paint, in part, with the beholder in mind, but rather,
it provides the most effective account of art as a supreme fiction,
demanding an absolutely perspicuous mode of pictorial unity (103).
Here, the supreme fiction and unity of art reflect a commitment
not to a certain genre or style, but rather to marking an autonomous
aesthetic space that lives outside the beholder and his experience.
That is, absorption offers the clearest theoretical conception of the
creation of aesthetic form. In this way, the importance of the absorbed
figures in Boteros Abu Ghraib is found not only in its refusal of the
iconic photos, which have triggered strong affective responses in
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Eugenio Di Stefano
beholders, but also in the reassertion of its status as art that renders
the beholder and his experiencepolitical or otherwiseirrelevant.8
Which leaves open the question whether Boteros Abu Ghraib is less
invested in presenting a political testimony that denounces a pattern
of criminal behavior in open defiance and contempt of international
humanitarian conventions (Sontag) than in asserting a space of
aesthetic form that may in fact come at the expense of these politics.
As the title of Frieds book makes clear, absorption intersects with the
idea of theatricality, a type of painting that not only openly acknowledges, but also demands the absolute presence of the beholder and
his lived position. Theatricality, according to Fried, becomes central to
minimalist work beginning in the 1960s, but it also becomes central,
as I want to suggest here, to works depicting torture in a more recent
moment. In fact, unlike Boteros absorptive project, many recent
paintings depicting torture are theatrical, including Leon Golubs
Interrogation II (1981), which illustrates two mercenaries smiling at
the beholder, while they torture a person sitting in a chair. Boteros
collection is also quite different from other artistic projects that relate
to Abu Ghraib, such as Gerald Laings American Gothic (2004), that
uses the backdrop of Grant Woods painting, and replaces the farmers
with American MPs Lynndie England and Charles Graner. With their
thumbs up, both look directly and triumphantly at the beholder. Graner smirks and England smiles, while right below lies a pile of naked
Iraqi prisoners. These recent theatrical works make the beholder
structurally essential to the composition, for they not only look at, but
also attempt to interpellate the viewer. Or again to return to the critic
Juan Carlos Botero, these theatrical works demand that: there is no
space between us and the victim, since we share the same visual reality.
That is to say that we are not only direct witnesses to this barbarity,
we are also included within it, whether we like it or not, and thus we
participate in the horror (20).9 Juan Carlos Boteros observation is
important since it highlights a crucial theoretical point. The idea here
is not the simple connection that the beholder maintains with the
horror, but rather that the beholder ceases to be a beholder and,
8
It should be noted that the Abu Ghraib photos were shown in New Yorks International Center of Photography in September 2004 and also in the Andy Warhol Museum
in Pittsburgh. This point reveals that while the gallery exhibition of the photos, in a
sense, blurs the lines between art and life, the paintings seek instead to insist on the
aesthetic world.
9
Juan Carlos Boteros claim is made about several pieces in Boteros Abu Ghraib. Although I disagree with this reading of Boteros paintings, I have cited him here because
his claim perfectly embodies the political gesture of theatrical art.
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edge, and for this reason they are leading partners with powerful
bureaucracies and technocracies of meaning (Residues 5).12 More to
the point, what is wrong with representation is that it is symptomatic
of an epistemic mode that endorses a logic in which questions of
truth, belief, meaning, intention and interpretation are intimately
connected to modernization and capitalist production. For Richard,
then, even though a testimony or a human rights monument may
draw awareness to these abuses, the medium in which it is expressed
nevertheless promotes, albeit implicitly, the logic of authoritarianism
in the dictatorship and neoliberal consensus in postdictatorship (18).
The attacks on aesthetic unity and representation are also paramount to political accounts of the testimonio as a form that promotes
international human rights and solidarity (Beverley, Margin 37).
George Ydice, who champions the testimonial narrative and who
undoubtedly disagrees with Richards account of realism and the
testimonial form in particular, nevertheless situates the testimonio,
like Richard, in opposition to representation: the speaker does not
speak for or represent a community but rather performs an act of
identity-formation (42). Similarly, John Beverley sees the testimonio
as an anti-literary endeavor that breaks with literature and the literary, both of which have been intrinsically tied to bourgeois writing
since the Renaissance(Margin 35). Like Richard, Beverley connects
conventional representation and art to a reactionary politics. Furthermore, for all these critics, what is integral is not simply an attack
on representation or art, but also the fact that their critique has less
to do with the content these forms represent than with the question
of whether they do or do not represent. That is, texts that endorse
human rights are imagined less as representing human rights than as
drawing us within the world in which these violations occur. Unlike
Boteros absorptive project, the testimonio and Richards description
of the neo-avant-garde actively seek to eliminate the divide between
the aesthetic world and the political world. In brief, they attempt
transform art into a real-life event that one must experience.
12
In an interview with Idelber Avelar, Richard has argued that conventional art, like
paintings, belongs to the subjective realm and is ultimately selfish. The avanzada, on
the other hand, is envisioned as a reaction to the cult value of painting and other
conventional forms by stressing the indeterminate nature of the object that seeks to
break out of the self-referential and elitist nature of art (Escena 261).
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13
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questions about the abuses and violations brought about by the State
and not the political beliefs that brought about the conflicts in the
first place, namely, the ideological disagreement between liberalism
and communism. During the 1960s and early 1970s, communism was
envisioned chiefly as a project to eradicate class inequality and the
system that sustained it. What this means is that while the Left in the
1960s and 1970s wanted to eliminate the capitalist state that produced
inequality, the Left in power today wants to remember the past as a
moment in which life, citizenship, and human rights were violated.17
The idea here is important because it reveals that the investment in
memory today revolves around remembering these human rights
abuses and not an anti-capitalist project that had little to do with
protecting individuals from state abuses.
The absence of an anti-capitalist Left and its replacement with a
human rights Left is felt everywhere, as the neoliberal policies of the
last thirty years have only increased the level of economic inequality
throughout Latin America. Indeed, despite the rise of the Left in the
last decade, Latin America continues to have the highest levels of
inequality anywhere in the world. In a certain sense, this shouldnt be
a surprise because the Left, since coming to power, has done very little
to alter the neoliberal policies that were first put in place by the Right.
To be sure, while it is true that in the last two decades, human rights
justice regarding punishing perpetrators has improved, and while it
is also true that the Left does a better job of treating the poor as fellow citizens and representing them within the national imaginary, the
objective of the Left in the 1960s and 1970s was not to respect or even
do a better job of representing the poor, but rather to eliminate the
conditions that created the poor; that is, to eliminate the system that
produced poverty. Today, the Lefts commitment to the poor under
human rights involves not eradicating poverty, but treating poverty
primarily as a part of a discriminatory practice that limits democracy;
the problem with poverty, according to this logic, is that it unfairly
prohibits full participation in the benefits of living in a liberal society.
At the same time, the main attack leveled at the Right by the Left
today is that it continues its unjust practices against not only victims
of past human rights abuses, but also the poor, women, indigenous
peoples, etc. That is, the principal accomplishment of the Left, and the
17
I have written about this transformation from revolutionary subjects to human
rights citizens elsewhere. See my article From Shopping Malls to Memory Museums:
Reconciling the Recent Past in the Uruguayan Neoliberal State.
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Eugenio Di Stefano
See Castaedas book, which lays the foundation for this project in the early 1990s.
18
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about the meaning of the text into experiences that inform our various subject positions.
Insofar as human rights affect is the dominant discourse today
that is, insofar as what counts is that the victims experience is our
ownit does so by imagining that beliefs about the meaning of a
text are secondary to feeling the pain of the other. This evacuation of
beliefs by the critics discussed in this essay not only situates Boteros
paintings exclusively within the discourse of human rights, but also
envisions past anti-capitalist projects in Latin America as if they were
Abu Ghraib. This ideologythat is, the moral utopia of human rights
and affectnot only keeps us from talking about the world in different ways, but also keeps us thinking up new technologies to imagine
human rights as the only project for the Left that counts. Today, the
mobilization of affect on behalf of human rights is perhaps the most
persuasive discursive strategy within cultural criticism through which
the Left comes not only to forget its commitment to class equality,
but also, and importantly, to endorse neoliberalism today.
Nevertheless, if we read the human rights project in this way, that is,
that representations of violence in Latin America are meant to make
the beholder complicit in human rights rather than open to interpretation, then Boteros paintings, in their insistence on absorption
and aesthetic form, can be considered as a crucial intervention within
Latin American art and criticism. My point is not that this aesthetic
world prevents us from sympathizing with the figures or even identifying with the pain of those who were tortured. Nor does it prevent us
from understanding that feelings are fundamental to the paintings.
Rather, the paintings insistence on interpretation rather than experience highlights that Boteros series, as artwork, is not reducible to the
beholders experience of it. In brief, insofar as the paintings make
evident that the experience of the object cannot be the experience of
the subject, they assert not only a space for interpretation, but also a
theoretical possibility of thinking outside the world of human rights.
In this way, in a contemporary moment where antagonistic political
and aesthetic beliefs are seen increasingly as less relevant, Boteros
Abu Ghraib insists on a structural position where beliefs are considered paramount. The argument of this essay has not been to suggest
that Botero intentionally rejects human rights; nor is the point that
he intentionally rejects the market (despite the fact that he refuses
to sell any of the pieces in the Abu Ghraib series. We are, in fact, talking about an artist whose commercial fame outside of Latin America
can only be matched by that of Isabel Allendes). Rather, the idea
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is that the aesthetic (i.e. creating a space for the aesthetic proper)
rather than experience (i.e. eliminating a space between the art and
the beholder) provides a theoretical position from which the viewer
can move away from human rights immediacy and complicity. That
is, in the face of human rights theatricalityemblematic of the testimonio and neo-avant-gardeBoteros Abu Ghraib asserts a position
where beliefs, interpretation and representation are still understood
as crucial. In this way, Boteros series, perhaps unexpectedly, reveals
the importance of the aesthetic today, as a space where human rights
ideology is not simply made visible, but also, and more importantly,
contested as a project that endorses present-day neoliberal policies.
In short, Boteros Abu Ghraib provides an opening that allows us to
think beyond the limits of the last utopia of human rights and the
supremacy of neoliberalism today.
University of Nebraska, Omaha
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