Porn as Art

Perhaps since Duchamp's 1917 "Fountain" the discussion of 'what is art?' has become obsolete. That is, of course, if we accept the notion that any given object becomes art if chosen and presented as such by the artist to a responsive public. Any argument about boundaries between art and non-art thus becomes trivial, as the realm of the creative act is placed not on the isolated mind of the artist -where specific intent and bounded rules can exist- but rather on the dynamic dialog between artist and public, where boundaries and systems of meaning are constantly changing and flow freely. That may be the grand contribution of Duchamp's challenge: not quite the notion that 'anything can be art', but rather the notion that there is no definite verdict on the matter, as it is subject to constant negotiation between artist and public as they interact.

The realization that the creative act cannot be understood as a monolithic concept is not a new idea. It echoes a long-held school of thought in Theory of Knowledge that postulates that nothing can be seen as the same bounded entity by different observers under changing contexts. In other words, that the abstraction of a well-defined entity is in fact an oversimplification of its true relativistic nature. Rather than fixed entities, abstract concepts like Art or Power are unstable and dynamically defined through constantly shifting relations. From here we can safely derive Foucault's notion of Power, or the rhizomatic reading of Identity championed by contemporary Gender Theorists, for example. And this, in fact, is no different from our day-to-day realization that nothing is really black or white.

A fine debate on what constitutes Art vs. Porn continues to take place, nonetheless, now more ardently than ever (let us blame the Internet and its intense impact on the diversification and resignification of visual Art/Porn for this). In her recent work Art/Porn, Kelly Dennis arrives at the unsurprising conclusion that art and pornography are much closer than we think, that there is no uncomplicated distinction between the two. Her argument decries the cynical tendency of the modern mind to employ a monolithic conception of Art in order to set it apart from Porn. This tendency appeals to the antithesis between sight and touch as it relates to the distinction between visual and visceral pleasure. According to Dennis, we have (in modern times) artificially confined such distinction to the realm of Art, while routinely transgressing it in the realm of Porn. We would thus tend to regard an ancient sculpture depicting Aphrodite as artful but remote, for example,

while a modern photograph depicting Aphrodite we would tend to consider realistic but pornographic.

Yet if we take a closer look at ancient artworks representing human sexuality in their proper context, we find that they too transgressed the barrier between sight and touch: the Aphrodite of Knidos, for example, was known to be molested by male viewers throughout the IVc BC. The divide between visual/visceral pleasure as a hallmark in distinguishing between Art/Porn is thus often a fiction constructed by our modern mind. Similarly, we think of ancient Shunga Japanese Woodblock prints as erotic works of art

while in context they were no less than graphically explicit booklets used by lovers to train themselves in the art of lovemaking.

If there is no monolithic conception of what constitutes a work of Art, and if there is no easy division of sight/touch that permits our telling Art from Porn, then why has the notion that we can distinguish between them prevailed? We have historically recurred to the most arbitrary set of unspoken rules in order to keep this notion alive, even as we adapt to novel kinds of visual media. For example, the realistic depiction of nudity in photographs can be art, specially if black and white, witch faces concealed and confined to women breasts

Vaginas can be fine, but they have to be closed and the more concealed the better

Ultimately the same has to apply to penises, but they better not be erect

Unless the eye behind the camera is Mapplethorpe...

In the same way, the depiction of sex itself is typically a no-go, but some modern representations of sexual interactions occasionally get through the guarded gates of the Art world

The matter of full-color depictions is much more arbitrary, perhaps due to the unsettling effect on the observer that the full chromatic experience of realistic nudity enforces (imagine the ancient Greek Aphrodites painted with accurate tonalities). In this uncharted territory, color collages have typically held the best bets for hanging in the Art galleries, specially if charged with social criticism and explanatory text

and irrevocably no child nudity whatsoever is tolerated (even if you are Brooke Shields and you are presented in the Tate Modern).

However these modern policies came to be remains a matter of mere historical accidents. Looking back on older artworks -as recently as two or three centuries ago- we unequivocally find the full range of depictions of human sexuality that we so jealously confine to the realm of Porn in present times. Full-color depictions, faces shown, open vaginas and erect penises penetrating them are routinely found in works of Art from Western and Eastern civilizations. And many of these include children involved in sexual interactions, as is the case of Bronzino's "Allegory with Venus and Cupid" of London's National Gallery fame

The frescoes from public baths in Pompeii are there

the Japanese Shunga prints are there

and so are the Mayan stone sculptures.

What are the differences that lead us to distinguish between the nature of the Roman frescoes or the Shunga prints and that of modern 'pornographic' depictions then? The subject and the objects of depiction are shared (if not the medium of visual representation), and once placed in the appropriate context the systems of meaning and the intent behind the creative act of the artist coincide. It would thus seem that the only difference is our reaction to the works themselves, governed by the different ways in which we perceive them within our contemporary context. In other words, it is our part in the creative act what negotiates a differential interpretation of intrinsically equivalent depictions of human sexuality. The notion of an Art/Porn divide is thus borne out of our exercising the right to resignification as the receiving public, and so its prevalence is strictly up to our response to the piece of work presented. Is it then possible that cultural conditioning might lead us to consistently opt for maintaining an Art/Porn divide as we assess modern versus ancient works?

Perhaps Freud would propose that the persistent notion of the divide relates to a necessary separation between our inner 'impure' instincts and the socially acceptable 'pure' tendencies that results essential to establishing normative communities as we know them (modeled after our interpretation of classic civilizations, for good measure). But this is hardly consistent with the increasing number of communities where the norm is regular access to 'pornographic' material, and the taboo is not interacting with it openly. Porn is, after all, a highly populous industry, filling one-fifth of all sites on the World Wide Web. Indeed, as we increase our awareness of the growing role of Porn as a powerful force of cultural redefinition, the realm of Porn has gained increasing attention by the very scholars we typically associate with the realm of Art. The year 2002 saw in New York the opening of the first Museum of Sex ever, which gave a permanent setting to the constant transgression of the limits between scholarly research on human sexuality and its exploration through pornographic media. A very dynamic Museum of Porn in Art emerged in 2004 in the heart of Zurich, and this year saw a bold exploration of The Porn Identity in Vienna's KunstHalle gallery. As the focus on Porn as a scholarly subject gains momentum, the seemingly fixed boundaries thought to exist between artistic and pornographic expression fall under growing scrutiny.

Ultimately, whether Porn is viewed as Art would be up to the unstable interactions between artist and receiving audience that take place through the work presented, through how it is experienced aesthetically and how it is interpreted thematically, (just as Duchamp's reasoning would predict). Perhaps we will see the day in which to the eye of most observers a graphically explicit color depiction of sex constitutes a work of Art in and off itself

but we can safely limit ourselves to the Classical Tradition for now

Art from Lake Atitlan

What are the hallmarks of an art movement?

What level of thematic unity and uniqueness idenitify a novel school of art? When Monet, Renoir and Cezanne exhibited together for the Société Anonyme Coopérative des Artistes Peintres, Sculpteurs, Graveurs the perceived spirit of their work was a loose feel of independence and rebellion against the Salon de Paris. It was not until Leroy jokingly coined the term "Impressionists" that a perception of coherent unity was born. This is of course the fault of human nature. We can only understand the complexity of the world around us by oversimplifying it and condensing it in well-delimited terms. In philosophy it is called synthesis. In language it is called naming, putting labels. In science inferring a model. It should be understood as the tragic tendency to reduce the true ambiguity of the real world to abstract white-and-black systems. But these are, in any case, indispensable to the process of learning.

It is precisely through the act of naming that individuality is forged. There is hardly a self without a name for it that sets it apart from other. In art, without labels we are lost in a sea of loosely connected creations, a lawless country where objects, paintings are self-contained and escape any attempt of organized synthesis. With labels, on the other hand, we begin to quickly construct systems of meaning and perceptions of thematic unity that soon build safe boats to navigate that sea, ordered roads to explore that country. The trouble is, once we are armed with labels, how do we choose which requirements need to be satisfied to make up an art movement?

For about 80 years now, indigenous artists around Lake Atitlan in Guatemala have centered their work around colorful depictions of lively local scenery, with a latent presence of inherited Mayan mysticism. Their story is parallel to that of the beginnings of Western Art (which makes sense given the recent colonization of their people by the Western World): paintings were initially made on commission for wealthy patrons, who largely defined the subjects explored. As a consequence, two major themes have traditionally prevailed: views of the lake and depictions of the indigenous folklore of the peoples around it. Both themes share in common the recreation of a truly chromatic experience -in which a full palette of colors is not atypical- but while the views of the lake are mainly contemplative and devoid of human drama, the folklore paintings offer lively scenes with a wide range of human emotions:

While they can be considered as nothing more than pretty landscapes, the views of Lake Atitlan by the local masters are fully inhabited by their characteristic 'chromatic experience' effect. As a group, these works would have an analogous value to the series of 'Views of Mount Fuji' by the much loved woodblock print masters from Tokugawa Japan. But the folklore paintings have an endemic value of their own: they document the awakening of a Westernized artistic conscience among the heirs of ancient Mayan traditions. Perhaps the most original manifestation of this awakening is the 'fruit market' style, a popular genre where subjects trading in a fruit market are viewed directly from above:

Naturally, the artistic upheaval of Lake Atitlan painters mirrors that of the cognate movement among mid-century Mexican muralists, from which it receives considerable influence. Indeed, much like the depictions of indigenous peoples by Mexican muralists, the Atitlan folkloric scenery suffers from a conceptual framing within the ideology of 'Indigenismo'. While it represents the largest organized movement for cultural and political self-determination of Indigeneus peoples in Latin America, Indigenismo perpetuates a stereotypical view of natives as primitive, rudimentary beings plagated by wild instincts and deep superstitions. Traditional Lake Atitlan folkloric paintings fall into this ideological prison, emphasizing the primitive and the superstitious in their depictions:

These ideological missteps have a real impairing effect on the difficult situation of Indigenous art in the area. But one must acknowledge that they largely cater to the general perception of the heirs of Western colonizers who, at the end of the day, serve as finiancial sponsors. After all, one must appreciate the preference for themes that sell well among painters who earn at best $250 a month to support their families.

But time and increasing prosperity (specially benefitting from exhibitions abroad) are constantly pushing the artistic maturation of the Lake Atitlan school. Painters used to the fruit market style have diversified their art and explored novel possibilities:

Some have boldly introduced radical creations that celebrate the cultural richness and power over nature of the Lake Atitlan peoples:

while others have completely broken with tradition and have finally adventured to treat more esoteric themes, including surrealist portraits:

I recently strode along the streets of Panajachel, camera in hand, in search for those modern creations that preserve the artistic tradition of the Lake Atitlan school while exploring novel subject matters. I was captivaded -probably due to an inexplicable attraction towards blue skin- by this monumental nude, unapologetically erotic and decidedly mystic:

It is hard to homogenize the variety of themes and techniques found in modern Lake Atitlan paintings, yet you can always tell when you are looking at one of them. They continue to cater mainly to the specific demand of the market, but more and more they cultivate a style of their own. Do they see their trade as a means of self-expression or merely as a foreign trade they have mastered?

Even if we are tempted to declare 'Lake Atitlan Art' as a blossoming art movement, would the painters internalize such a perception? Would they take advantage of the naming process to forge an ideological identity of their own? The Impressionists were happy with Leroy's term, and only needed to deliver some resignification to forge the personality of their movement. Their own manifesto made it for the Dadaists, reclaiming from the critics a full ownership of the terms used to define and understand them. Who knows what would the masters from Atitlan do. Perhaps one day we will see the climax of lake views that unite both freedom of autonomous artistic abstraction and the contemplative power of an enchanting view.

A Tale of Joyce Statues and Wanderlust

When James Joyce stretched the stream of consciousness beyond known limits in Finnegans Wake, he knew people would be upset. Enough patience had been shed with Ulysses -let's face it, it is quite cryptic. He knew he'd be loved or hated, freed from the intransigent limbo of indifference. And what better hope may the poet secretly treasure than being precisely crowned with the laurels of love and hate. He probably also suspected that his disrespect for conventional form, if not more than typically modernist but at least boldly Irish, would make more than one victim reader suspect that James Joyce may in fact be, well, one of the paramount authors of his time. Allow for the fireworks and laudatory speeches to roll in then. But little did he hunch, however, the fate of becoming a universal cast for random guys wandering by streets and benches around the world.


Okay, it would have been hard to guess. Throughout history leaders have been sculpted riding horses, philosophers sitting in pensive postures, and war heroes killing some kind of beast (mythological beasts preferred to avoid animal rights trouble). But how do you depict James Joyce? Two things come to mind: he was blind, and he drank his life away. In fact, no depiction could have been more faithfully accurate than him galloping a good old pint of Guinness across the table, gladly inviting viewers to join for the 37th one. Alright, so he better be blind at least, add the stereotypical glasses and a walking cane. Looking at the sky or at a non-existing horizon preferred:



(how else could he have crossed the street incognito?)


This sketch of a statue alone is enough to gain some trace of conspicuousness. Or at least you are guaranteed that if one day you are lost and handsomely clueless in a random city, you will most likely meet with a random James Joyce statue who is just as lost and clueless. I speak from experience, from at least four different random cities in four countries spanning two continents.

One day you are lost in Trieste, cross the Gran Canale (by the Orthodox church) and before you could ask for orientation there he is:

crossing the street just as clueless as you are.

Some time later in a random place in Croatia, the coastal town of Pula, you take the wrong shortcut (or those tourist-hating locals mislead you), and around the corner timelessly trapped in an unnamed cafe the paramount author of his time is there

inexplicably waiting for the time to figure out where to go next.

Dubliners had to catch up with the tradition, of course, and so a second Joyce monument meets you in the city when you are trying to figure out your way towards St. Patrick's cathedral:


now this is the definitive Joyce, off with the hat and a little more focused, necessarily greenish and sitting like the universal citizen in a random bench. This was indeed the one they chose for the not-so-random city of Zurich:


There is no secret to these scattered sculptures. Famous writers get plenty of statues, in many places, and James Joyce was indeed heavily stricken by wanderlust.

But another realization comes along: Joyce spent his life in (almost) rigorous self-exile from Ireland, yet remained locally-based, Dublin-based, in all of his novels. Joyce has been widely regarded as cosmopolitan par excellence but at the same time the iconic Irish local writer by trade. Might this duality somehow transform him into a symbol for the universal wanderer?

Joyce knew what was right: you may base some sentimental aesthetics on the homeland, but you inhabit the world as one sole yet diverse country. Patriotism then becomes naturally a hopeless folly, and local traditions a beautiful but imprisoning realm to be wary of. So seem to tell us Joyce the Dubliner, the Triestino, the coffee man from Pula or even the Swiss and the Parisian Joyce, who incessantly confirm and abandon multiple traditions in arbitrary places.

Not surprisingly, but decidedly endearingly, when a fake city built in the Disney world in Orlando seeks out to legitimize itself as a cosmopolitan locale, they had to include the respective Joyce statue:


quietly lost sitting by the bench, waiting to meet you.

The Importance of the Man with Bowler Hat and Umbrella

Most people underestimate the importance of the man with bowler hat and umbrella. So many distorted versions are taking place out there, right now, that the true man with umbrella and bowler hat might never see the shining light of truth again.

First of all, the requirements are very specific. He must be wearing a tuxedo, a black one. No white stripes or funny pants, please. Obviously, he must be wearing a bowler hat. Black, appropriately curved, sizes vary (a little). Magician-hat versions are a rip-off. Then there is the issue of the umbrella. It also has to be black, and it needs to cover the entire figure. No red or multi-colored umbrella monkey business. Then the man also needs to be only a silhouette looked from behind. You can't see the front, that's the whole point, gentlemen. There is debate about whether it needs to be a plain black silhouette, on the other hand. Finally, this is the most important part: it cannot be raining. I know, how could it.

These two winners to the left are the best prototypes.

Second of all, there are a million twisted myths about the man with bowler hat and umbrella out there. Some have it that the first one was Rene Magritte himself. This is a common misconception. He did all sorts of things with umbrellas. And painted at least a hundred men with bowler hats -in fact, you could say he invented the Man with Bowler Hat theme- but were they ever holding an umbrella? were they? No folks, Magritte was careful enough not to get mixed up here.

In fact, the myth must arise from this picture (of over a hundred flying men with bowler hats, none of them is wearing an umbrella -that's a briefcase!):


You can actually see the mystery falling down on your screen here. Then our regular fellow will say that it was probably Chaplin. As in, if it had a bowler hat and an umbrella, then it was probably Chaplin, or that other guy with a fat friend in the black and white movies.

No folks, they showed their faces and did not have a tuxedo.. so officially out of contest. It wasn't the Italian Toto, either --it was raining!

So where did the man come from? We cannot know, but we have some clues of where he's going. In the past decades it has been earning a living with American IT companies:


And some have even added a fellow child, for good company:

But these might be just the children of the man with bowler hat and umbrella. Cases have been known of claims to the lineage everywhere around the world, in fact. Introducing the African man with hat and umbrella:

the Chinese one:

the New York one:

and even the Mexican one:

What does the man with umbrella and bowler hat tell us? Does it mean anything or is it just there? The surrealists were quick to find inspiration as a symbol for mankind:

Even van Gogh gave it a try with his pencil, but he definitely got the wrong hat:

For filmmakers, the potential to 'show' the man with bowler hat and umbrella was clear, but in the end they had to show the face. A new wave of artists are now picking up the theme, and some of the modern men with bowler hat and umbrella are simply fascinating:

some of them break the rules but are equally fascinating:

The emotional load of the man with bowler hat and umbrella is infinitely tendering. Strangely enough, to some of us it inspires heart-rending solitude, introspection, while to others it represents hope, the certainty of the unbound possibilities of the future.

Are some of these meanings even close to what the man with bowler hat and umbrella has to say?

And most importantly, who is the man with bowler hat and umbrella?? That is the point.

Mapping Leonard Cohen's A Thousand Kisses Deep

A poem is not a dead leaf, on the ground lifeless and static, but a butterfly with wings and lives of its own. Like a burning flame, you cannot get hold of it in your hands. A poem is always under construction, amorphous and constantly reinventing itself, like a Borges' fiction --it had always been there but it will always be in the making.

A Thousands Kisses Deep, by Leonard Cohen, is one such movable feast. The faithful have defended an arbitrary date, September 21, 1998, as the absolute birth of the poem, as featured in The Blackening Pages:

1. You came to me this morning
And you handled me like meat.
You´d have to live alone to know
How good that feels, how sweet.
My mirror twin, my next of kin,
I´d know you in my sleep.
And who but you would take me in
A thousand kisses deep?

2. I loved you when you opened
Like a lily to the heat.
I´m just another snowman
Standing in the rain and sleet,
Who loved you with his frozen love
His second-hand physique -
With all he is, and all he was
A thousand kisses deep.

3. All soaked in sex, and pressed against
The limits of the sea:
I saw there were no oceans left
For scavengers like me.
We made it to the forward deck
I blessed our remnant fleet -
And then consented to be wrecked
A thousand kisses deep.

4. I know you had to lie to me,
I know you had to cheat.
But the Means no longer guarantee
The Virtue in Deceit.
That truth is bent, that beauty spent,
That style is obsolete -
Ever since the Holy Spirit went
A thousand kisses deep.

5. (So what about this Inner Light
That´s boundless and unique?
I´m slouching through another night
A thousand kisses deep.)

6. I´m turning tricks; I´m getting fixed,
I´m back on Boogie Street.
I tried to quit the business -
Hey, I´m lazy and I´m weak.
But sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go
A thousand kisses deep.

7. (And fragrant is the thought of you,
The file on you complete -
Except what we forgot to do
A thousand kisses deep.)

8. The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat.
You win a while, and then it´s done -
Your little winning streak.
And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it´s real
A thousand kisses deep.

9. (I jammed with Diz and Dante -
I did not have their sweep -
But once or twice, they let me play
A thousand kisses deep.)

10. And I´m still working with the wine,
Still dancing cheek to cheek.
The band is playing "Auld Lang Syne" -
The heart will not retreat.
And maybe I had miles to drive,
And promises to keep -
You ditch it all to stay alive
A thousand kisses deep.

11. And now you are the Angel Death
And now the Paraclete;
And now you are the Savior's Breath
And now the Belsen heap.
No turning from the threat of love,
No transcendental leap -
As witnessed here in time and blood
A thousand kisses deep.

A second version of this scripture appeared in 2001, it made it to the record Ten New Songs:

The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat.
You win a while, and then it’s done –
Your little winning streak.
And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it’s real,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
You lose your grip, and then you slip
Into the Masterpiece.
And maybe I had miles to drive,
And promises to keep:
You ditch it all to stay alive,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

Confined to sex, we pressed against
The limits of the sea:
I saw there were no oceans left
For scavengers like me.
I made it to the forward deck
I blessed our remnant fleet –
And then consented to be wrecked,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
I guess they won’t exchange the gifts
That you were meant to keep.
And quiet is the thought of you
The file on you complete,
Except what we forgot to do,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat…

Transfiguring to the evanescent presence of a spoken poem, with freshened strength and more personal than ever, a new revelation appeared to the careful listeners of a 2007 concert:

Now on tour, Leonard's words have truly taken a life of their own, reverberating with new colors and constantly changing meanings at every single venue. Reports have it of new versions in London, Montreal, Australia... which have all but confirmed how fruitless the enterprise of trapping this poem in our hand, in a piece of paper, would be. A good fellow in Australia has faithfully documented this most recent version in 2009: