Magazine article Artforum International

Jonathan Borofsky: What Is Dragging Me?

Magazine article Artforum International

Jonathan Borofsky: What Is Dragging Me?

Article excerpt

When God Art Happens to Bad People

Adorno pointed out that our biggest tragedy under modernity is that we're not even tragic! Denuded of Specialness under consumer culture, we fail to distinguished our selves even in our moments of failure--our failure to be masterful, to be strong, to be fashionable, or even to adequately express our inadequacy. Maurice Blanchot made a brilliant career working the constitutional "worklessness of his favorite 20th-century art genuises, who would repeatedly disappear as they emerged into the lofty death of their work--the art object, the impossible site of increased existenmce where they were free to be misread, misunderstood, misused by readers even less graced than themselves, lower down on the esthetic food chain, and doomed to the even more ignoble fate of not even "failing" to represent themselves properly. We encounter every new and improved expression of this worklessness with a mixture of gratitude and chagrin: gratitude that our familiar private torpor is being validated and expressed, but also, even more ignobly, charin (how dare he make work out of my blockage--the stuff I think I have to throw out before I even get started! How dare he start and finish precisely where I hestitate to begin!). When we encounter this work, this workless work, we see our own worklessness reflected back to us by the more enterprising soul; when a Higher Esthetic Power achieves this amazing reversal of torpor into plentitude, we feel liberated--and doubly unworthy! This reaction is obscence.

When we get destroyed rather than fortified by what is strong and good, and when we allow this situation to cross the threshold of conmsciousness, we're talking about a level of late-cultural perversity, something exquisite, even, that only the truly Special can dilate upon, share, and appreciate. Rudely snapped back to reality, we are not even permitted the absurb private tradegy of our own thwarted narcissism--our worklessness--our precious toropor, the luxurious delay that is also the infinite protential to do anything as long as we don't do it yet.

While it is practically a modern institution for the artist to emerge as Star Nobody, failure, and loser, unable to finish or perfect either the work or the life, Andy Warhol took the cult of the Nobody to its fullest flower by transvaluing the "nothing," the wannabe, the rut, into a positive thing. By confusing nobodies with Superstars, and vice versa, through the magic of media overexposure, Warhol performed the ultimate public service by setting up secondhand experience, identities, and feelings as the jackpot, rather than the consolation prize that Reality keeps on giving us. At the same time, in keeping with his paradoxical genius, he also made subsequent nobodies ever after feel like even bigger zeros, because they'll never be as big and as successful a nobody as Warhol. Like a human TV, he said yes to the transvaluation of values between Fame and Boringness, Boringness and Fame--to the effective confusion between the producer and the consumer, between the supermodel and the drip. If Warhol made the most radical esthetic gesture of the past 30 years by confusing the original and the copy, he opened the way for the reactive antimastery masters of the '80s, when art stars outdid each other with new and improved expressions of the person as buy-product of representation, culminating in Jeff Koons' spiritual fitness plan as a kind of ultranormalized cultural lab specimen, inviting everyone to "become him," to abjectly emulate his fate as the cheerful mirror of banality in the form of luxe kitsch. …

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