The Completion of Romanticism in Modernism
(Lecture Notes)
Rajiv C Krishnan
The founding moment of Modernism, represented by the early polemical writings of TE Hulme, Wyndham Lewis, Ezra Pound and TS Eliot, was presided over by a strong and openly declared antipathy towards Romanticism.
The ascesis of Imagism was meant as a counterforce to the profligacy of Romantic poetic practice, just as the dictional overhaul carried out by Romanticism was meant to overcome the rigidities of Neoclassical poetry.
And it was the fatigue of the lyric forms and modes patronized by Romanticism that made the Modernist experimentation with form both necessary and inevitable.
Thus it would appear that Modernism’s practices of discontinuity, juxtaposition and fragmentation are also reverberated in its relationship with Romanticism.
But, strenuous as the Modernist claim of autonomy and of divergence from Romanticism may be, the moment one tries to unpack the differences between these rival poetic ideologies, the more the continuities between the two seem to be. Keats is the representative of the sort of Romanticism that makes Modernism clearly post-Romantic. It is in the nature of a rhetorics of hatred and difference that the inability to acknowledge affiliations and guilt takes the form of vehement and irrational fear and suspicion
One of the problems that Modernism inherited from the Romantics was the experience of alienation—between man and nature, self and objects. Poem after poem bemoans this separation:
Ode on Intimations of Immortality
The Daffodils
Ode to a Nightingale
Skylark
West Wind
The paradigmatic moment is expressed as the vertigo of identification.
The typical routine of the Romantic lyric then becomes the attempt to suture the gap between subject and object, man and nature, sensation and thought, thought and imagination, things and signs. The task of representation thus submits that which is already bridge—referentiality—to the scrutiny of purposes that cross the boundaries of mere reference. Words in the Romantic poem thus contract the obligation to refer, not just to objects, but also to that excess that is represented by meanings and significances—an excess that describes the human self in all its creativity and power.
This appears to me to be one of the reasons why it becomes necessary for Romanticism to recruit the concept of the agential imagination.
The frequency with which objects appear in Romantic lyrics as proxy for the imagination—Shelley’s West Wind, Keats’ Nightingale, Wordsworth’s Skylark—shows the essential Romantic paradox of representation, which is that of representing that which exceeds the grasp of representation. And it is precisely because the Romantic object gets occulted behind the imagination—which is what names the human self—that Keats’ Nightingale is not a particular nightingale, but all nightingales. The Romantic fondness for prosopopoeia and the pathetic fallacy then reflects less a love of objects for their own sakes than the anxiety to reinstate the autonomy of the human self. This is also why the sensible moment of Romantic metaphor and narrative has to be interrupted in the interests of semantic and narrative closure. Our own embarrassment at what we call ‘Romantic description’ points to our own habits of expectation.
Keats’ ‘negative capability’ represents a Romantic ideal that is more an idea than an actual experience. And this is the very point at which Modernism, with its quest for impersonality, rejoins Romanticism.
But before I go on to take up a discussion of Modernism, let me make a few more points about Romantic representation.
It was the notion of the imagination that enabled the Romantic poets to present the self as more than just a bundle of perception, as a whole that is more than the sum of its parts. By extension, they also had to resist the idea of the poem as a residue of perceptions and as a degraded form of truth.
But the reappearance of the external world in thought and expression, and the echo of sensations in words always had to be at the expense of the imagination.
And this brings me to the one great distinction that separates Romanticism from Modernism: Modernism distrusts tropes (but Stevens…):
The Red Wheelbarrow
The Modernists interrogate the notion of art as an ontologically inferior copy of reality, and seek to grant the work of art an autonomy and uniqueness that make it an autotelic object that adds to the existing stock of objects in the world.
Anecdote of a Jar
It is the practice of impersonality that can lead to the practice of presenting and representing objects in all their unique particularity and being. Objects thus seem to appear in Modernist poetry purified of extralinguistic motives, and in a representation that captures the unique, unrepeatable valency of particulars. Modernism would thus seem to demand as many voices as there are subjects and objects. Hence its sponsorship of ventriloquism, as in
TS Eliot’s The Wasteland (“He Do the Police in
Different Voices”)
James Joyce’s Ulysses
Ezra Pound’s The Cantos
William Carlos Williams’s Paterson
If this is the basic movement of Modernism, it is clearly at odds with Romantic practice. For objects here seem important for themselves, and the self seems erased out of existence by the autonomy that it grants objects.
But what is it then that prevents Imagism from being a mere taxonomy of objects, or Modernism from succumbing to the temptation of regarding the poem as a mere residue of perception?
My answer is that just as the Romantics did, the Modernists also deposit meanings and significances to objects (or collections of objects)—they only adopt a reverse epistemology whereby objects in poems naturally and contextually create meanings in the minds of readers without the support of tropes and logical structures.
Thus Modernism differs from Romanticism in terms of the trust that it invests in the ability of objects to recall sense. Its protocols of presentation thus functions within the perimeter of what has been called an anti-Platonic epistemology. It can thus pretend to function from an Archimedean point that can have privileged access to the life and being of objects, emotions and beings.
Taking Williams’s Wheelbarrow poem as our point of departure, it is fair to say that Modernism is afraid of a failure of reference (as the first two lines of the poem clearly suggest) within a purely anti-Platonist presentational mode. This fear lifts only when we come to the work of the Postmodern poets, who abdicate choice and celebrate the aleatory and the contingent. Modernism can therefore escape Romantic symbolism only by virtue of a prior belief in the essential continuity of and between phenomena. In decreasing its distance from empirically authentic discourse, it was only extending a practice begun by the Romantics.
The ekphrastic fear—which is the fear of literality—that seems to dilute Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is already there in Stevens’s Jar poem and in Williams’ Wheelbarrow poem. The pathos of dumbness that Williams exploits in his poem is in effect the same pathos that governs the unheard melodies and unknown motives in Keats’s Grecian Urn poem.
In conclusion, I wish to say that despite the many differences between Modernism and Romanticism, there are important continuities of interests and hopes—continuities that speak of the completion of Romanticism in Modernism.
10 July 2007
The Antony Memorial Lecture on Modernist Poetry
Rajiv C Krishnan
The Modernist characterization of the art object as autotelic gathers the question of the relationship between the subject and object into one of epistemological irrelevance. But the irreducible referentiality of words and the irrecoverable particularity of experience combine to make of poetry one of the most difficult—if not the most impossible—of the arts. For the epistemology of particularity proposes infinite tasks. The inexhaustibility of description and the inevitability of finitude conspire to work out the compromise or the ‘soft’ representation that describes Modernist poetics. The Modernists as a whole are in search of an art object that would be in apposition to nature and would thereby mediate the epistemological schism between subject and object. Memory becomes the model and instance of history, and the tropic dimension the only valid mode of artistic representation. Firstness loses its suchness on recapture, and all aesthetic experiences seem doomed to be the experience of lack. No wonder then that Modernism, repudiating the pretensions of realism, bravely announces the end of the age of mimesis.
The Modernist artist stands proxy for the self as originary experience. The givenness of the world of phenomena makes of perception the basis and building block of experience. Thus, the Modernist interrogation of reality is not so much a distortion of reality as a rhetorical assertion of the inevitability of distortion. Distortion produces new objects of and for perception. This is why the continuation and persistence of phenomena in art must not be taken as an indication of capitulation to objects. The ontological density of objects provides the model for the art object. But as against the pure contingency of natural objects, the birth of the work of art is attended by practices of choice and exclusion. The convergence of attention contends with the infinite particularity and differentiations of natural process, and so the Modernist premium on ‘making it new’ gains an urgency that verges on paranoiac anxiety.
The Romantics questioned perception because they feared the reduction of the human self into a bundle of perceptual experiences. The Modernist fear, on the other hand, is an ekphrastic fear, a fear of literalism, a fear that the poem may dwindle into a mere residue of perceptions—this in fact was what actually happened to vulgar Imagism. Since meaning represents the conjunction of sensation and purpose, the valorization of sensation leads to effete literalism, and the valorization of purpose leads to idiolectic symbolism. At no other time in history has the public nature of art and the private nature of experience been so much in conflict with each other.
Modernism devotes attention to perception not in order to dismiss the phenomenal world as unreal, but to rediscover its relationship to the creation of artistic meaning. This is why the primal apprehension of phenomena becomes the point of departure for the epistemological procedures of Modernism. But as long as the activity of perception in art is viewed as the smuggling of the world of objects into the preserves of the subject, perception must always represent an implicit threat to the self-sufficiency of the work of art. The search for non-objective modes in Modernist art highlights this anxiety. Thus the inextricability of words from reference is the inextricability of meaning from perception. Art thus becomes the quintessential symbol of the social and cultural entity of man. The dissolution of the conventional concepts of art must therefore be taken to be a questioning of the very basis of what it is to be human.
It is the experience of perception as an encounter with alterity that distinguishes the human use of phenomena. When sensation ceases to be the sensation of lack and absence, experience becomes the experience of self-sufficient and self-certifying fullness. The eradication of the order of priority between being and meaning makes perception and the use of perception indistinguishable. And this is what brings us to the self-reflexive moment of Modernism, which thus derives directly from its problematization of perception and representation. But the Modernist work, for all its play with the tropic dimension, is haunted by the fear of literalism: in consequence, it is self-reflexive, but pines for semiotic transparency, and desires, but falls short of openness. And this is once again why the Modernist experimentation with form displays a paradoxical tendency to remember wholes while presenting fragments, to interrupt freedom with the nostalgia for method, to find inscribed in representation a history of representation, and to attribute normative historical value to individual enterprise and experience. These are the very tendencies that have prompted the identification of the rise of Modernism with the rise of totalitarian ideologies.
Rajiv C Krishnan
The Modernist characterization of the art object as autotelic gathers the question of the relationship between the subject and object into one of epistemological irrelevance. But the irreducible referentiality of words and the irrecoverable particularity of experience combine to make of poetry one of the most difficult—if not the most impossible—of the arts. For the epistemology of particularity proposes infinite tasks. The inexhaustibility of description and the inevitability of finitude conspire to work out the compromise or the ‘soft’ representation that describes Modernist poetics. The Modernists as a whole are in search of an art object that would be in apposition to nature and would thereby mediate the epistemological schism between subject and object. Memory becomes the model and instance of history, and the tropic dimension the only valid mode of artistic representation. Firstness loses its suchness on recapture, and all aesthetic experiences seem doomed to be the experience of lack. No wonder then that Modernism, repudiating the pretensions of realism, bravely announces the end of the age of mimesis.
The Modernist artist stands proxy for the self as originary experience. The givenness of the world of phenomena makes of perception the basis and building block of experience. Thus, the Modernist interrogation of reality is not so much a distortion of reality as a rhetorical assertion of the inevitability of distortion. Distortion produces new objects of and for perception. This is why the continuation and persistence of phenomena in art must not be taken as an indication of capitulation to objects. The ontological density of objects provides the model for the art object. But as against the pure contingency of natural objects, the birth of the work of art is attended by practices of choice and exclusion. The convergence of attention contends with the infinite particularity and differentiations of natural process, and so the Modernist premium on ‘making it new’ gains an urgency that verges on paranoiac anxiety.
The Romantics questioned perception because they feared the reduction of the human self into a bundle of perceptual experiences. The Modernist fear, on the other hand, is an ekphrastic fear, a fear of literalism, a fear that the poem may dwindle into a mere residue of perceptions—this in fact was what actually happened to vulgar Imagism. Since meaning represents the conjunction of sensation and purpose, the valorization of sensation leads to effete literalism, and the valorization of purpose leads to idiolectic symbolism. At no other time in history has the public nature of art and the private nature of experience been so much in conflict with each other.
Modernism devotes attention to perception not in order to dismiss the phenomenal world as unreal, but to rediscover its relationship to the creation of artistic meaning. This is why the primal apprehension of phenomena becomes the point of departure for the epistemological procedures of Modernism. But as long as the activity of perception in art is viewed as the smuggling of the world of objects into the preserves of the subject, perception must always represent an implicit threat to the self-sufficiency of the work of art. The search for non-objective modes in Modernist art highlights this anxiety. Thus the inextricability of words from reference is the inextricability of meaning from perception. Art thus becomes the quintessential symbol of the social and cultural entity of man. The dissolution of the conventional concepts of art must therefore be taken to be a questioning of the very basis of what it is to be human.
It is the experience of perception as an encounter with alterity that distinguishes the human use of phenomena. When sensation ceases to be the sensation of lack and absence, experience becomes the experience of self-sufficient and self-certifying fullness. The eradication of the order of priority between being and meaning makes perception and the use of perception indistinguishable. And this is what brings us to the self-reflexive moment of Modernism, which thus derives directly from its problematization of perception and representation. But the Modernist work, for all its play with the tropic dimension, is haunted by the fear of literalism: in consequence, it is self-reflexive, but pines for semiotic transparency, and desires, but falls short of openness. And this is once again why the Modernist experimentation with form displays a paradoxical tendency to remember wholes while presenting fragments, to interrupt freedom with the nostalgia for method, to find inscribed in representation a history of representation, and to attribute normative historical value to individual enterprise and experience. These are the very tendencies that have prompted the identification of the rise of Modernism with the rise of totalitarian ideologies.
The Palakkad Lecture on Modernist Art and Poetry
Rajiv C Krishnan
The best insights of the comparatist gaze are often the prize for successfully running the risk of being blind to difference. The dialectic of blindness and insight is a relentless one. The comparatist promises to respect difference without reneging on the commitment to dialogue. And yet, no approach to the proper can prosper without paying the octroi of generalization, the coin of metaphysical and ontological assumptions. And nowhere is this ‘epistemic circle’ more active than in the relationships between the different arts. Ekphrasis—where one art describes or imitates another—is perhaps as old as any or all of the arts themselves: the comparatist, it follows, has always been the oldest artist. Please notice that I haven’t said: the oldest artist was always comparatist! Nor indeed, that the first artist was always already comparatist! For that would be to pretend that these terms and their significances are not in and of history.
The term ‘art’ itself includes a historically changing set of particular arts and practices. But there have always been some ‘permanent members’—members whose procedures and conditions of production are somehow paradigmatic of the whole field. Thus the ‘poetic’ is as much a part of a painting or sculpture as of poetry itself—indeed, poetry may not in fact be poetic at all! And of course, poetry has always been an ‘art’—it has always had a pre-eminent place in the hierarchy of the arts. But this, once again, is historically specific. The ease with which what belongs properly to a particular art can then become representative of the arts in general is therefore a good indication not only of its standing in the field as such, but also of the changing nature of aesthetic self-understanding and desire. This is not the result of a ‘mere’ metaphorical catachresis, but implies deeper affinities, struggles and differences. Each art needs supplements as well as ideals to work towards. In the nineteenth century, music was such a supplement for the art of poetry—Pater was merely summing up an implicit assumption when he wrote that all arts approach the condition of music. In the twentieth, it was the visual arts, especially painting, that performed such a role for poetry.
The (arguably) most interesting aspect of nineteenth century art is its (notice that I have bundled all the arts together) preoccupation with work: the biblical description of labour as the consequence of original sin contends with the protestant-capitalist valorisation of work to create ambiguous contexts for the production of art. If realism (taken as a historically specific mode of art, and therefore distinct from mere verisimilitude) is the aesthetic counterpart of purposive rationality and verisimilitude that of scientific description, it follows that late eighteenth century art and a lot of nineteenth century art take their task to be that of effacing or hiding the workliness of the work of art. For its new, bourgeois patrons, this art is the equivalent of leisure and excess. Thus we have the paradoxical situation of an art (realism) that must depict work (the workaday world) in order to be able to work without appearing to work.
Impressionism shocked its bourgeois viewers by its unwillingness to hide its brushstrokes and by refusing to remove the evidence of (the artist’s) labour from the picture surface. This newfound reconciliation with artistic labour is in fact the point of departure for modern, even Modernist, art. Nineteenth century art had first to come to terms with labour before being able to come to terms with artistic labour. We can now go back to Kant and understand his attempt to describe the processes by which human perception happens as an attempt to redescribe perception itself as the product of (human) labour: experience itself is already labour. Marx, and socialist thinkers after him, in effect historicize Kant and are able to think of reason itself—which is identical in every human agent for Kant—historically and more often than not as unreason, as ideology. And ideology will last as long as exploitation lasts.
We must therefore learn to understand the nineteenth century’s curious fascination with sensations, with children, with the primitive, and with the exotic as the expression of a desire for freedom from want and labour. When Impressionist art went out of doors, away from a revolutionary and dangerous Paris, it met haystacks, poplars (soon to be cut down), mountains, and of course, people having a good time. Above all, it met a mercilessly frank sunlight. Long before Pointillism became a school, the reduction of perception to its component parts had begun as an analogue to social critique. Gauguin’s South Sea Islanders, Van Gogh’s sunflowers, cornfields, and peasant shoes, Monet’s waterlilies, and Cezanne’s mountains, were all able to interrogate the social before it became fact and fiction. The Romantics of course, had already named the need to overcome an unsatisfactory present when they spoke about the Imagination. But the Imagination was also the promise of recompense without work, and the value of the work of art accordingly far exceeded the labour spent in creating it. It was this (fictive) economy of excess that enabled Romantic irony to become an instance of aesthetic self-reflexivity. This irony and this self-reflexivity resurfaces again in the brokenness and the divisionism of the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist canvas, loosening by stages the dependence of art upon the unity and integrity of the natural object, finally leading to the conception of the autonomous, autotelic work of art as evidenced in Modernist and Postmodernist abstract art.
Why then did music become the ideal for poetry in the nineteenth century? It was of course a century of great music. Of all the arts, music is the least ‘contaminated’ by subject matter. It is free from mimesis, and as such satisfied the century’s need for its own concept of a ‘pure’ art, a concept that artists at the beginning of the twentieth century are beginning alternatively to find in non-objective abstract painting. The intentional structure of desire grants every desire an adequate object of desire; it also grants for every intentional object of desire a corresponding subject of desire. What is the desire for which the abstract canvas can become an adequate object of desire? Who might be the subject whose desire can intend the abstract canvas? In presenting for the satisfaction of desire a representation for which no original exists in the world but itself, Modernist art calls for subjects who desire such unique objects. In other words, by creating objects for which no known desire exists, in effect, Modernism creates the subjects who might then experience such desire. This radical self-fashioning, at once expressive of the bourgeois demand for unique and ‘designer’ experiences, and of the bourgeois self’s dissatisfaction with the inauthenticity of its desires, designates the paradoxical nature of Modernism’s commitment to change.
Why did the visual arts become the ideal for poetry in the twentieth century? We have seen that developments in Modernist art satisfy the need for alternative subjectivities. As a temporal art, poetry experiences a finitude for which a spatial art is the natural supplement. With the advent of photography, it was no longer necessary for paintings to achieve reference; it was easy for the visual arts therefore to jettison referentiality: thus, abstract art could be the most concrete, generating ‘pure’ sensation. For poetry on the other hand, reference was ineradicably part of any performance which did not slide into mere sound. The Imagist emphasis on concreteness of presentation pines for a poetry of pure sensations, for uninterpreted experiences, for Edenic suchness. Through directness of presentation, it is labour that is saved and avoided; terseness of language bespeaks effort. But Modernism is not always kind to its viewers or readers. The famous Modernist texts are still being explicated: Ulysses, The Cantos. The difficulty of these texts lies in the opaqueness of their references and contexts, and it is a difficulty that calls for active, participatory readers. The Modernist text therefore calls for a reading that is figured as a labour for which it can itself constitute the appropriate reward.
Modernist art and poetry render illegible the distinction between space and time, between the real and the imaginary, between the text and human subjectivity. In contemplating their differences we embark upon a task that enjoins us to bring to the labour of knowing the urgency of desire without the desire for urgency.
Rajiv C Krishnan
The best insights of the comparatist gaze are often the prize for successfully running the risk of being blind to difference. The dialectic of blindness and insight is a relentless one. The comparatist promises to respect difference without reneging on the commitment to dialogue. And yet, no approach to the proper can prosper without paying the octroi of generalization, the coin of metaphysical and ontological assumptions. And nowhere is this ‘epistemic circle’ more active than in the relationships between the different arts. Ekphrasis—where one art describes or imitates another—is perhaps as old as any or all of the arts themselves: the comparatist, it follows, has always been the oldest artist. Please notice that I haven’t said: the oldest artist was always comparatist! Nor indeed, that the first artist was always already comparatist! For that would be to pretend that these terms and their significances are not in and of history.
The term ‘art’ itself includes a historically changing set of particular arts and practices. But there have always been some ‘permanent members’—members whose procedures and conditions of production are somehow paradigmatic of the whole field. Thus the ‘poetic’ is as much a part of a painting or sculpture as of poetry itself—indeed, poetry may not in fact be poetic at all! And of course, poetry has always been an ‘art’—it has always had a pre-eminent place in the hierarchy of the arts. But this, once again, is historically specific. The ease with which what belongs properly to a particular art can then become representative of the arts in general is therefore a good indication not only of its standing in the field as such, but also of the changing nature of aesthetic self-understanding and desire. This is not the result of a ‘mere’ metaphorical catachresis, but implies deeper affinities, struggles and differences. Each art needs supplements as well as ideals to work towards. In the nineteenth century, music was such a supplement for the art of poetry—Pater was merely summing up an implicit assumption when he wrote that all arts approach the condition of music. In the twentieth, it was the visual arts, especially painting, that performed such a role for poetry.
The (arguably) most interesting aspect of nineteenth century art is its (notice that I have bundled all the arts together) preoccupation with work: the biblical description of labour as the consequence of original sin contends with the protestant-capitalist valorisation of work to create ambiguous contexts for the production of art. If realism (taken as a historically specific mode of art, and therefore distinct from mere verisimilitude) is the aesthetic counterpart of purposive rationality and verisimilitude that of scientific description, it follows that late eighteenth century art and a lot of nineteenth century art take their task to be that of effacing or hiding the workliness of the work of art. For its new, bourgeois patrons, this art is the equivalent of leisure and excess. Thus we have the paradoxical situation of an art (realism) that must depict work (the workaday world) in order to be able to work without appearing to work.
Impressionism shocked its bourgeois viewers by its unwillingness to hide its brushstrokes and by refusing to remove the evidence of (the artist’s) labour from the picture surface. This newfound reconciliation with artistic labour is in fact the point of departure for modern, even Modernist, art. Nineteenth century art had first to come to terms with labour before being able to come to terms with artistic labour. We can now go back to Kant and understand his attempt to describe the processes by which human perception happens as an attempt to redescribe perception itself as the product of (human) labour: experience itself is already labour. Marx, and socialist thinkers after him, in effect historicize Kant and are able to think of reason itself—which is identical in every human agent for Kant—historically and more often than not as unreason, as ideology. And ideology will last as long as exploitation lasts.
We must therefore learn to understand the nineteenth century’s curious fascination with sensations, with children, with the primitive, and with the exotic as the expression of a desire for freedom from want and labour. When Impressionist art went out of doors, away from a revolutionary and dangerous Paris, it met haystacks, poplars (soon to be cut down), mountains, and of course, people having a good time. Above all, it met a mercilessly frank sunlight. Long before Pointillism became a school, the reduction of perception to its component parts had begun as an analogue to social critique. Gauguin’s South Sea Islanders, Van Gogh’s sunflowers, cornfields, and peasant shoes, Monet’s waterlilies, and Cezanne’s mountains, were all able to interrogate the social before it became fact and fiction. The Romantics of course, had already named the need to overcome an unsatisfactory present when they spoke about the Imagination. But the Imagination was also the promise of recompense without work, and the value of the work of art accordingly far exceeded the labour spent in creating it. It was this (fictive) economy of excess that enabled Romantic irony to become an instance of aesthetic self-reflexivity. This irony and this self-reflexivity resurfaces again in the brokenness and the divisionism of the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist canvas, loosening by stages the dependence of art upon the unity and integrity of the natural object, finally leading to the conception of the autonomous, autotelic work of art as evidenced in Modernist and Postmodernist abstract art.
Why then did music become the ideal for poetry in the nineteenth century? It was of course a century of great music. Of all the arts, music is the least ‘contaminated’ by subject matter. It is free from mimesis, and as such satisfied the century’s need for its own concept of a ‘pure’ art, a concept that artists at the beginning of the twentieth century are beginning alternatively to find in non-objective abstract painting. The intentional structure of desire grants every desire an adequate object of desire; it also grants for every intentional object of desire a corresponding subject of desire. What is the desire for which the abstract canvas can become an adequate object of desire? Who might be the subject whose desire can intend the abstract canvas? In presenting for the satisfaction of desire a representation for which no original exists in the world but itself, Modernist art calls for subjects who desire such unique objects. In other words, by creating objects for which no known desire exists, in effect, Modernism creates the subjects who might then experience such desire. This radical self-fashioning, at once expressive of the bourgeois demand for unique and ‘designer’ experiences, and of the bourgeois self’s dissatisfaction with the inauthenticity of its desires, designates the paradoxical nature of Modernism’s commitment to change.
Why did the visual arts become the ideal for poetry in the twentieth century? We have seen that developments in Modernist art satisfy the need for alternative subjectivities. As a temporal art, poetry experiences a finitude for which a spatial art is the natural supplement. With the advent of photography, it was no longer necessary for paintings to achieve reference; it was easy for the visual arts therefore to jettison referentiality: thus, abstract art could be the most concrete, generating ‘pure’ sensation. For poetry on the other hand, reference was ineradicably part of any performance which did not slide into mere sound. The Imagist emphasis on concreteness of presentation pines for a poetry of pure sensations, for uninterpreted experiences, for Edenic suchness. Through directness of presentation, it is labour that is saved and avoided; terseness of language bespeaks effort. But Modernism is not always kind to its viewers or readers. The famous Modernist texts are still being explicated: Ulysses, The Cantos. The difficulty of these texts lies in the opaqueness of their references and contexts, and it is a difficulty that calls for active, participatory readers. The Modernist text therefore calls for a reading that is figured as a labour for which it can itself constitute the appropriate reward.
Modernist art and poetry render illegible the distinction between space and time, between the real and the imaginary, between the text and human subjectivity. In contemplating their differences we embark upon a task that enjoins us to bring to the labour of knowing the urgency of desire without the desire for urgency.
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