People watching State of Emergency projection of Graven Images on 23rd St, NYC, 2008.
Still from slideshow, 5 Days That Shook the World, 2000, Allan Sekula in State of Emergency projection.
Still from video, Prototype: God Bless America, 2006, Martha Rosler in State of Emergencyprojection.
Still of ‘Gitmo prisoner’ on anti-war float from video, Sight Gag #3, 2005, Sherry Millner/Ernie Larsen in State of Emergency projection.
Still of Madonna & Child statue from video Sight Gag #7, 2007, Sherry Millner/Ernie Larsen in State of Emergency projection.
Still from video The State of Things, 2006, Ligorano/Reese, of the melting of ice-sculpture ‘Democracy’ in State of Emergency projection.
Still, burning flag, Graven Images (Version 1), 2008, Millner/Larsen in State of Emergencyprojection.
Still, blinded by patriotism, Graven Images (Version 1), 2008, Millner/Larsen, in State of Emergency projection
Still, Border Guard from video Feral, Louis Hock, 2004 in State of Emergency projection
Pedestrian watching Predators in the Aviary, by Millner & Larsen from Permanent State of Emergency exhibition in the Eyebeam Window Gallery, West 21 Street, NYC, April 2009.
Still, ‘yellowbellied hedge-twit’ from Predators in the Aviary, 2009, by Sherry Millner/Ernie Larsen.
Still, ‘sharpbeaked hoodwinker’ from Predators in the Aviary, 2009, by Sherry Millner/Ernie Larsen.
Poster for State of Emergency outdoor screening at Anarchist Bookfair, Thessaloniki Greece, 2010.
For the past decade Sherry Millner and I have worked together on a series of political/experimental film/ video screening projects that we initiated or were invited to organize. In what follows, with Sherry’s help, I will attempt to put forward the major questions we encountered along the way—along with the still provisional/ partial answers we have come up with, so far.
In 2005 Sherry and I, out of a sense of ever-increasing outrage, initiated a collaborative video projection series titled State of Emergency. We solicited brief silent works from artists whom we knew. We intended to project the edited program of short pieces in the big picture windows of our second-floor loft on 23rd St. in Manhattan. We described State of Emergency as a silent shout-out against the U.S. invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq and the severe incursions against civil and human rights most prominently put in place by the Patriot Act, most of which measures are still to this day securely in place.
Contributors to the several editions of State of Emergency included Allan Sekula, Martha Rosler, Mary Kelly, Jen Lion, Walid Raad, Greg Sholette, Simon Leung’s class at UCI, Sally Stein, Louis Hock, Jin-Yu Chen/James T.Hong, Marty Lucas, Michael Mandiberg, Vanessa Haney, Leslie Thornton, Jamie O’Shea, Nora Ligorano, Marshall Reese, John Greyson, Annetta Kapon, Yvonne Rainer and ourselves
The project was self-organized and deliberately aimed to bypass potential institutional constraints and gatekeepers, in favor of a form of direct action amenable to us as anarchist artists. We also aimed to engage not so much the art or film/video audiences that are (by self-definition) disciplined in advance but walkers, passersby, drivers on our busy street who would otherwise be unlikely to encounter such work, much of which was consciously if unconventionally agit-prop or at least deliberately provocative.
Each contribution was no more than three minutes long: to enable pedestrians, drivers, and bus passengers to grasp a video, text, or slideshow while still remaining engaged, if need be, in the ever-forward movement and noise of street life. Under the circumstances, we had to presume fragmented attention and attempt to seize hold of the temporarily distracted by the retina, if not the throat. The politically decisive pertinence of the local and the all-but-immediate seemed crucial to us—State of Emergency was to be and remain unregulated, unsanctioned, and at times even unannounced, elements which to us recalled street theater and happenings of the 60s in New York and San Francisco, which in their planned spontaneity were often effectively interventionist, if not necessarily deliberately political. And in fact it did run at night, sometimes all night, in that guise—and silently so as to avoid potential attempts at police interference, which are all too common.
We found in practice that the distinctly urban style of nose-to-the-ground self-absorption (everybody going about their self-appointed tasks) on a busy street could demand additional tactics. For instance, we would get one or two or three people to stand across the street and stare up at our window-projections, to create a physical point of stalled interest. Some passersby who rang our bell had suggestions for images, facts, or slogans they were interested in seeing projected, which we followed up when possible. Technically, we needed no more than one portable projector (sometimes two) and a rear-projection screen (also portable) to get State of Emergency up and running. So we were able to run on a near-zero budget.
Our project’s title has a fairly specific derivation. Conventionally, a government declares a state of emergency under conditions of natural disaster or extreme crisis. Special powers are swiftly invoked, military personnel and equipment deployed, resources mobilized, regulations suspended, rules waived, statutory immunities and liability protections for involved presonnel and authorities invoked. Many democratic procedures and protections are suspended. The U.S. government’s response to September 11 has amounted to a continuing and apparently permanent state of emergency. To this day, little more than the magical incantion of certain words (terror, security, patriotism) effectively sustains the legitmation of actions and protocols which might otherwise be deemed criminal or inhumane. Our project’s title was perhaps even more directly inspired by Giorgio Agamben’s reworking of a well-known didactic remark made by Walter Benjamin, during the fascist era. According to Benjamin,
To this Agamben rejoins:
From this beginning on 23rd Street, other iterations, other sites and invitations followed--eventually including social centers in Sofia, Bulgaria and Thessaloniki, Greece, and an alternative gallery in Lisbon, Portugal, and as a window installation at street-level at the digital research site/gallery Eyebeam in New York. But very likely the most compelling early screening occurred on election night in 2006, when we projected State of Emergency in the windows of the restaurant Alias on the Lower East Side. Connecting the screening to the national election further enhanced what we really wanted to project on the screen of everyone’s consciousness—that we were actually living in a State of Emergency.
The screening persisted for hours (on a loop) projected first outside the restaurant, and then, when a persistent rainstorm began, inside, turning the much-loved neighborhood gathering-space into a scene for table-hopping discussions of our prospective shared future of at least two-more-years-of-Bush-war-criminality. The casual conviviality of Alias, for which part-owner graphic artist Marybeth Nelson devised an election-night menu and a throw the rascals out cocktail, in concert with the State of Emergency program, all coalesced to focus what is unique about an event: that, at its best, it is unrepeatable. These distinctive elements were complemented by a salutary mix of participants: the diverse set we invited, hungry or wet passersby attracted by the somehow celebratory atmosphere, the waiters and the kitchen staff. Such a warmly localized note of thoughtful spontaneity worked to create a memorable political event.
Another screening, in a somewhat later edition, occurred in a storefront in Oberhausen, as part of another project. This was another collaborative venture, commencing in a way a second trajectory for our work up to the present: We were invited to curate a set of 10 programs at the Oberhausen Film Festival, which we did in 2008, under the title “Border-Crossers and Trouble-Makers,” an ambitious and well-received attempt to sketch out the necessity, within the strict compass of the short-form film/video, for experiment (left undefined) in political media. Invited filmmakers ranged from a young Zapatista non-representative to the then 80-year-old Rene Vautier, life-long militant filmmaker who’d directed Africa 50, the first anti-colonialist film made in Africa.
Successive refinements of this activity, often while putting together new editions of State of Emergency include: 2009 at Zagreb a five day series, at the Subversive Film Festival under the title, “Reclaim the Future,” and this past season, for the Flaherty Foundation in New York, a six-part series under the title “Global Revolt,” (which we dedicated to our friend Allan Sekula). I will describe “Global Revolt” at some length below.
Finally, in this vein, we are presently in the last stages of a very considerable 4-DVD project, to be distributed by Facets Multimedia (in Chicago) of what we hope and expect will amount to a new history of political experimental film, through extensive research, an effort comprising some forty plus short-form works, from at least twenty countries, and extending from 1913 to 2013—with the astute help of filmmaker Jill Godmilow. We feel that this project could have considerable pedagogical value, in part due to the concentration and (re-) discovery of new and neglected films, but also because socially and formally provocative shorter films (as opposed to features) tend to be more useful in creating and sustaining animated classroom and other public discussion—to turn a screening into a participatory event, in other words.
All of this seems to bring up another question. What should one aim for in putting together a political film series? By that I mean not merely a series that screens radical films. Sherry and I have long been interested in the indefinite potential for a film screening to achieve the status of a politicizing intervention that in some sense breaks through the conventions of a typical screening situation. At times, one’s expectations of the political potential for transformation in such situations tend to exceed what’s concretely possible. The old story: one’s supple, if not febrile, imagination outruns rheumatic reality by a country mile. But I’d venture to say, at this point, that one should put one’s resources, whatever they might be, into the largely imaginative effort of making each screening into an event.
It’s all too true that the films one chooses, however incendiary in and of themselves, are seldom enough to do the enviable trick of moving even an enlightened consciousness much past the point of inertia. The construction of an event begs for convincing(ly) live elements as a deliberate supplement to the solely represented elements—the very films that the audience presumably came to see. The construction of an event can at its best produce a temporary/temporal structure capable of challenging such a relatively passive audience with enough unpredictable energy at the given moment into becoming viewer-participants (a fragile temporary not-quite-collective) who become willfully implicated in the issues and affects raised by the films in the program. This is and will remain a provisional formulation. In large part, this is because one soon learns as an organizing curator that such events are themselves in essence unrepeatable, that they must therefore be reinvented each time to remain effective. In other words, the singularity of an event (as opposed to the fact that a film is always the same film) is one possible key to the expansion of a political potential.
There is nothing particularly new or original about such an assertion. In our research, for example, we find that the pre-World War I French anarchist film association, Le Cinema du Peuple, which is apparently the first such cooperative in film history, when they first screened La Commune, directed by the peripatetic Spanish anarchist Armand Guerra, at the Palais des Fetes in Paris, assumed the necessity of creating such an event. And in our day, we see the antithesis of the multiplex in the urban proliferation of deliberately small-scale screening situations, which are routinely (sometimes too routinely) accompanied by speakers. In New York City, for example, we have in recent years seen a renaissance of such pocket cinemas, which always include discussions as part of each program/screening. These include Union Docs, the Spectacle Theater, and Light Industry, in addition to such sites as 16 Beaver St, which are not theaters but gathering spaces with some of the salient aspects of the anarchist social centers and squats now common in Europe and South America.
How does the Law of Unintended Consequences apply to political film screenings? I would venture to say that one test of a successful political film screening is whether it does elicit such unexpected responses. Early in 2010 we travelled to Vietnam to begin shooting a video about what that country felt like now to an American who was a draft resister (that is, myself) during the Vietnam War, which is, of course, known to the Vietnamese as the American War. Shortly after arriving in Ho Chi Minh City/Saigon, I emailed Hanoi DocLab, a new venue and workshop we’d heard about. Soon we were invited to do a screening of the current edition of State of Emergency when we journeyed north.
That screening proved to us, once again but differently, the perhaps inestimable value of direct engagement. Following our introduction of the project and then the screening itself, we engaged in a long give-and-take with an audience of about sixty mostly young people, many of whom were clearly artists. Early on, the discussion became focused almost entirely on how censorship works in the United States. This discussion was sparked by one video in the program, our own Graven Images, in which the politically tabu act of the burning of the U.S. flag is depicted, with dozens of such sacred red, white, and blue icons rapidly reduced to ashes. At the end of the short video we see that it is not some rabid anti-Americans performing this culturally proscribed act but the super-patriots of the American Legion, who have somehow been sanctioned to dispose of damaged flags on Flag Day, each year.
The Hanoi audience found it difficult to understand how we were allowed to screen in the U.S. such (literally, in this case) incendiary imagery. This led to a concrete discussion of how censorship of political ideas and images can operate at one or more of several points in the cultural process. For instance, internally, in a sense, censorship may occur at the point of conception—i.e. a political artist may decide not to make a certain work, for fear of or in anticipation of how it might be received. Or censorhip may occur at the point of gaining funding to produce a work, knowing that its politics will cause it to be rejected. Or it may occur or at the point of creating a work, when a artist again has a crucial moment to consider how politically provocative a work could or should be (sometimes temporizing or cutting back—perhaps with the self-exculpatory excuse that the prospective audience/viewer may not be ready for overly radical work, etc. Or again we find it at the point of distribution, when the political artist, who has been “free” to produce the work suddenly finds that institutional or corporate gatekeepers block it.
To our surprise, the audience members were completely drawn into this discussion and insisted on drawing out its implications. A bit later, one young artist privately asked about how to push the limits in a potentially dangerous cultural situation such as that which existed in Vietnam. Still later, the next evening, following a performance to which we’d been invited, at a gallery space, we encountered some of the same audience members from our screening, and we had another impromptu discussion of some of the same issues. We also discovered that it was very much a good thing that our screening/discussion at Hanoi DocLab had been so casually arranged—since it was the usual arrangement that such events when planned tended to be screened in advance by the local authorities, i.e. subject to possible censorship.