'Antígona González'

On necrowritings and disappropriation

Mexican writer and academic Cristina Rivera Garza introduced the term disappropriation (desapropiación) in her essay book Los muertos indóciles (Tusquets Editores, 2013). Based upon the idea that language is a common good, the term indicates that the writer who works with documentation is actually disappropriating that language in order to give it back to the community. For the benefit of the collective. This testimonial is the poetry of the people. The question “Is appropriation OK?” has been rendered pointless. What writers take and where they take it from do matter, and this awareness is present in the poem known as “Antígona González,” a unique piece among very recent writing from Mexico. The question is not about appropriation anymore, but rather about: How is this writing bearing witness to this moment? How is it standing for its community? In what ways is it going to change the world?

It begins with a set of instructions to count the dead. Sara Uribe’s “Antígona González” (Sur+ ediciones, 2012)[1] is a poem in which the speaker desperately looks for her brother’s dead body among the ruins of a nation embodied by its endless, stone-cold bureaucracy and the indifference of others. “Antígona González” is a poem that engages as one of the first full-frontal responses from contemporary writers in Mexico to the drug war that has devastated the country since 2006.

What happens when a body disappears? What context is drawn from the now empty outline of a disappeared person? What happens to the world when one is not able to retrieve the dead body of a loved one? “Antígona González” is a poem addressing politics. Latin American politics. Mexican politics. The poem is also an open critique of capitalism. A statement against the necropolitics we live by. Writing accordingly: the poem is necrowriting.[2] It is a poem that enumerates the consequences of depredation, censorship, and siege over centuries of oppression. It is a poem about the dead. Our dead. An account of the languages of loss and mourning (the feelings of modernity) in the twenty-first century. It is a poem about people in resistance. Communities who are resisting. Writing against power.

Violence has been systemic for over a decade in Mexico. Civilian carcasses can be seen on TV screens and newspaper front pages on a daily basis (this collaborative project intends to count them every day, “to preserve the memory of our dead, respectfully”). A state of terror has taken control of the population. De facto powers are in effect. And there can be no dissidence because that would imply certain death. It is a drug problem. It is a gun problem. It is an unnerving homeland-versus-other-land situation. We usually don’t care about people-next-door problems. But there are thousands of dead and disappeared whom power and its allies are not willing to acknowledge.

Since the first outbursts of violence on the streets of numerous Mexican cities, civilians have faced a hard time dealing with this “new order.” A new order that imposes deadly silence over the population. Rumor has it. The mainstream version (an official silence imposed by the governments) is that executions and mass murders are the result of old and new disputes among the drug cartels contending for dominion. Fighting, ironically, for territory within a disembodied society in an even more precarious environment. Nobody cares if civilians get killed just for being in the way. Nobody cares about the disappeared or about their families. In spoken and written texts, rumors of imminent attacks, or about a friend or relative who was recently kidnapped, or another who has been missing for several months, spread and frighten citizens. Every aspect of daily life is codified.

“Antígona González” embodies this language. Brought together via appropriation, juxtaposition, and performance, the sources for the text consist of news reports, testimonials, and poems. It is a courageous alternative version against the official silence through the language of commonality. The words of the community come together in this Antigone who is all too aware of the existence of previous Antigones who have also been looking for the bodies of their dead loved ones among the ruins of destruction. “Antígona González” is an activism device written in the poetics of despair, like a Greek tragedy condemning one of the greatest tragedies of the twenty-first century. An ongoing tragedy.

“Antígona González” gestures towards the ideas of Mexican artist and writer Ulises Carrión (1941–1989) who wrote (c.1975) that “Plagiarism is the starting point of the creative activity in the new art.”[3] But the poem is speaking from the present of the community in which it has been written. The poem is rewriting the present. This very moment. It is written with the community as a whole. The poem is another way to say: “As we speak.” We are all speaking through the piece. The language we all share as a community is embedded in the piece. It is alive. The strategies in this work by Sara Uribe engage in a political discussion that is long overdue, that needs to expand, and that deserves more attention. 

1. The English version of Antígona González is by John Pluecker, forthcoming from Les Figues Press.

2. Cristina Rivera Garza, Los muertos indóciles: Necroescrituras y desapropiación (Ciudad de México: Tusquets editores, 2013).

3. See Ulises Carrión, “The New Art of Making Books,” Kontexts 6–7 (1975).

Software as lip service

Jennifer Walshe's Snapchat scores

Milker Corporation's Snapchat feed.

If, as Miranda July messaged, “texting is tacky,” “calling is awkward,” and “email is old,” then Snapchat, insofar as Irish composer Jennifer Walshe’s Milker Corporation has come to utilize its API, is tasteful, adroit, and original.

Doggedly conceptual, impishly ephemeral, hers is an MMS all so simple:

1. Go to “My Friends”
2. Tap the “+” sign
3. Search for user “milker_corp”
4. “Add”

A few times a week thereafter, you, too, will be treated not to duck-faced selfies, hackneyed memetics or the dreaded #foodporn, but instead a curiously curated image oft overridden with more than thirty-one characters in Snapchat’s Stanford white font (e.g. “Envelop everything in a crinkly mist [PANTONE 13-1904]”).

Seven seconds later, with a havoc Fluxus only dreamed of, that message will self-destruct.

Lest you worry about privacy or bots, Milker Corp’s terms of use solemnly swear “your username and contact information will never be shared with anyone,” and all communiqués, however “fleeting or evaporating” will be snapped by Walshe, herself. Should you no longer wish to receive a transmission like “ABSOLUTE SHIT SHOW OF WANKY SOLOS,” simply remove “milker_corp” from your friend list and “move through your life with our best wishes.”

Of course, as Wired’s Clive Thompson duly noted: screenshot, or it didn’t happen. To wit, live from Milker’s Department of Text Scores, Thought Experiments, and Mind Events, without further e-do, here’s “In a way it’s all New Age music.

Or, should you prefer the landscape mode (with even less time remaining in the upper quadrant), here is Jennifer Walshe’s smartphone score for “The volume is right when the saxophone is BEHIND YOU.

Vis-à-vis, the only proof, via pixels, it ever existed at all.

Like any startup worth its angels, Walshe’s fifty-odd snaps so far do have a catchy name: THMOTES. Unlike those applications gone to market, though, that name’s origin story is the stuff of legend.


According to Éireann lore, Thingmote was a terraced earthen mound about forty feet high, some 240 feet round where the occupying Norsemen gathered for every manner of parliamentary procedure. Bereft of any material evidence in either nation’s contemporary record, on fiat alone, Thingmote stood adjacent to the Normans’ Dubh Linn Castle on the River Poitéal (across from the Suffolk Street branch of present-day Ulster Bank).

Shouting all CAPS, Walshe’s THMOTES is both elided tribute and app d’art.

OK, if you’re any bit skeptical, well, you most certainly should be. After all, Jennifer Walshe has her own history, colorful and caustic, of making things up.

Be it her nine alter egos of Grúpat or the brand new, 100 percent apocryphal tome and site for Historical Documents of the Irish Avant-Garde, Walshe’s fantasized and fetishized accounts of an Emerald Isle that never was — a five-sixths republic her London expatriation suggests may never be — evoke the same kind of uncreative ennui that’s innate to something as inane as Snapchat.

Case in point: Walshe remains nonplussed regarding scale and churn.

“I don’t care what people do with them,” she told the Wire’s Louise Gray. “The scores don’t need to be realized — they just exist, like a hybrid encounter between it and an experience in your head.”[1]

With but a scant few precedents, were it not for maximal THMOTES like “DEAFENING VISUAL NOISE,” one might read inspiration from the text scores of Walshe’s teacher, Michael Pisaro — if not the hushed whole of the Wandelweisers proper.

More in line with Jenny’s kind of pith, I can’t help but swipe a snap such as “Countess of Lumber/Lick My Face #12tone #seashanty” as the logical, third-screen extension of Karlheinz Stockhausen’s “intuitive music” of the early ’70s. Save for tongue and the feminine gaze underneath (i.e. those two hashtags rest atop an unidentified starlet’s eyes), is “Countess of Lumber …” really that far removed from the fourteen words of “UNBEGRENZT,” Stockhausen’s defining text of Aus den sieben Tagen?

For Ensemble


Play a sound
with the certainty
that you have an infinite amount of time and space

As the sage of Kürten explains: “You don’t need to think when [UNLIMITED] is finished, or whether anybody is listening or not: You don’t care whether you die in the meantime, or if the sound may be too long for you to finish playing, or if the space you need is greater than the hall, or your instrument, or [what] your own body can contain.”[2]

More metaphysical, maybe, but if that couldn’t be the program note to a would-be THMOTE, then, together, Jennifer Walshe and Japanese sound poet Tomomi Adachi are not exploring concepts of THOMTES UNLIMITED with their duo, People’s United Telepathic Improvisation Front.

“For me,” Walshe confesses, “text scores are like sci-fi or Borges stories or Heston Blumenthal cookbooks. These are texts that can be bonkers, but they’re also speculative pieces.” And while we’ll argue the merits of more Jorge L. Borges, indeed, no one’s wont to see another multi-sensory recipe from Blumenthal, OBE.

More conceptually apropos, just as you’ll never actually own a signed, first edition of Yoko Ono’s Grapefruit, alas, we can’t even hold a facsimile of the rep from Milker’s collected snaps.

Not that I’d ever trust an urtext THMOTES from one Jenny Walshe, anyways.

1. Jennifer Walshe in Louise Gray, “Image text music,” The Wire 352 (June 2013): 34.

2. Mya Tannenbaum, Conversations with Stockhausen, trans. David Butchart (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988).

On Weiner, Acconci, Perreault, and Graham

Hannah Weiner (left) and Vito Acconci (right). Portrait of Vito Acconci courtesy of the photographer Gesi Schilling.

Before she matriculated to clairvoyant grande dame of the Language poets, Hannah Weiner was a Conceptual writer, performance artist, and lingerie designer on the Lower East Side. In light of Divya Victor’s call for this forum, I want to briefly address her Conceptualism. The tricky part is that little record of her early activity has survived. Her collaborator John Perreault reports that she set fire to the documentation of her Street Works and performance projects of the 1960s. Only since Patrick Durgin’s edition of Hannah Weiners Open House (Kenning Editions, 2006) has a recovery of her uncollected work begun in earnest — a project that he continues here and here. The mimeo zines of the era hold even more surprises in store, and below I highlight a few wayward works that firmly plant Weiner in the field of 1960s Conceptualism. These works, moreover, demonstrate that Weiner was constructing a pluralized, even polyvocal Conceptualism in contrast to a certain isolationist tendency among her peers.

Hannah Weiner’s initiation in the poetry world of New York began with writing courses taught by Kenneth Koch at the New School in 1964 and 1965. Within a few short years, she was participating in the community that was centered around art venues like the Dwan Gallery and Grain Ground gallery and magazines like 0 to 9, The World, Chelsea Review, Dial-a-Poem, and Big Deal. Two magazines that are especially vital for Weiner’s Conceptualism are 0 to 9, edited by Vito Acconci and Bernadette Mayer, and The World,edited by Anne Waldman. In these pages the artist and poet contributors marshal language in ways that closely intersect and align with one another, as can be seen by juxtaposing a few examples. Take Acconci’s untitled poem in The World 11 (April 1968):

On the one hand there is a finger.
On the one hand there is another finger.
On the one hand there is another finger.
On the one hand there is another finger.
On the one hand there is another finger.[1]

 A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, Acconci is often contrasted with the confessionalists who were his teachers and who then dominated the publishing houses. Rather than explore psychological interiority, as did Robert Lowell or Anne Sexton, Acconci is the bad boy who whittles self-presentation down to a metonymic series of cool, unadorned notations. Acconci is in no rush and never in a tizzy. The poem is a case study in what Georg Simmel calls the blasé mentality that guards against sensory bombardment in the modern metropolis.

A similar gesture operates in work by poet and art critic John Perreault. See his “Measurements,” which appears in the same issue of The World:

from head to toe. ................................................. 5 feet 10 inches
circumference of head ......................................... 34 inches
nose length ............................................................. 2 1/2 inches
distance between eyes............................................ 1 1/2 inches
width of mouth ..................................................... 3 inches
circumference of neck ......................................... 14 1/2 inches
from shoulder to shoulder .................................. 19 inches
from shoulder to elbow ....................................... 11 inches
from elbow to wrist ............................................. 12 inches
circumference of upper arm ................................ 11 inches[2]

Or take the artist Dan Graham. Although never published in 0 to 9 or The World,Graham’s work illustrates the extent to which he and the poets are best read in dialogue as fellow travelers. Take his “March 31, 1966” (1970), which calculates a series of distances from his body:

1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.00000000 miles to edge of known universe
           100,000,000,000,000,000,000.00000000 miles to edge of galaxy (Milky Way)
                                           3,573,000,000.00000000 miles to edge of solar system (Pluto)
                                                               205.00000000 miles to Washington, D.C.
                                                                     .38600000 miles to Union Square subway stop
                                                                     .11820000 miles to corner 14th St. and First Ave.
                                                                     .00367000 miles to front door, Apart. 1, 153 1st Ave.
                                                                     .00021600 miles to typewriter paper page
                                                                     .00000700 miles to lens of glasses
                                                                     .00000098 miles to cornea from retinal wall[3]

Whereas minimalist art of the prior generation strives to evacuate any trace of the ego or self, Graham’s Conceptualism seeks a renewed place for the physical body. The pendulum has not swung entirely back to the heroic masculinity of abstract expressionism — the above is hardly abstract — but Graham’s work certainly comes close through its self-aggrandizing of the artist creator. The work is like a Ptolemaic universe in which Graham is the center of all Creation.

These works all focus on the human body, but where are the other humans? Like Kenneth Goldsmith’s Fidget (2000) and Soliloquy (2001), the works portray or inscribe a self that is hermeneutically sealed off from others. If there are other voices or bodies (e.g., taking Perreault’s measurements, caring for Graham’s apartment), they are placed under erasure.

Not so with Hannah Weiner. She published several poems that year in The World magazine that situate two bodies in conjunction with one another, like friends or a couple. The poems “Hannah” and “Peter” that appear two issues later in The World are difficult not to read as a response to Acconci and Perreault:

Peter’s foot is attached to Peter.
It is attached to the ankle bone
adjacent to the leg.
This is true of the left foot
and the left leg
and the right foot
and the right leg
Peter’s leg is attached to Peter’s hip bone —
and this goes on, in the usual way,
until we havethe complete

Hannah’s hand
is attached to
Hannah’s wrist.
What if it missed?[4]

Like Acconci’s and Perreault’s poems, “Peter” is constituted by an anatomy of body parts that make up “the complete / Peter.” The second poem “Hannah” is a variation of the same theme, but it swerves on a question of incompleteness — perhaps a phantom wrist — that is incompatible with the sealed-off bodies of Acconci and Perreault (and Graham). Further, Weiner’s poems appear side by side as if to suggest an intersubjective space in contrast to the individualism of her male peers. Weiner’s poems rely on adjacent bodies — a dialogical “hello.” Similarly, her Code Poems from the same era require a plurality of performers. The Code Poems are about call and response, like two ships in communication with one another on high seas. And her Fashion Show Poetry Event is an ambitious collaboration of artists and poets that displays body after body after body parading down the runway. This is to say, her mode is already the polyvocal long before the clairvoyant poems of the 1970s and later. Weiner is a foil to Simmel’s blasé mentality because she welcomes the teeming metropolis.

1. Vito Acconci, untitled, The World 11 (April 1968): np.

2. John Perrault, “Measurements,” The World 11 (April 1968): np.

3. See Lucy Lippard, Six Years: The Dematerialization of the Art Object from 1966 to 1972 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 14. Lippard’s book, originally published by Praeger in 1973, was the first major critical discussion of “March 31, 1966.”

4. Hannah Weiner, “Peter” and “Hannah,” The World 13 (November 1968): np.

On dakim's '34 Fragments'

One curious aspect of so-called Conceptualism is the form’s latent interplay of excess and insufficiency. If a given Conceptual work privileges dissolution, then what precisely is being dissolved? Is the text meant to serve as the deleterious excretion of a corrosive authorial edifice? Or is the authorial edifice also in on the decay, and so reified? And if dissolution is part of the game at all, then why is its published output so frequently beholden to relative girth and overload? As Tan Lin succinctly and beautifully puts it in Seven Controlled Vocabularies (Wesleyan, 2010), “mold multiplies on existing structures where abortive mimicry takes the form of routine contrivance” (84).

While such a rubric of intentional delimitation — in Conceptualism’s case, textually construed — provides an unusual allegorical model for experiential problems of the quotidian, a work like dakim’s 34 Fragments (Senufo Editions, 2012) at once plays into and vexes a dialectic of waste and production. In many ways, this work trades in an aestheticized absence that opposes deficiency to compostability while sustaining its own affective complexities.

Take the cover as an example: several threads of ambiguous metadata appear on the front and back of the release, but only one of them appears to be a set. Enclosed by a curly bracket, splitroom’s conspicuous cardinality beguiles, potentially before one even listens.

Are these the nine inconsistent components listed on Senufo’s product page? Are they a music notational reference (i.e., joining staves), a pun on command sequences, something else? What differentiates them from the otherwise unbracketed liner notes (i.e., metadata) and the tripartite structure that organizes the rest of the release?

Working from the information provided on the product page and sleeve, we see that four subsets or groupings make up the primary explicatory framework for the release’s thirty-four untitled tracks. But try as one might, there are leftovers.

A quick breakdown: “sections A–M” consist of field recordings made while dakim (née Dakim Saadiq) was “lost” on Bay Area Rapid Transit; “extensions 1–6” are a “further study of audible displacement”; “track/channel set” presents the outcome of a tape subjected to various abuses, trashings, and weatherings; finally, there’s “splitroom,” our aforementioned set: both an admixture of instrumentation produced by assorted household products (e.g., stew pot, lamp, ladder) as well as the conversion of their recorded output from analog to digital formats and “insertion/removal of audio plugs.” Are the nine numbers the objects of its ensemble? The quantity of tracks?

In any case, it’s too much. “A–M” contains thirteen tracks if one is given for each letter, “extensions 1–6” six. Nineteen total so far, which leaves us with fifteen more slots to fill. How then to account for both the seemingly arbitrary construction of “track/channel set” — which is named a set, rather than represented as one — and the feasibly conjoined data of “splitroom”? To name the remaining tracks, say, after the former’s physical processes (approximately sixteen) exceeds the total, and that’s not even including “splitroom.”

Even 34 Fragments (per Senufo or Discogs) feels like an unreliable constant of a title. Couldn’t you read it as “results in 34 fragments,” per the sleeve? Is this metadata actually referential, or just an overlay?

Attribution might be easier if these sections were distinguished by differentiated aural aesthetics, but even here, everything shares a worn down texturing: source tapes, BART rumble. In other words, the patina is consistent, and always recycled.

Excess considered as environmental happenstance suits a randomized analysis of displacements local, infrastructural, and technological; it also delays potential harmonization with the release’s titular ambiguity. These sections are products of frustration and continuation, critiques of the more insidious excess given empires (e.g. the Bay Area techno-cracy) that homogenize cultural life and waste neighborhoods.

The tape is a recycler and a site of decay and absence: its click signals a punch into a magnetic strip, which in turn notates a palimpsestic and individuated track — a track that can only partially count towards the spool from which it is now inconsistent, at least texturally. Absence as the nonresidue of decay, decay as the nonrhythm of absence, displacement as the nonsite of both.

This aesthetic intentionality — if it can be called that — would then preclude a functional teleology, and would result in the apparent breakdown of sets as engines of moralization and/or order. The surface wear of an imminently segmented decomposition as such is determined via its propensity for integrating forms — one’s own and one’s surroundings, frictive and noisy shuffling — as, rather, impending nonfictions that feed outward, immune to methodological recovery or lack of metadata.

As nonfictions, are these “results” an afterimage of documented inquiry or an amalgam of arbitrarily gathered remnants? Are they only materials recovered during the conducting of an experimental uprootedness?

34 Fragments
utilizes its remainders as omnidirectional recyclables: grouped units broken down and fed into the composition of a future iteration. All this contains some residue of hip-hop production, at least in terms of sampling (cf. dakim’s other releases), through which looping repurposes or advances the discarded, the overplayed, the (nearly) forgotten. Were one to draw another comparison to Conceptualism, the methodologies of sampling might resonate with the collection of data demonstrated by some of its products, and in the mimeses those products assume.

As such, it’s important to note that dakim is working with garbage and compostables. Garbage upends an anthrodigressive inevitability of piling and deterioration, only dimly apparent to passersby. An empty soda or a crumpled napkin are not exactly finished when they’re disposed of, but are instead recirculated, if only toward their disintegration; they accumulate and vanish at a stable rate (depending, naturally, on how much one’s city has poured into waste management). Their foremost topological features are always subsumed by an expectant or imminent removability. The exacerbation of clean living and the nuisance of garbage’s very presence as such commingle in voided, rejected materials. Compostables, meanwhile, make a nutrient of waste. A lot of people compost in the Bay.

Reading 34 Fragments as a kind of empathetic or animistic bracketing of an individual’s relationship with a particular environment is both possible and extremely problematic. While recycling and displacement suggest dependable themes for interpretation, the ambience of the production leaves much to the imagination — “section J” feels little different from “section D,” for instance.

Maybe there’s also a randomized percolation between this walking and riding around, the recording of it, the transfer it makes between frames by which one’s life is represented or transposed (cf. Graham Lambkin, Moniek Darge); maybe it’s the rhythmic systems that organize and characterize their collection (cf. Jarrod Fowler, Ahnnu). Either way, these bring to mind the reciprocal variability between experimenter and experiment so crucial to quantum mechanics.

Other takes: electricity as an etymological result of resin and as related to dakim’s note on analog/digital conversion, as related to Turfing —especially its iterations on BART — which pit fluidly dislocatable instances of body against train platform; Daktronics, the company that (by sheer coincidence?) manufactures all of BART’s LED monitors; as a ghosting, a remembrance.

Yet these lines also beget a contemplation of the cassette. Distancing presupposes metaphor here as an ultimately “imperative” decompositional cyclicity, one reticently posited, and whose dispersal surrounds local networks, listeners, and riders — its retained artefactuality a presentation disaggregated into numbers and objects. 34 Fragments draws its temporal disjunctions up like so many parabolae: they are splits and curves, sporadic collections of terms rendered by the order they cluster and keep around, if only momentarily.

Messing with the beholder

Claudia Rankine’s 'Citizen' and embedded Conceptualism

Reproduction of Adrian Piper's 'Calling Cards' (undated). http://www.spencerart.
Reproduction of Adrian Piper's 'Calling Cards' (undated), which Piper distributed when racially insensitive statements were made in her presence. Calling cards also addressed sexual harassment and other issues.

Dear Divya,

You conceived this forum in the midst of attacks on Conceptualism for being a pain machine wielded by and for white people. I wondered whether your goal was salvific: could Conceptualism’s reputation and potential be rescued, could its soil be aerated and fertilized, could histories, lineages, practices, and ideas not normally associated with the current branding of Conceptualism become part of our sense of it. I felt a pang thinking: why’s it have to be on Divya to do salvific work with and for Conceptualism? I suspect, though, that you don’t want to save it but rather to transform it.

In the late 1960s, Conceptualist artists were turning toward “self-conscious investigation of … themselves as embedded participants in the social context.”[1] So said Conceptualist artist and philosopher Adrian Piper. Fifty years later, Conceptualist works by white writers on racism are being called out as racist projects — justly, in my view, despite what I hope to be the writers’ good intentions — and Piper’s account of embedded Conceptualism seems once again relevant. It encourages artists to acknowledge that their interventions emerge from positions in the social field that are unevenly empowered and unevenly audible, and that histories and contexts touched by Conceptualist artworks will release different charges depending on artists’ positions in the field.

Some of Piper’s work uses direct address to interfere with projections of the racial imaginary onto her body. A light-skinned woman of African American descent, Piper printed “calling cards” announcing “I am black” to be given out when racially insensitive statements were made in her presence (calling cards also addressed sexual harassment and other issues). And in 2012, Piper retired from being black in a letter addressed “Dear Friends” posted in her website’s “News” section and accompanied by an obviously darkened photograph of herself. These works are addressed to generalized others, to yous who are particularized in the encounter, invited to pay attention to the racial imaginary that their perceptions of her animate. Piper’s projects, in Fred Moten’s phrasing, “mess with the beholder”[2]: the works theatricalize interaction, drawing attention to all participants’ positions in the social field.

Affirming a representational poetics that contrasts starkly with 
idea-oriented Conceptualist interventions, Claudia Rankine has said that what interests her personally ... is the rendering of whole human beings.[3] But RankineCitizen: An American Lyric[4] bears a family resemblance to Conceptualism in several ways. As an archive of appropriated anecdotes about racist microaggressions, Citizen is kin to Conceptual archival works such as Kim Rosenfield’s I’ll Be Seeing You or Kristen Gallagher’s We Are Here. Also, you have suggested, Divya, that Conceptualism might be understood as “a devotional practice, a revisitation, a reengagement with the same text over and over again.”[5] Citizen insistently returns to scenes in which a distressing racial imaginary erupts into polite ordinary life. “I wanted,” says Rankine, “to communicate what it means to have these things accumulate in the body.”[6] The repetitions are an intimate ritual acculturation that, as Hilton Als’s blurb says, “comes at you like doom.”

Rankine’s project, like Piper’s work, hinges on interaction, and more specifically on intimacy. Though Rankine has said that she associates intimacy with lyric tradition, Citizen, subtitled An American Lyric, avoids most lyric conventions. It is mostly in unlineated prose; it employs appropriative strategies, which are not a convention of lyric practice; and it almost entirely avoids the pronoun most strongly associated with lyric, the expressive “I.” Citizen’s emphasis on second person is perhaps its most important revision of lyric convention. My friend Kelly Morse, a poet and translator and once my son’s babysitter, emailed me a few months ago wanting to talk about how Rankine’s work operated as lyric (she was working on a piece about Citizen and hybrid form),[7] and I sent her this:

To: Kelly
Date: February 27, 2015, 7:40am

… ok so lyric is a mode that operates doubly — it derives from song, that’s in the name (lyre, a song to accompany a lyre) and then it’s come to refer to an expressive song, from the heart, typically a song that apostrophizes or mourns an absent beloved. Any writing has apostrophe sort of embedded in it anyway because it is a communication that takes place in another place and time from the time when it will be read. So the situation of writing is fictionally microcosmed in lyric and that’s why it makes sense that many lyrics are songs of absence or loss and are concerned with issues of address.

I think this is what Rankine is thinking about when she calls her books “lyrics,” especially Citizen, which is deeply concerned with the way the “you” works and what an “I” can be. She uses second person to try to get around a problem she explains in the passage on the video art of Hennessy Youngman [a.k.a Jayson Musson]:[8] that a marked and stereotyped body — what Piper calls an “ethnically stereotyped art commodity” — is a difficult space from which to project subjectivity. “‘Race’” is “not only a system of ideas but an array of ascriptive racialising procedures which structure … social life” (in Chris Chen’s useful definition). Given the racial imaginary that we move through as if under water, “no amount of visibility,” according to Rankine, “will alter the ways in which one is perceived.” Wherever the “I” of a raced speaker is read as performing blackness, perpetuating the invisibility of the speaker, aesthetics and politics converge on the level of the pronoun. Rankine’s use of second person exposes the invisibled “other” as an experiencing subject.

The “you” in Citizen obviously refers to a person of color. But the particularities of the anecdotes only apply to “yous” of color in a general way. Rankine is and is not this you (she gathered anecdotes from many people); many or all black americans are this you — and the microaggressions experienced by this “you” can be multiplied millions of times for millions of experiences we are not given access to through this book, experiences that remain private and unregistered. And when white readers inhabit (in their imaginations) this “you,” they have to be uncomfortably aware that their real bodies in the world do not face these microaggressions — that they can feel the feelings of this you only in their imaginations. The “you” in the book takes the place of the lyric “I” — it is the experiencing zone, the place of feeling and expressing — but the “you” can’t map perfectly onto the experience of any one reader. That’s strategic and important because while we “feel”/are given access to the experiences of this “you,” we also feel our difference from the you. Some readers will think about the additional microaggressions they’ve experienced (and recategorize them as political — Rankine’s addition of “American” to “Lyric” inscribes intimate microaggressions in the public sphere). Others will recognize that they haven’t had these experiences at all, or not from a poc’s pov. So the lyric gesture of address becomes, very subtly and accretively, a consciousness-raising device.

Blah blah blah
Hope not too late
Miss you love you

I essentialized lyric, not to mention writing, pretty hard there, and I’d rather go with a more historicized and contingent definition of lyric like Virginia Jackson’s and Yopie Prins’s.[9] But let’s assume that Rankine is playing around with conventional understandings of lyric that developed in the twentieth century. Rankine, who has been thinking about lyric for a long time,[10] may have avoided the lyric “I” partly because she’s aware of the differential history of lyric in which white men’s feelings are given more space and valued more. Rankine’s point-of-view shift elegantly disorients conventional lyric postures. In Northrop Frye’s definition, “the poet, so to speak, turns his back on his listeners.”[11] Citizen doesn’t turn its back. Instead, it sets up a version of lyric that that addresses you directly, interpellates you. “So to speak”?

At the end of a poem in the middle of the book, in a reference to the Middle Passage, Rankine shifts subtly for a moment to first-person plural: “each body is a strange beach, and if you let in the excess emotion you will recall the Atlantic Ocean breaking on our heads.” The “heads” here are those of people brought across the Atlantic from Africa through the slave trade, but also those of their descendants, and of the people who don’t descend from them as well: the waves of the Middle Passage crash on all “our” heads. But on what resistant or porous surfaces do the emotions associated with those waves crash? Will their address be heard?

The last poem in Citizen shifts to first person, a more traditional lyric point of view. In it, Rankine tells a story about a microaggression to her son — an anecdotal framing of a first-person instance of the microaggression anecdotes we’ve heard many times by now. The poem invokes another familiar lyric convention: if lyric address (as Mill had it) is “overheard,” audience is also addressee. Rankine reminds us of this when she ends the book with the sentence “It was a lesson.” She’s talking about a tennis lesson, but she’s also claiming the harmful experiences compiled in Citizen as warnings, information for her son and for herself. On another level, Rankine is boldly hinting that the book may be taken as a lesson by its readers. Such a lesson might well crash inaudibly on the beach of historically constructed difference — unless it is felt. The book’s second-person accretive strategy is calculated to help its readers understand and feel it.

Questions of address bring up questions of care, questions about how we are participating in reframing and redefining the potentialities of relation.[12] Who are we talking to and how. To be honest I am not right now interested in whither Conceptualism. I am interested in whither care. Audre Lorde described care as an act of political warfare.[13] She was talking about self-care, but caring for others is political warfare too, because it messes with the systems in which white supremicist patriarchy embeds us. Meantime — please take care — and warmest regards,


1. Adrian Piper, “The Logic of Modernism,” in Art: A Critical Anthology, ed. Alexander Alberro and Blake Stinson (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1999), 548.

2. Fred Moten, “The Resistance of the Object,” In the Break: The Aesthetics of the Black Radical Tradition (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press),235. The chapter helped me understand how Adrian Piper’s work shares with Citizen a “concern with finding, elaborating, and enacting objections to the various ways of averting one’s gaze” (234).

3. Claudia Rankine, “Claudia Rankine: Citizen, An American Lyric,” interview by Michael Silver on Bookworm podcast, March 9, 2015.

4. Claudia Rankine, Citizen: An American Lyric (Minneapolis, MN: Graywolf, 2015).

5. Divya Victor, interview with Troll Thread Poetry Collective by CAConrad, 8-POINTED STAR: poet interviews (blog). Victor is no longer part of the Troll Thread collective.

6. Rankine, Citizen.

7. Kelly Morse, “Embracing the Painfully Possible in the Human Heart,” Brevity’s Nonfiction Blog, April 21, 2015.

8. The passage also appears in Lana Turner 6.

9. See Virginia Jackson and Yopie Prins, The Lyric Theory Reader: A Critical Anthology (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013).

10. Rankine organized a conference with Juliana Spahr on the topic: “Where Lyric Tradition Meets Language Poetry: Innovation in Contemporary American Poetry by Women,” April 8–10, 1999, Barnard College. She also coedited two anthologies of women’s poetry subtitled “Where Lyric Meets Language.”

11. Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2015), 250.

12. See Trisha Low’s Compleat Purge(Kenning, 2013),which she calls “post-conceptual,” or Chris Kraus’s I LOVE DICK (Semiotext(e), 1997), for provocative and unsettling explorations of address in epistolary form that target class and gender.

13. “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation and that is an act of political warfare.” (Quoted by CAConrad in a blog post the day I finished this piece.) Audre Lorde, Epilogue, A Burst of Light: Essays by Audre Lorde (Ithaca, NY: Firebrand, 1988), 131.