Art and Public Space

Dag Wiersholm and Sissel Lillebostad in Conversation

Sissel Lillebostad (SL): When does a space become public? When does one move from a private, personal space into one that is public? What kind of boundary does one cross here?

Dag Wiersholm (DW): Interesting questions. These are things we really have to think about these days, not least because of the new technologies. For my own part, I feel that in a sense I am almost always in a public space, or situated in relation to a certain environment, even though, technically and physically speaking, I am disconnected and isolated. Like the philosopher Knud Løgstrup, I would say we are always entangled with the world.

I think it's important to protect what's left of the private sphere. It becomes all the more important because we're accessible the whole time, and we have to draw a line to halt the invasion media exposes us to.

The social media have changed the relationship between the private and public spheres, and this has forced us to reassess both the concept and the phenomenon of public space. This has had some positive consequences, such as allowing us to participate in and influence political processes more directly. There's far greater scope for a certain kind of political activism today than there ever was before. Even in private, I can be part of a conversation that is simultaneously public, even though I myself am not necessarily in the public sphere. I rarely find myself in situations where there is a clear distinction between private and public, unless I buy into the kind of privatisation of public space brought about by the social media in particular.

This is why I think it's important to protect what's left of the private sphere. It becomes all the more important because we're accessible the whole time, and we have to draw a line to halt the invasion media exposes us to.

SL: You make two points. One is that the public sphere is invasive, the other is that it is also largely media driven. Over the years we've all become aware that even a phone call can be public. Perhaps this is one thing that occurs to you when thinking about public space?

DW: It certainly is.

SL: Can communication be private?

DW: Fundamentally speaking, it can't. Communication presupposes the occurrence of something interpersonal. To communicate implies a linkage with one or more other people. That's what the very concept of communication entails.

SL: Do we become vulnerable the moment we communicate, because what we say could be put into a different context?

DW: Exactly, we have no guarantee it won't happen. It's a risk we face simply by living in society. I imagine it's something artists in particular are made to feel once their works become accessible to others. It's the kind of thing we can't entirely control, just as, from a broader perspective, we are neither self-referential nor self-aware. Although it might be stretching a point unduly, it's tempting here to mention the philosophical distinction between Kant's autonomy and Heidegger's reaction to it, or to the distinction in Western metaphysics between subject and object. According to Heidegger, we cannot be external to our own lives; we cannot conceptualise an understanding of the world that is independent of the situation we live in and of our interpersonal practices. We simply exist in the interaction with others. In this sense, we are also fundamentally communicative.

SL: Given that we are socialised into language, that communication is essentially public, and that we would barely exist without it, could one say the notion of a private sphere is just an illusion?

DW: Yes, if we want to be entirely consistent, it is at least difficult to imagine total isolation for the individual. And this is true despite the existential feeling we often have of being alone. On the other hand, privacy is a concept we need. Occasionally one just needs to be by oneself, or at least not seen by others. That's when one does things that aren't intended for public viewing.

SL: At the same time we have an internalised gaze that monitors our actions, which is part of the social gaze and subjects the things we do to ethical consideration. In other words, we assess ourselves with a public gaze even when we're doing things no one else can see.

DW: Exactly. We always observe ourselves through the gaze of others, which means we can never be free of the social sphere. One aspect of this is what we call conscience. And we can also imagine that this particular intersection between ourselves and others plays a part in how we conceptualise the public sphere?

To draw a parallel with art, one could perhaps say here that absolute autonomy is an impossibility; each and any art practice arises from or has its origins in a social context, or, one might say, in the public realm. On the other hand, it is of course important to maintain the ideal that art should be able to function independently, as one of many public voices. Not forgetting there are forces that seek to use art for personal gain, which seek to instrumentalise art.

SL: We usually make a legal distinction between the private and the public, but, as we know, art can operate in both the public and the private spheres. On encountering an artwork we have a personal response, a subjective experience. It's when we share this personal experience with others that it becomes public. Sometimes these subjective experiences influence public, or communal, perceptions of the artwork, which all too easily brings the legal factor into play. We tend to shuffle back and forth between these considerations, which is why I wanted to discuss this notion of the private.

DW: I think I see what you're getting at. The experience or perception of an artwork is private, each person perceives it in her own way and her our own context. But when communicating with others, we are compelled to use the language. And that takes us into the realm of rationality, which in the case of art also entails the classic distinction between perception and reason. It's a distinction that numerous people have grappled with,1 in other words the significance of sense impressions for the formation of ideas, but in relation to the question of the public sphere, we generally think of the emotions as something private and personal, and rationality, or reason, as the communal form of communication.

It's in this respect that some people, such as Chantal Mouffe, have been critical of Jürgen Habermas.2 According to Mouffe, the purpose of such conceptually oriented thinking is to achieve rational consensus, and thereby to obscure conflicting standpoints. It might be stretching the point about personal perception too far, but in many contexts our perceiving of an artwork is construed as an experience that occurs on a more personal and emotional level.

When art seeks to enter these various public spheres with statements that contradict the consensus, it is remarkably difficult to know what one should think of it.

SL: And perhaps this is because an artwork is open, and often lacks a logical explanation. I think many people find the experience of confronting an artwork and having to rely on their own judgement a little frightening. One doesn't know what to think; there are no rules, and in that situation one can easily lose the social platform we otherwise depend on. Noam Chomsky3 has talked about us belonging to different tribes. These tribes are based on the circles of family or friends, and may be linked to a religious community or colleagues. And it is these tribes that determine what it is possible to think, what it is possible to see and how we assess the world. When art seeks to enter these various public spheres with statements that contradict the consensus, it is remarkably difficult to know what one should think of it. In that situation one is relieved the moment an opinion gets established that is basically public. Because then you don't have to come up with an independent stance.

DW: It's a situation I think many people would recognise. It's also one of the characteristic things about art as a phenomenon, that we are essentially free in how we comprehend it. In principle, we ought to be free in our approach to all great works of art. But it is in itself challenging on other levels than those one is generally familiar with from other social contexts

SL: Yes, it makes you think. But there is also the dilemma that arises when one seeks to place art in a public arena, where many people are struggling for domination and control. That's where a work of art can take a battering, not just from the weather but also in the form of active resistance such that the artwork is simply removed or else it dies a death. One attitude seems to be the deliberate ignoring of art, so that light bulbs don't get replaced and parts aren't repaired. It's a domination strategy that many people are exposed to. So how should we respond to it and what should we think on venturing into this minefield?

DW: Yes, it is a minefield. But that's also what makes it interesting. It's a challenge to intervene in a context where different public groups are competing to be heard and to be given space. As a participant in society, art has social potential; it has a voice, whether or not it seeks to dominate its context. To my mind, it is at such interfaces with the world that art becomes relevant. As representatives of the art world, we address a variety of audiences, and the opposition we have to face has its legitimacy. Hegemonic attitudes are in this sense a relevant perspective. For Chantal Mouffe this is a central concern; according to her analysis of society, you can't have democracy without struggles for power and hegemony.

SL: The fact that hegemonic dominance is constantly changing hands is perhaps the basis of democracy. This kind of discussion simply doesn't arise in a dictatorship, where power is established and unchallenged by definition. Would you say that open disagreement is one of the things that keeps democracy going?

DW: Absolutely. Conflict and disagreement should not in themselves be regarded as a threat. And it's here that Mouffe differs from Habermas, whom she herself refers to in a variety of contexts. Loosely speaking, one of Habermas's fundamental postulates is that the "better" arguments ultimately win through in virtue of their inherent strength. Mouffe, for her part, takes a different view about how public discourse is organised and functions; she believes we can live well with disagreement and conflict, and that they are in fact valuable in their own right.

Mouffe, for her part, takes a different view about how public discourse is organised and functions; she believes we can live well with disagreement and conflict, and that they are in fact valuable in their own right.

In this perspective, art is one of many factors in a society where people live side by side in open disagreement. One could of course argue that this is a defence of value pluralism or relativism, where no value is superior to any other. Some people might read her that way. At the same time, she is highly critical of Western conceptions of democracy, believing that, in a global perspective, we have to talk about a diverse system with various focuses of power and hegemony, in other words a model that is different from the one the West has sought to promote for the international community.

SL: The problem with disagreement is what form it should take. This is where one begins to discuss the details of democracy: To what extent should everyone have a voice? Are established channels available to all, or only to a select few? Art has traditionally occupied a privileged position. Not only in its own right, but also as an instrument for the socially privileged.

DW: Indeed, there are double standards here. It's interesting that one of art's particular privileges, one of its positions, is precisely that many people – not least the artists themselves – perceive the privileged as speaking on behalf of no one other than themselves. When it comes to society as a space for expressive statements, that's probably the case, although it is at the same time a somewhat idealised view of the situation.

SL: I would certainly call it idealised. It's a historic model, which I for one find it hard to believe in.

DW: But then you have to ask what the interests are that art promotes, especially commissioned art. As far as KORO is concerned, this is an absolutely fundamental question that has to be asked again and again. Art is not a medium that's available to all and sundry, whether it's used to represent the individual or the public, or as a power instrument to further personal interests or a particular identity. In my view, we live in an aestheticised world governed by the logic of the economy. Fredrik Engelstad4 says for example that beauty does not only emphasise power, it also legitimates it.

SL: Yes, we are seduced by beauty.

There's a powerful social interest in form – some might call it the packaging aesthetic – which regards form as more important than content. What kind of challenge does this pose to the arts and KORO? Here we find ourselves in a domain which the sociologist Oddrun Sæther has described as the aestheticised power landscape.

DW: I have sought to apply an analysis of power to our practices at KORO as an art institution, precisely because KORO has to find the right balance between being a government organisation for implementing frameworks and opportunities for art and one that simultaneously facilitates the government's self-presentation in its own buildings. Another parallel I see is that of society's preoccupation with aesthetics. There's a powerful social interest in form – some might call it the packaging aesthetic – which regards form as more important than content. What kind of challenge does this pose to the arts and KORO? Here we find ourselves in a domain which the sociologist Oddrun Sæther has described as the aestheticised power landscape. For me it has been important to warn against being sucked in by a culture industry, where art becomes a mere consumer item reduced to serving goals external to itself, which is the characteristic of instrumental thinking.

SL: Right, but I also see the danger of another instrumental level, where art serves a narrative with a particular vision, sometimes bordering on propaganda. This touches on the point you were making, that aesthetics can also help to advance the power of rhetoric. This may of course be the case, but the opposite can also be just as true. And here we have a dilemma. But returning to openness, it is very difficult to be clear about what the content of a work is. A work can be read in almost any way you like. This past summer, I had some conversations with Leonard Rickard about working with public art during the time he spent at Bergen University College this past summer. Working in public space isn't something Leonard is particularly familiar with. For him, his activities as an artist have primarily been directed at exhibitions. He regards form as paramount; content is to a far greater extent a matter for the viewer. It is through form that the artist can express himself; it is the choices he makes in this respect that bring the artwork close to the viewer.

DW: I can easily see what Leonard is getting at here, and I understand that producing art can be a question of finding the right formal language.

SL: As that which also exists independently of the artist and has the potential to communicate.

DW: Maybe especially if we consider the various roles art has assumed, either as an expression of a political ideology or as something more pedagogically oriented. Works that tend to be that unambiguous will of course quickly lose their artistic value because one soon exhausts the readings they can offer.

SL: But they can have significant value for the period in which they are created, because they make us see behind what is widely considered true. So I'm not opposed to works that are clear, almost dogmatic, it's just that the content soon goes out of date.

DW: Neither do you have any guarantee that it will be perceived as intended. Depending to some extent on the context the art is displayed in, it can prompt opinions that differ from those the artist was initially aiming at.

SL: Of course, and in fact that is very often the case. Which brings us back to that gifted man by the name of Marcel Duchamp, who described this as the «art coefficient», the insurmountable gulf that art has to traverse between intention and realisation.5 Even the best of intentions dwindles along the way. And I feel there's not much we can do about it, except to hope the art will remain engaging. It's one of the things that has struck me over the years, that a work of art has to engage people again and again, otherwise it dies. And this applies to public art just as much as art in other spheres.

DW: Undoubtedly.

SL: Art in public space also has to contend with a whole list of limitations, many of them formulated by the contractor or a building's occupants, in addition to broader restrictions, such as health and safety regulations, environmental and security concerns, all of which constrain the form the art can take.

DW: Many people regard this as a very interesting challenge; how to create meaningful art within the framework of pre-stated terms and conditions? Projects or works of this kind have to comply with all the constraints, whether functional, aesthetic or physical, as is usually the case in our own contexts. When the restrictions are so onerous that you hardly see any artistic possibility whatsoever, that's when some artists find it interesting to seek out exactly where there are possibilities – a kind of exploration if you like.

Many artists also find unlimited freedom as demanding as a strictly defined context. When you step outside the gallery space, you find yourself in a world that isn't necessarily prepared or intended for art, and that entails a whole set of challenges.

SL: The spaces we describe as free and public are in reality very crowded. One is allowed to pass through them, but they tend to be well defined and filled with things. If art is to have a place in such a setting it virtually has to elbow its way in. Art can meet resistance right from the outset. Because when an artwork says «I have more right to be here than you», it's always possible to reply «How so?» If the art has a blatant agenda and a somewhat aggressive idiom, it's likely to provoke a confrontation.

DW: Which is precisely how it is; the art has to fight for its place. We forge alliances, both holy and unholy, which give us opportunities and space. Public art has to be perceived as relevant by those to whom it is addressed. But there's another aspect of working in the service of art, which is the tendency to take it for granted that art is a social good. The argument is that it ought to be obvious that the more art we have, the more we show our civilisation and humanism. Or as KORO formulated it in its early years: art should help to humanise thoroughly impossible environments.

I remember we had to apply very different arguments in our dealings with the public in order to be allowed to use spaces where no art had originally been envisaged, because people thought that art belonged in galleries and museums.

We no longer have to fight for art's rightful place in society in the way we used to, for various reasons. It has to do in part with the way conceptions have changed about what art is and what it adds to the public sphere. But we also notice that in the more symbolically charged public spaces, such as a government building, art still faces an uphill battle.

SL: You say art has gained acceptance in public space, but on the other hand, it isn't entirely clear which space we talk about. Would you consider it an advantage that the space stay flexible, open, and perhaps not so well defined?

DW: Yes I would, and without reservation. Art can turn out very differently in different contexts. I see that as a good thing, both for the art and for that matter for KORO, in the broader social perspective. Complexity, in both the individual work and art production collectively, has reached a completely different dimension than it used to have. In addition, in a pluralistic society, art has to offer scope for a range of interpretations. And to my mind, this brings a certain responsibility. In particular we have to take care that our activities do not appear arrogant and that we don't elevate art, as a kind of free space for the production of meaning, above ethical considerations. One keyword here is sensitivity, and we always have to ask the seemingly simple and banal questions before we start a project: What purpose does art serve just here? How will it turn out? How should we proceed? On the other hand, art possesses a capacity for self-reflection that one doesn't find to the same extent in other sectors of society. This could have to do with the fact that art needs to find its own legitimacy, as we were talking about earlier, but it also has to do with the more open approaches that art uses today.

These factors are helping to fundamentally reshape our ideas not just about what art does, but also about what art is and can be. Nevertheless, we still have to start out from these fundamental basics – what art is and can be – otherwise I believe we lose something. We mustn't take things for granted.


1 One example is the Norwegian moral philosopher Arne Johan Vetlesen. In his view, emotions play a much greater role in the formation of rational ideas than conventional views recognise. He believes that even the rationally based discursive ethics of someone like Jürgen Habermas could grant greater significance to emotions.

2 Belgian-born Chantal Mouffe is professor of political theory at the University of Westminster. Her publications include Gramsci and Marxist Theory (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979), and Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics, written in collaboration with Ernesto Laclau (London: Verso, 1985). The latter sets out the theoretical basis for her theory of democracy, which centres on issues of power and hostility.

3 Noam Chomsky (b. 1928) is one of the world's foremost linguists and one of the most outspoken social critics of US policy since the Vietnam War. He is highly critical of so-called neo-liberalism and of US interventions and military campaigns. He is an advocate for libertarian socialism, which favours a decentralised economy, with the means of production controlled democratically by employees and local communities.

4 Fredrik Engelstad is a Norwegian sociologist who received a doctorate in 1989 for his thesis Likhet og styring. Et deltakerdemokratisk eksperiment i perspektiv (Equality and Management. A participatory democratic experiment in perspective).

5 Marcel Duchamp: «… the personal 'art coefficient' is like an arithmetical relation between the unexpressed but intended and the unintentionally expressed. To avoid a misunderstanding, we must remember that this 'art coefficient' is a personal expression of art à l'état brut, that is, still in a raw state, which must be 'refined' as pure sugar from molasses by the spectator; the digit of this coefficient has no bearing whatsoever on his verdict. The creative act takes another aspect when the spectator experiences the phenomenon of transmutation: through the change from inert matter into a work of art, an actual transubstantiation has taken place, and the role of the spectator is to determine the weight of the work on the esthetic scale.» Excerpt from "The Creative Act", Houston, Texas, April 1957, published in: Robert Lebel, Marcel Duchamp. New York: Paragraphic Books, 1959, pp. 77-78. http://radicalart.info/things/readymade/duchamp/text.html (accessed 19.10.14).

 

Kunstjournalen B-post #1_15: Battle and Consensus