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Christian Boltanski's: Dernires Annes: The History of Violence and the Violence of History Author(s): Janis Bergman-Carton Source:

History and Memory, Vol. 13, No. 1 (Spring/Summer 2001), pp. 3-18 Published by: Indiana University Press Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.2979/HIS.2001.13.1.3 . Accessed: 29/03/2014 09:24
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Christian Boltanskis Dernires Annes


The History of Violence and the Violence of History*
JANIS BERGMAN-CARTON
In the last decade, the Jewish Holocaust has been invoked in the visual arts with increasing frequency. Ideally suited to a postmodern impulse to test the limits of cultural representation, the Holocaust gures substantially in recent work by artists such as Anselm Kiefer, Ellen Rothenberg and Nancy Spero. One of the most compelling and controversial producers of a post-Holocaust art is Christian Boltanski. Many of Christian Boltanskis books and installations of the last two decades contain oblique references to the Jewish Holocaust. Their materials and forms make visible, eetingly, not the Holocaust itself but the culturally mediated representations through which those of us born after 1945 experience it. The artists reluctance to name the genocidal history to which his work frequently alludes has unsettled several critics. Michael Newman, for example, reasons that the absence of any narrative element in Boltanskis elegiac works contributes to the erosion, rather than the preservation, of historical memory.1 Abigail Solomon-Godeau questions the carelessness with which the artist sometimes does use narrative, historical evidence, in tandem with memorial images. A sitespecic installation such as The Missing House (1990), she argues, which elides distinctions between Berlin Jews deported to concentration camps and the Germans who subsequently occupied their homes, is ethically compromised by its generic commemoration.2 Though Newman and Solomon-Godeau offer two of the most textured readings of the artists work, their arguments rest upon a

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Janis Bergman-Carton strangely untroubled notion of history and its recuperative powers, a notion of history contested by Boltanski in a 1998 retrospective installation. The artists Dernires Annes offers a striking engagement of the problematic of art after Auschwitz. Rather than bracketing the Holocaust as a singular or dening episode of historical violence, the installation is laid out as a series of encounters with evidentiary remainssome sinister, some benignthat invite and then discredit rationalization. It problematizes the practices of narrative and history and suggests a different frame through which we might experience what Ernst van Alphen calls the Holocaust effect in Boltanskis workone less bound to the conventions of memorial imagery and more attuned to a project with which the artist has long been engaged: eliciting the relational tensions between historical episodes of violence and the intellectual violence of history.3 Installed at the Muse dart moderne de la Ville de Paris in 1998, Dernires Annes recycles and refashions nine earlier works whose formal and discursive contiguities are emphasized in the exhibition design. Composed of three distinct areas, Dernires Annes begins with a brightly lit introductory space that seems to exist without the artful intervention so obvious in the second sequence of rooms, or the third. The walls in the foyer are not freshly painted or prepared, and their arrangement is more concerned with instruction than with aesthetics. The starched matter-of-factness and didactic panels convey the pedagogical arena of curators and historians more than the spaces of art. This preliminary area recedes as one enters the second series of rooms, the transporting spaces of art just beyond. A dramatically altered lighting design announces four galleries that compose the next phase of the installation. The rst reprises the 1995 work, Menschlich (gure 1). It is a darkened, rectangular chamber which requires a bit of eye-blinking to adjust to the charcoal graininess of its light. Over time the gallery comes into focus; it is covered nearly oor to ceiling with cropped and enlarged photographs of photographs that have been collected by the artist and recycled through installation projects dating back more than a decade. Several times removed from an original, these reproductions of reproductions appear vaguely distorted. They resolve gradually as the eye adapts to the darkened space, a kind of photographic dark room, that seems to make

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Christian Boltanskis Dernires Annes

Fig. 1. Christian Boltanski, Menschlich, 1995. (Photograph by Andr Morin, Paris, courtesy of Muse dart moderne de la Ville de Paris.)

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Janis Bergman-Carton tangible times passage. Each photograph is approximately two by two feet, and most are unidentied. Though regularized by format and simple black frame, the photographs range between soft and sharp focus and are hung with very slight variations in height, to avoid the effect of a grid, or regularization.4 The deviations from an otherwise consistent standardization are enhanced by the photographs informality and private familial quality. The room appears, at rst glance, a kind of family of man. A second look, however, a double-take, reveals several unsettling images among the hundreds of family photos and benign head shots. There are, for example, images taken from crime magazines whose facial features are blacked out to protect (or erase) their identity. There are several group photographs of friends and family that include smiling SS officers holding guns. Perhaps most disturbing are four photographs of young boys, the only images in the room accompanied by any kind of identifying label. The legends beneath them are in German, typed and formatted in terse columns of classicatory shorthand. Their detailshair and eye color, family origins, birthplaceread like surveillance records. But they also command our attention as the only images in the room that bear any reassuring potential for identication and historical particularity. Their presence among the anonymous portraits and photographs of benign recreation recycled from earlier installations raises the question of how one distinguishes between historical and personal memory. It also draws attention to the relationship between the historical moment of violence alluded to in the arrangement of these photographs and the intellectual violence of histories constructed around idiosyncratic systems of selection and classication. As one scans the gallery in search of some organizing principle, one inescapably returns to these photographs, to the intrusive ones. They are most specic in terms of clothing and conventions of pose, and they make us aware that the photographs in the room seem to date principally from the 1940s and 1950s, a recognition that seems to conrm the sensation that these spaces are somehow inscribed with the memory of the Holocaust. A compulsion to overvalue the narrative (mis)guides the transition into the next gallery in this sequence, a narrow, softly arcing passageway that is also piled with objects oor to ceiling. A reworking of Les

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Christian Boltanskis Dernires Annes Registres du Grand Hornu (1997), the passageway feels at rst like the comforting corridors of a library or an archive. But its narrowness brings us face to face with the exposed spines, not of books, but of foot-and-ahalf-high biscuit tins bearing name labels, not titles, and occasionally small photographs, whose format and stamped markings read ominously like cartes didentit. The room is permeated by a spectral amber glow emanating from the rusted tin and reecting off its mirrored surface. There is, at once, a quietude and a tension about the space as if, perhaps illicitly, we had gained access to a private archive storing data about individuals known to us only by the names and occasional photographs pasted to the containersdata physically within our reach, like books on a library shelf, but institutionally restricted. That play between the familiar and the forbidden, which informs the entire work, is embodied in the tins themselvesharmless domestic objects rescripted by context and function. Museum prohibitions against touch further contribute to the unsettling nature of this archive inches from our faces, which might as easily serve the narratives of museum curators as the plans of a fascist state. The clean orderliness and standardization of the tins imply a next phase in what had appeared, in the previous gallery, a more random assemblage of people. The hundreds of photographs from gallery one, already several times removed from an original, have been sorted, categorized and stored for easy reference. The arcing oor plan of the narrow second gallery impedes our view of the next and creates the illusion of an endless parade of human life reduced to stored data. The repeating pattern of these receptacles, and their substitution of tin skin for human esh, suggests the passage of time and the quiet violence with which personal remembrances (what Boltanski calls the small memories of, for example, family photographs) are snuffed out by the master narratives of historical memory.5 Our complicity is implied by the reection of our features in the mirrored nish of the tin archive. The forensic subtext of these rst rooms is further developed in a third, which returns in more stark and clinical terms to gallery ones palette of black, white and gray (gure 2). In this refashioning of Les Lits (1998), all traces of the particularized individuals from the preceding spaces have been effaced: their bodies, dehumanized, have been

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Janis Bergman-Carton transmuted into fewer and larger, now steel, containers. All vestiges of small memorythe amateur photographs, the name labelsare supplanted by anonymous receptacles, blank spaces available to a multitude of scripts. Nine rectangular, shallow cribs, perched on four legs with casters, are sparsely arranged around the gallery. Each is covered by a thick plastic blanket, puffed up at varying degrees, implying a different stage of growth or viability beneath. These generic laboratory objects read alternately as photo development drawers and morgue storage bins, intensive care cribs and funeral biers. Their dominant horizontal plane is enlivened by a vertical attachmenta long, slim light bulb that looks like a cathode tube or IV drip. The gradual retreat from the eshly and material world of gallery two, the archive, seems here complete, as a chosen few, salvaged from the masses, are readied for processing, incubating or dissecting. In the nal room of the upstairs galleries, the bed-like receptacles appear to be tipped on their sides and their plastic blankets transgured into hospital curtains strung on rolling metal structures (gure 3). In this reworking of Les Portants (1996) and Les Images Noires (1996), ten evenly spaced framings of opaque fabric are backlit with photographic projections of facial details that may or may not have been drawn from the rst gallery. They are set off by walls bearing irregularly hung frames that circumscribe glossy, empty, black rectangles, like commemorative plaques on a church wall, like the framed faces in gallery one. The missing faces from that rst space seem to have been processed through some combination of historical memory and time, a process underlined by the burnished plaques that at certain angles (like the biscuit tins) reect our faces and those projected onto the hospital curtains. Like movie screens or funeral shrouds, the curtains haunt and reassure. They spotlight a loss of identity at the same time as they suggest the possibility of aesthetic replenishment. Visualizing the erosion of memory and identity, the upstairs galleries narrate a quiet history of implied violence and the even quieter violence of an implied history. The downstairs galleries, on the other hand, a third phase of the exhibition, have less of an obvious physical relation to one another. They are not contiguous and they do not share iconographical references. What they do have in common is a thematic concern with the

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Christian Boltanskis Dernires Annes

Fig. 2. Christian Boltanski, Les Lits, 1998. (Photograph by Andr Morin, Paris, courtesy of Muse dart moderne de la Ville de Paris.)

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Janis Bergman-Carton

Fig. 3. Christian Boltanski, Les Portants, 1996; Les Images Noires, 1996. (Photograph by Andr Morin, Paris, courtesy of Muse dart moderne de la Ville de Paris.)

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Christian Boltanskis Dernires Annes compulsion to conserve, organize and storewhether in an archive, a museum, a lost-and-found depot, or a concentration camp. The boundaries between art and lifewhich Boltanski always testsare further effaced in the downstairs sequence. There are no sacral spaces or elegant lighting effects. In fact, initially, one is not even condent that these are public galleries, part of the work. Access to the basement level comes at the far end of the upstairs sequence. The door to the staircase is unmarked and institutional and our movement through it tentative, carrying with it, again, a feeling of transgression. The uncertainty is fed by the installation that greets us at the bottom of the stairs, a revision of the 1998 work, Les Appareils, which seems like a pile of randomly stacked pieces of furniture covered by black plastic coverlets. Our concern is dispelled only by the sight of open double doors and the blast of color they frame. What appears from a distance to be a series of scarlet, tangerine and mustard yellow patchwork quilts, hanging on the side and back walls of this windowless room, draws the viewer away from the drab arrangement beneath the stairs. Once inside this reproduction of La Rserve du Muse des enfants (1989), we see not quilts but stacks of carefully folded childrens clothing, in primary and secondary colors, arranged on imsy metal shelving that covers all three walls, oor to ceiling. After the virtually monochromatic spaces of the upstairs galleries, the raucous color of this room and the playful detailing of several unfolded items of childrens clothing (a hand-crocheted sweater or a tiny pajama bottom to animate and humanize the otherwise static piles) provides a moment of optical replenishment. But the pleasure is quickly dispelled by the stale smell of secondhand clothing which forces questions about the whereabouts of the children who once wore them. The sensory assault of this room, and the dissonance between the presence of the clothings textures and smells and the absence of those who once wore them, urges our movement toward the nal spaces, more storage spaces, just beyond. These last areas (gure 4), reworkings of Perdus (1995), are the only ones we cannot enter or move through. Chain-link fences curtail our access to more cheap metal shelving and to the darkened aisles they contain. Because our distance from the shelves and the dusky illumination signicantly limit visibility, the occasional sighting of a hat, a shoe, an electronic appliance, assumes an exaggerated importance in the

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Janis Bergman-Carton

Fig. 4. Christian Boltanski, Perdus, 1995. (Photograph by Andr Morin, Paris, courtesy of Muse dart moderne de la Ville de Paris.)

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Christian Boltanskis Dernires Annes narrative we inevitably produce to explain this random collection of objects that have been left behind, thrown away, or perhaps conscated. Like most of Boltanskis installations from the last two decades, Dernires Annes never references the Holocaust explicitly, but its presence is discernible in (perhaps over-determined by) the imagery of clothing depots, laboratories and photo archives of which it is composed. It is an absent presence, a moment that has lost its temporal immediacy but remained utterly unforgettable. And Boltanski denitely plays to that unforgettability, drawing visually from the realm of newsreels, documentaries and photojournalismfrom the very photomechanical sites of disclosure and revelation that have come almost to stand for the event itself. Photography is central to Boltanskis engagement with the practices of history. Bearing vestiges of truth, but easily manipulated to lie, it is an ideal medium for his meditations upon historys potential to diminish, rather than strengthen, memory. Overvalued by historians and social scientists, photographs exist in Boltanskis art, like the second-hand clothing, as totems of death. Ideally suited to the taxonomizing impulses of Western culture, they provide the modern culture of surveillance with its most wide-reaching tool. Universalizing systems designed to map polaritiescriminal and victim, Aryan and Semitewere fueled and authorized by the advent of photography, by the material evidence it appeared to provide. In Dernires Annes, Boltanski relies upon photographys aura of authenticity to tweak our compulsion to rationalize. In gallery one, for example, it is difficult not to attempt some hierarchy for the hundreds of apparently unrelated photographs, at least in terms of the benign and the malignant. Only careful attention discloses the speciousness of the order implied in this photographic arrangement. Only time reveals the discordance of Boltanskis juxtapositions of picnickers and crime victims, marriage portraits and missing persons reports, skillfully masked by the coherence of its presentation. Like the uniformity of book outlines or a registrars object les, the formatting and framing of these photographs camouage their differences. Boltanskis preoccupation with the quiet violence of modern intellectual practices is everywhere evident in the materials and media he chooses and in the way he arranges them. As important as the photo

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Janis Bergman-Carton works are his archives and museological displays, a vocabulary of forms that bears on the obsessive need to collect, order and narrate the material evidence of our lives. It is when he combines the imagery of archive and museological display with more visceral and personally evocative objects such as abandoned (or conscated) human clothing and head shotsas he does in Dernires Annesthat Boltanski courts the Holocaust effect. The juxtaposition of second-hand clothing and the photographed spectral remains of human life inevitably generates associations with World War II extermination camps. While this is the most extreme and horric instance of the culture of surveillance and regulation that orders our thoughts in Boltanskis installation, it is but one element of the work. Dernires Annes shares Foucaults concern with the quiet violence of modern intellectual practices, specically the post-Enlightenment regulatory sciences and their reliance on technologies of realism such as photography. It is this preoccupation with the thematics of social regulation that informs his use of the imagery of archives and museological displays as well. The artist claims it was his exposure as a young man to the Muse de lhomme and other ethnological museums, what he calls the authentic museums, that shaped his interest in the collective monument.6 Museums of natural history are composed of everyday objects transplanted from their original function and spatiotemporal frame and deposited into glass display cases. There they assume new meanings and often new authority as the material evidence upon which we construct collective histories. In the 1970s, a decade rich with museological art, Boltanski added the thematics of the museum and the archive to the repertoire of his installation work. Works such as Reference Vitrine and Attempt to Reconstruct Objects That Belonged to Christian Boltanski Between 1948 and 1954, both dating to 1970, build linguistically and structurally on museological display. Both are monuments to the impulse to collect and codify, even if we do so through an assemblage of what might be considered in another context trash. Reframed by their placement within glass vitrines, ordinary objects (such as the ripped corner from a page in one of Boltanskis books or one of his studio tools) become precious artifacts of his life, inviting biographical narratives.7

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Christian Boltanskis Dernires Annes The collection and ordering of information also forms the basis of his archive series. The 1994 installation, Lost Workers: The People of Halifax, 1877-1982, for instance, expands the notion of the vitrine from the personal to the collective. Here the image of the archive invokes a more sinister side of salvage and preservation practices. Lost Workers is composed of stacks of identical cardboard boxes or biscuit tins bearing only name labels. Each receptacle had been assigned to a worker from Halifax, England, recently unemployed due to the closure of a carpet factory. The workers were invited to place some souvenir of their experience at the factory in their box, a small individual memory that lived on in the invisible private space of the box but was camouaged by the public format of these identically labeled, depersonalized containers. The fact that this collective monument still exists at all in Halifax suggests, as Jean-Franois Lyotard has argued, that art may well function as a space of resistance to metahistories.8 The reserve series contributes a third element to the conception of Dernires Annes. According to Boltanskis Abcdaire, the word reserve is linked to the idea of the body in the cupboard, to the thing that is hidden and that we possess, but also to the idea of everything we conserve ... our souvenirs and our secrets.9 In works like Reserve: Canada (1988) and Reserves: The Dead Swiss (1989), Boltanski plays with the impulse to preserve and make public what was once personal and private. But he adds to the imagery of storage and containment more visceral and personally evocative objects such as abandoned (or conscated) human clothing and photographs. The photographs of human faces in this series are often spotlit by small metal lamps and photo-mechanically reproduced so many times that their identifying features, now almost skeletalized, seem to dissolve. The juxtaposition of these elements in the reserve series produces frequent associations with World War II concentration camps, even when there is no explicit reference to them. Dernires Annes makes use of all of these formsthe photo works, the archives, the museum vitrines and the reserves. It is at once a unied installation and a retrospective of works dating from the last two decades, as the title implies. The artists recycling and reframing of everyday objects as human salvage or as the evidentiary remains of a culture of surveillance has prompted critics such as Nancy Marmer to speak of

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Janis Bergman-Carton Boltanskis installations as metonyms for Auschwitz or Treblinka.10 But it is through a larger, structural context that we experience the residual affect of the Holocaustas one hideous extreme of an ideological spectrum of rationality, knowledge and power that is, as it is in Dernires Annes, at once familiar and repellant. As Didier Semin writes: We might perhaps say that all of Christian Boltanskis work deals not with the memory of the Holocaust but with the extraordinarily complex mechanisms that have made horror possible, that which enables us to conceive the inconceivable.11 Boltanskis project on the modern disciplinary compulsion to accumulate and taxonomize data shares an affinity with Foucaults notion of the demagoguery of history.12 Both consider the relationship between historical moments of violence and the disciplinary violence embedded in the writing of history. As the demagogue is obliged to invoke truth, laws of essences, and eternal necessity, Foucault writes, the historian must invoke objectivity, the accuracy of facts, and the permanence of the past ... the historian effaces his proper individuality ... to replace it with the ction of a universal geometry, to mimic death in order to enter the kingdom of the dead.13 As an alternative to the model of the historian, Foucault offers the genealogist, a typology made material in Boltanskis aesthetic of recycling and double exposure: [Genealogy] operates on a eld of entangled and confused parchments, on documents that have been scratched over and recopied many times.... It opposes itself to the search for origins ... what is found at the historical beginnings of things is not the inviolable identity of their origin; it is the dissension of other things. It is disparity.14 Rather than explicitly naming the Jewish Holocaust, Dernires Annes excavates the intellectual mechanisms that unintentionally made it possible (along with other genocides since) and frames the cultural arenas through which those systems remain operative and valued today.

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Christian Boltanskis Dernires Annes Dernires Annes discloses the contingencies of historical evidence and the liabilities of the kind of narrative closure it permits. Boltanskis installation consists of fragments, scratched over and recopied many times. They seem available to narrative unity but ultimately concede their disparateness. They teasingly imply continuity and relationality in the echoes they seem to generate across spatial and temporal elds elicited in the gallery. But more often than not, the echoes ring hollow. They successfully tug at our will to rationalization, or at least at mine, but rarely fulll the promise as one blatant manipulation in Dernires Annes suggests. It is difficult to resist the impulse to read the movement from the rst two galleries into the third and fourthas I did in the opening pages of this essayas a linear development. I characterized the gradual reduction and eventual disappearance of the photographed human faces of gallery one into the clinical spaces, with incrementally fewer photographs, as some kind of physicalization of the processes of historical selection and exclusion. I proposed that the changing nature and number of artifacts, from gallery one to gallery three, could be rationalized as a critique of historical representation. But that proposal unraveled in gallery four, a space as materially tied to the previous rooms as any. Gallery fouraccording to the intellectual trajectory I charted in the rst half of the installationshould have contained fewer elements than gallery three. And yet, it contained one more. Boltanskis recent work examines the uneasy relationship of visual and textual representation to the past by underlining the compulsion to overvalue and overread. The past whose representation Boltanski regularly invokes, and then provocatively evades, is that of World War II, the historical frame through which he claims it is impossible for someone of his generation not to see. But unlike the commemorative imagery with which his art is frequently compared, Boltanskis installations do not seek to represent the Holocaust or do the work of mourning. They are, in fact, suspicious of such enterprises. Though some critics argue that commemoration is inexorably bound to narrativethat names and dates and stories are essential to the recovery of memory and the restoration of lifefor Boltanski, narrative and historical writing seem to hold as many dangers as promises. We are a culture of story builders, says Boltanski, and the more we tell the more we lose.15

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Janis Bergman-Carton
Notes * I would like to thank Jeanette Ambrose, Lauren Jones, Nancy Keeler and Marius Lehene for their insights 1. Michael Newman, Suffering from Reminiscences, in F. Barker, P. Hulme and M. Iverson, eds., Postmodernism and the Rereading of Modernity (Manchester, 1992). 2. Abigail Solomon-Godeau, Mourning or Melancholia: Christian Boltanskis Missing House, Oxford Art Journal 21, no. 2 (1998): 120. 3. Ernst van Alphen, Caught by History: Holocaust Effects in Contemporary Art, Literature, and Theory (Stanford, 1997). 4. Donald Kuspit also comments on these slight deviations from a grid-like format; see In the Cathedral/Dungeon of Childhood, in Didier Semin, ed., Christian Boltanski (London, 1997), 97. 5. Boltanskis comments on the distortions of history are quoted at length by Danilo Eccher, Christian Boltanski (Milan, 1997), 166. 6. Didier Semin, Christian Boltanski (Paris, 1989), 55. 7. Ibid., 56. 8. Jean-Franois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis, 1999), 7374. 9. Eccher, Christian Boltanski, 125. 10. Nancy Marmer, Boltanski: The Uses of Contradiction, Art in America 77, no. 10 (Oct. 1989): 16980, 23335. 11. Semin, Christian Boltanski, 85. 12. Michel Foucault, Nietzsche, Genealogy, History, in idem, Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Interviews and Essays, trans. Donald F. Bouchard and Sherry Simon (Ithaca, NY, 1986), 158. 13. Ibid. 14. Ibid., 13942. 15. As quoted in Tamar Garb, In Conversation with Christian Boltanski, in Semin, ed., Christian Boltanski, 8.

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