Accidental Specificity: |
There are
some surprising correspondences between the writing of Clement Greenberg and
the films of Frank Tashlin. Greenberg’s 1939 essay ‘Avant-Garde and Kitsch’, as
well as his later ‘“American-Type” Painting’ of 1955, and Tashlin’s Artists and Models, a Dean Martin-Jerry
Lewis vehicle of the same year, articulate competing conceptions of
medium-specificity (as that term might be applied to painting and to film), as
well as revealing accounts of the relationship between high modernist or
avant-garde artworks, on the one hand, and mass cultural or what we could call
(after Miriam Hansen) ‘vernacular modernist’ artifacts on the other. (1)
Tashlin
and Greenberg were contemporaries, and it is clear today how much their careers
ran in parallel. Greenberg’s first essays were published in the late 1930s and
‘40s, largely at Philip Rahv’s Partisan
Review. As Greenberg was toiling away at his government clerkship and
writing for that magazine, Tashlin was working as an animator and production
manager in various
These two
lives are instantiations of a problematic: the split – theoretical, practical,
even geographical – between so-called high and mass culture or, rather, two
forms or manifestations of the modern, avant-garde and vernacular. Tashlin’s
work was emphatically kitsch, to use Greenberg’s word, formally aligned with
cartoons and advertisements (a fact about which Artists and Models itself has something to say). Greenberg’s chosen
painters (Kandinsky, Hans Hofmann, Jackson Pollock), on the other hand, produced
work that was, at least originally, consumed by a small number of elite viewers
and the avowedly avant-garde. What, if anything, do these films and these
paintings have in common? Or, to paraphrase Greenberg himself: a movie by
Tashlin and a painting by Pollock – ‘what perspective of culture is large
enough to enable us to situate them in an enlightening relation’? (3)
Greenberg
intended ‘Avant-Garde and Kitsch’ as an answer to this question. ‘One and the
same civilization’, he wrote, ‘produces simultaneously two such different
things as a poem by T. S. Eliot and a Tin Pan Alley song, or a painting by
Braque and a Saturday Evening Post cover’. (4) Greenberg’s picture of this cultural totality is determinedly
pessimistic: the relationship between avant-garde and kitsch, the essay
rehearses, is that of host and parasite. Kitsch poems, films and paintings, in
Greenberg’s account, are the processed foods of the culture industry; they
provide the form of experience without at the same time providing its nutriment.
(As he puts it, ‘Kitsch pretends to demand nothing of its customers except
their money – not even their time’.) (5) In response to such parasitism,
Greenberg argues, ‘living’ culture has entrenched itself in the form of an
avant-garde, and he suggests that the formal recalcitrance of avant-garde work
has been formed in reaction to the encroachments of a cheap, surrounding, mass
culture. These works refuse the easy, pre-masticated forms of kitsch in favor
of strategies of resistance, difficulty and intellection. This action results
in an overarching drive toward medium-specificity that Greenberg spent his
career sussing out in modernist painting, becoming a consistent theme of his
writing – from early essays like ‘Avant-Garde and Kitsch’ through later work
like ‘Modernist Sculpture, Its Pictorial Past’ and his eventual championing of
‘post-painterly abstraction’ in the work of artists such as Kenneth Noland and
Morris Louis. (6)
Artists and Models begins by framing the same
problem, that of medium-specificity and the conflict between avant-garde and
kitsch, while reaching a dramatically different set of conclusions. The opening
sequence of Tashlin’s film is a response to Greenberg and, more richly,
contains its own theorisation of cinematic specificity.
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1. Miriam Hansen, ‘The
Mass Production of the Senses: Classical Cinema as Vernacular Modernism’, Modernism/Modernity Vol. 4 No. 2 (1999),
pp. 59-77.
2. Three essential
books that, in various ways, touch upon a cultural study of Tashlin are Claire
Johnston and Paul Willemen (eds), Frank
Tashlin (Edinburgh Film Festival, 1973); Roger Garcia (ed.), Frank Tashlin (London: British Film
Institute, 1994); and Ethan de Seife, Tashlinesque:
The Hollywood Comedies of Frank Tashlin (Wesleyan University Press, 2012).
3. Art and Culture: Critical Essays (Boston: Beacon Press, 1961), p. 3.
4. Ibid., p. 3.
5. Ibid.,
p. 10.
6. Indeed, a sign of the consistency of Greenberg’s writing is the fact that the essays that he selected for Art and Culture are not arranged in chronological order but by subject. (Even within the subject areas, the essays follow a conceptual rather than temporal order.) The notable – and for this essay, relevant – exception here is Greenberg’s later renunciation of his early Marxism. |
From its
beginning, Artists and Models announces that it is not simply a kitsch product or artifact, but is concerned
with the ways in which kitsch itself is presented and viewed. After the opening
credits (which are accompanied by a jaunty, parodic song about the painters of
Montmartre and Greenwich Village), the film opens on a giant billboard in
midtown
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Rick and
Eugene converse through a hole in the billboard, which corresponds to the space
of the model’s mouth. The hole is intended to serve as the chimney for a smoke
machine, which is to provide a literal, or material, dimension to the image of
the glamorous, brand-defining woman whose face dominates the surface of the ad.
The
sequence and its gags turn upon a situation in which the billboard is to be
tested: the owner of the billboard and the head of Trim Maid have come to view
the finished painting and to witness a demonstration of the smoke machine –
which will provide a unified, multidimensional, multi-sensory image of the brand.
But when
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This final
image is a self-conscious parody of Abstract Expressionist painting – then at
the height of its cultural ascendance – and, in particular, of Pollock. Its
playful smattering of paint recalls the famous 1949 Life magazine spread that depicted Pollock clothed in a
paint-splattered smock, astride one of his large works; it even more closely
resembles Rudy Burckhardt’s high angle (indeed, almost vertical) 1950
photograph of Pollock at work in his studio. But it is not simply parody;
Lewis’s painting, if it can be called that, is a figure for the studio cinema
of the mid-‘50s itself: widescreen, composed somehow of both depth and an
overweening superficiality, aglow in garish Technicolor.
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Indeed,
the same year that Artists and Models was released, Greenberg published the essay ‘“American-Type” Painting’, his
articulation and defense of Abstract Expressionism, and of Pollock in
particular. The essay contains a reiteration of Greenberg’s grand theory of
modernist painting (‘It seems to be a law of modernism … that the conventions
not essential to the viability of a medium be discarded as soon as they are
recognized’) (7), as well as a familiar gesture toward the reasons for the
purifying drive toward specificity. (‘Conventions are overhauled, not for
revolutionary effect, but in order to maintain the irreplaceability and renew
the vitality of art in the face of a society bent in principle on rationalizing
everything’.) (8) The idea here, as it was in ‘Avant-Garde and Kitsch’, is that
the specificity of modernist painting is a result of the tradition’s desire to
maintain and renew its autonomy, as part of a defensive reaction to the
rationalisations of mass culture.
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7. Art and Culture, p. 208.
8. Ibid., 208.
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The
opening sequence of Artists and Models is a parody, if not a considered refutation, of these ideas as they might
pertain to Hollywood cinema. The bright, artificial colours that Lewis
unleashes from the height of the billboard, for instance, refuse the muted
tones of the abstract works about which Greenberg was writing – aligning
themselves both formally and diegetically with the colour of advertisements.
The joke with the paint cans is a way of harnessing the exuberance of this most
rationalised or instrumentalised form of aesthetic expression, while at the
same time turning this exuberance against the means of its instrumentalisation,
here represented – as it has typically been in the physical comedy – by figures
of authority.
Artists and Models also self-consciously refuses the
quality of flatness that is essential
to Greenberg’s account of modernist painting. In the advertisement, this
refusal occurs not in service of a projected or constructed third dimension –
as it would in, say, van Eyck (the space around the woman’s face does not
suggest an environment or a scene) – but in service of an ‘actual’ third
dimension, which is made manifest both by the presence of smoke and by the tiny
room behind the image, a room that is (more or less) large enough to hold Lewis
and his crazy imagination. If modernist painting (in Greenberg’s account) works
to pare itself toward a flatness made essential by the canvas support, popular
film (in the Tashlinian-Lewisian imagination) is the site of a vast plurality;
it does not simply refuse flatness as much as serve as the container of an
infinite depth. (The scene articulates the sense that, onscreen, objects both
flat and round have interiors.) In Tashlin’s hands, this is not the mimicked
depth of pre-modern painting, but a constructed depth that takes on the quality
of absurdity, insofar as we see that it can be infinitely repeated.
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Indeed,
the fact that this refusal of flatness does not result in its notional opposite
(in what we could call, qua Michael Fried, an ‘absorptive’ third dimension) (9)
is of significance to the understanding of the declaration of specificity at
work here. Through the mechanisms both of irony and of Lewis’s plasmatic body,
Tashlin’s film has the effect of declaring an aporia in classical film practice (the fact that film space is not
contained, that it is infinitely repeatable) and of confronting the viewer at
the plane of the film screen by means of a denial of his/her desire for
absorption. (10) To be sure, this is not the full-fledged self-criticism that
Peter Bürger identified as constitutive of the historical avant-garde; but it
is not difficult to read it as strong, ‘system-immanent criticism’ (Bürger
again) with a particular drive toward understanding and articulating cinematic
specificity. (11)
A final,
very interesting twist is that this specificity is declared by means of an accident, rather than by means of a
declaration, a refusal, or (as is the case in other of Lewis’ films) the
experience or performance of infantile regression. It is Lewis’ uncontrollable
body that knocks over the paint cans which create this painting – not his
‘self’. Tashlin’s film claims that something can become an art object or
artifact despite the fact that it was
created by accident (or by means of a peculiar form of comedic and bodily
anti-intentionality). This aligns it, at least in part, with a much older
tradition that understands the photograph and then the film as constitutively automatic in character – or as built by
means of a series of automatisms, to use Stanley Cavell’s suggestive word.
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9. See Michel Fried’s Absorption and Theatricality: Painting and
Beholder in the Age of Diderot (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1988).
10. The effect is
somewhat comparable to Cindy Sherman’s ‘film stills’ of the 1980s.
11. See Peter Bürger (trans. Michael Shaw), Theory of the Avant-Garde (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984).
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This
represents a drastic revision of the sense of intentionality that is implied in
Greenberg’s account of modernist painting. It is constitutive of the meaning of
Pollock’s work that he attended to
his canvases, and that this attention is visible on and within his finished
paintings (e.g., his ‘drips’ are demonstrably the marks of a hand and brush,
not those of a machine. Indeed, they are, in this sense similar, to automatic
writing: they divulge an automatism that had previously been embedded or hidden
within a human being). (12) Similarly, the sense of intention in Greenberg’s
account is tied to a larger historical movement within painting that is working
to ensure the autonomy of the medium itself.
In all of
these ways, the specificity that is at work in Lewis’ painting-film is
heterogeneous and discontinuous. That is, the specificity that the film
articulates is related not to a Greenbergian movement of purification (the
discarding of unnecessary conventions), but to a movement of amalgamation: the
absorption of new conventions and automatisms and a parody of the same. The
cinema, this sequence declares, is definitively plural and inter-medial.
This
movement is neither critical or negating, in Greenberg’s sense, nor is it
parasitic and recuperative (in the way that Greenberg or Adorno might have
imagined). Tashlin’s film merely – but crucially – declares something about the
material and conventional bases of the cinema.
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12. For an intriguing
account of the ‘automatism’ of Pollock’s work and its relationship to
rationalised processes of industrial production, see Caroline A. Jones, ‘Talking
Pictures: Clement Greenberg’s Pollock’, in Lorraine Daston (ed.), Things That Talk: Object Lessons from Art
and Science (New York: Zone Books, 2004), pp. 329-374, as well as Jones’ Eyesight Alone: Clement Greenberg’s
Modernism and the Bureaucratization of the Senses (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2006).
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Let us
return, finally, to the larger cultural issue at stake: the pas de deux of high modernist artworks
and their mass, or vernacular, counterparts. We are wrong to think of the
relationship between more self-consciously modernist filmmaking and the works
of a surrounding mass culture as occurring in ‘fundamentally incompatible
registers’, as Hansen once put it. (13) It is better to think of this
relationship as dialectical in nature – as is so clearly the case for Tashlin’s
film and its relationship to abstract expressionist painting. These two
registers are hardly harmonic, but they change pitch in tandem.
Furthermore,
neither register is dominant, in the sense that it dictates key and pitch to
the other. Greenberg mischaracterised the relationship between these objects
when he suggested that the movement from avant-garde to kitsch is necessarily
entropic or disintegrative. The two halves of culture do often have such a
relationship (Greenberg’s examples of kitsch are poet Eddie Guest and painter
Maxfield Parrish), but the dance does not stop there: modernist artworks often
take up and repurpose the materials of kitsch to their own ends, and mass
cultural artifacts sometimes create spaces in which new forms of publicity and
experience may enter, however quickly they may be re-appropriated. Tashlin and
Greenberg form two sides of the same square, that of culture in its widest
sense. And these ‘torn halves of an integral freedom’, as Adorno put it, seem
to wish to be stitched back together, even if, as a result of that desire, they
are torn further apart.
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13. ‘The Mass
Production of the Senses’, p. 62.
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from Issue 4: Walks |
© Burke Hilsabeck and LOLA September 2013. Cannot be reprinted without permission of the author and editors. |