[smiths] magazine: Slavoj Žižek ‘The Courage of Hopelessness’ at AK Wien Bildungszentrum, Vienna. 20/05/17

The annual climax of the Viennese cultural calendar can only be Festwochen; the Austrian capital’s culture festival held this year between 12^th May-18^th June. Established in the 1950s, Wiener Festwochen remarks on its website, ‘[it was/is] necessary to reconnect with the world, to integrate the city and the country into the international discourse of art and culture, to promote life, openness, and the idea of a future’. Events span theatre, dance, art-installations, music and lectures; celebrating individuals at the forefront of socio-political activism, avant-garde artistry and intellectual thinking. The festival is heavily subsidised by the Austrian government and though many of the events are ticketed roughly between €10- €65, a reasonable amount of the events that take place over Festwochen were free- including those by postcolonial celebrity Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Hegelian-Marxist and movie-pundit Slavoj Žižek and Fannie Sosa’s sex-positive Feminist ‘twerkshop’. A premium cultural smorgasbord.

It was as part of ‘The Academy of Unlearning’ lecture series that Slavoj Žižek’s lecture on ‘The Courage of Hopelessness’ was positioned; a collection of lectures touching on Western democracy, social dislocation and the European migrant crisis- encouraging participants to tap into a system of re-education and critique individual boundaries of understanding. 

As an intellectual who is perhaps both admired and lambasted in equal measures by contemporary medias, Slavoj Žižek has an unshakable cult status amongst memes junkies and uni-educated white Corbynites alike. The Ed Sheeran of the hard-Left if you will; Žižek fronts a shy-boy scruffy exterior that downplays ‘intellectual genius’, idolised by his adoring disciples.  Žižek’s writings on Ideology, Psychoanalysis and Film Theory- famously popularised for the mass-market in films The Pervert’s Guide to Cinema (2006) and The Pervert’s Guide to Ideology (2012) cemented him as the poster-boy for Hegelian-Marxism, prescribing a transcendental celebrity glow to his characteristic idiosyncrasies and habitual mannerisms.

Following the publication of ‘The Final Countdown: Europe, Refugees and the Left’, Žižek’s essay and lecture title derives from the Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben claim that “thought is the courage of hopelessness”. Speaking in the present tense, Žižek underscores the bleakness of European politics with destructive language, ‘The true courage is to admit that the light at the end of the tunnel is most likely the headlight of another train approaching us from the opposite direction’. Exploring this prophetic collision, he goes on to mark this oncoming threat as the ‘flow of refugees’ or ‘the problem of refugees’ that will certainly ‘explode again’. His central claim here is (perhaps unsurprisingly) radical, calling for a ‘move away from the humanitarian’.

‘This fascination with refugees suffering is the ultimate fetish because it changes a mega serious political problem into a humanitarian concern, and sentimental liberals always like this, to change again and avoid critical political analysis and begin to talk this rubbish of “are our hearts open enough”? [...] We don’t need open hearts we need precise political action to break this cycle of global geopolitics’

Interrogating the difficulty of multiculturalism, Žižek points the finger at the ‘the burden of a specific way of life’ and the ambiguities that surround this ‘way’ as a point of conflict and uncertainty. Using the Lacanian  notion of ‘jouissance’, Žižek consolidates the notion of a ‘way of life’ as ‘not direct pleasure but the enjoyment of organising pleasure’ culturally organised in such a way that it ignores cultural attitudes to sexual customs and hierarchy as values that exist ‘at the very core of a way of life’. Žižek presents the idea of arranged marriages as a key component to a way of life, citing cultural conflicts within his native Slovenia, as well as looking at the model of the Indian caste system as a way of life that was used to the benefit of British imperialism, stating that ‘authentic imperialism has always been multicultural’.

The discourse is dense and pessimistic, focus turning to the recent French election and the futility of neoliberal politics, ‘Macron embodies politics that produced Le Pen’ and Žižek asserts despondently; ‘a vote for Macron is a vote for Le Pen in four years time’.

At one point, Žižek confesses to having streamed the recent adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale on piratebay (‘I caught myself enjoying it very much, I was horrified’). Broadening into a Lacanian discussion on the sources of pleasure, Žižek digresses into an account of rape of which the perpetrator denied being motivated by carnal desires and was thus considered innocent by the Mexican authorities. Here, Žižek revisits his trope that ‘of course, feminists explode’, marking the Left’s obsessive preoccupation with safe-spaces and a general emotional excess with his argumentation teetering towards the Right. The attention to detail in describing the account as well as the depiction of graphic violence in the screened video clip underscores Žižek’s inability to censor or shelter. This extends to his provocative brand of apathetic humour, and on a theoretical level in the assertions of his lecture argumentation that calls for a move away from humanitarianism. Who needs trigger warnings, right?

The proceeding Q&A followed in a very Žižekian manner, scrutinising the mediation of pre-meditated questions through a host and reminding the audience to save their clapping for when they are directed, signposting the conventions of a conference.  The initial question: ‘How did you sleep yesterday?’ is met with frostiness that exposes Žižek’s personal brand of radical humour through juvenile hyperbole ‘What is the point of this question? If you put it the way you have put it, it would be like I have raped five children.’

As he tries to engage in a direct Q&A with audience members Žižek confesses ‘I feel bad. The best thing would be to- this is deepest anti-feminist manipulation- have a lady ask the questions so that we can say that ladies were also- you know.’ Though Žižek does undoubtedly recognise the extremes of his humour as an alienating factor, what is posed as a noble intervention for the sake of inclusion is dashed as soon as the audience member is chosen- an older Austrian man- over the energetically waving arm of a female audience member. In doing this, Žižek reduces a demonstrative act to a futile pledge to compensate for his poor taste in humour, further isolating the voices of Left-wing women within a panel and audience largely made-up of men. Žižekers hang off their demi-god’s every word, praying for the next available moment to laugh heartily and declare their commonality.

In sum, I’m a sucker for free culture. Festwochen’s scintillating selection of scholars, exhibitions, installations and performances had me from the word go, and the accessibility of free entry is a credit to the Austrian government and Arts funding.

Hey, maybe I am a misguided, hysterical ‘exploding feminist’ but declaring progress to be a move away from empathy is certainly heavy handed.

written for [smiths] magazine: http://www.smithsmagazine.co.uk/2017/09/04/vienna-festwochen-slavoj-zizek-the-courage-of-hopelessness-at-ak-wien-bildungszentrum-vienna-200517/ 

Elinor Potts

A direct attack on The Great British Academy

I have something on my chest. It's currently inflamed and looks like I have the onset of a terrible skin condition. It's as red as the red flag, gently restricts my breathing at worst, and over the years has provoked countless shrill exclamations of 'are you alright?'. I've had it as long as I can remember in times of heightened anxiety, arousal, anticipation, to go on. I am currently seething.

As a non-oligarch student of Literature at a London university I work part time. Following a brief stint back home over the Christmas period where I slotted back into luggage shop tribulations- a grave error- I put my foot down and secured a job as a tutor of GCSE English back at uni. The firm; based in Hackney are relatively newly fledged and fundamentally the loveliest bunch of young professionals keen on helping students of all ages gain confidence in academia in both private and group tuition in schools across Greater London. As a student who was once reliant on tuition to shoehorn me through GCSE Physics I understand the importance of getting through to a pupil who may not necessarily connect with the subject but is eager to work at it for the sake of a grade. So far, I have tutored GCSE students with abilities ranging from a D/E grade to A, and whilst I am still very much a fresh face to the sphere of tuition, I'd like to say I take immense pride and attention to lesson planning, listening to students and asking for their own feedback to sculpt the lessons round their areas of focus. To be totally frank, there are few things I enjoy more, and I can get an immense adrenaline rush out of it.

I have so far worked at two schools, one in West London and one in East London; both being light years away from my former secondary school. As a student who only left secondary education about four years ago, I'd like to say I was still fresh from the oven. I loathed my school wholeheartedly, having transferred mid-GCSE following a family relocation to North Devon. A rurally isolated private school; mine perpetuated a grotesque class divide with Damien Hirst’s darling tottering down corridors whilst I hopelessly attempted to integrate. 150 years old, the school held close Freemason ties [insert pun on school ties] shamelessly made known to pupils with the presence of the enormous Masonic rugs rolled up in the corner of the drama studio and 'special favours' that my Music teacher has mentioned that several of the male teachers would make for the sons of Masons. In fairness to my parents they were aware this was unsurprisingly going to be an awkward time to move any 16 year old from the costal metropolis that is Brighton so sent me here in the hope of an amicable environment and quick solution to salvaging an education for a furiously hormonal young woman.
My experience of secondary school, as most teenagers find in retrospect, was painful. I was distinctly made to feel aware of how much money my parents did or did not have in comparison with my peers, and as an extension I felt an enormous sense of guilt at being there and so insufferably miserable. Girls were forbidden from wearing trousers (there was no option), boys had to have hair of a certain length, my peers frequented homophobic and racist slurs so often I gave up on trying to call them out.  It wasn’t until I moved back to the city and discussed this with friends at university I could finally express my pent up frustration at a school so retrograde in its deeply conservative ideology.

What I would not understand until four hours ago is that arseholes are not exclusive to the private sector. Call me a fool.

The schools I teach at in West and East London are both Academies. I value my job, and in light of this I am going to abstain from referring directly to the school(s) in question. What I am not going to abstain from is the expression of the conversation I had today with a year 11 pupil, ‘A’. ‘A’ is a GCSE student in her final year of secondary school. She is diligent, has grubby fingernail, is the most methodical planner of essays I have ever encountered and quite honestly is absolutely charming. This said, half of the scheduled sessions I’ve had with her she’s called off or she’s had doctor’s notes. Today was evidently a lucky day and sure enough she was waiting outside as soon as I had finished with the previous group session. ‘A’ looked visibly drained.   

I open the school approved ‘tutor pack’ that the head of department has instructed us to use. A smarmy, deeply condescending woman; it is evident by her manner that she has very little respect for us tutors, let alone her students. Today in the earlier session she swans in making no attempt to speak to us privately and waltzes in mid-session to my colleague, asking if her students have been making ‘insightful comments’, then reprimanded another for slouching, both in the most poisonous tone I have ever heard a teacher speak to a student. The whole premise of tutoring is breaking the boundaries of formalities to tailor to the student’s learning and allowing them to feel comfortable to broach questions on the topic that they may find challenging. Two weeks ago she stormed into my session and in front of my entire group session and told me my whole lesson plan was incorrect in explicit earshot of my students. That evening I sobbed to my boyfriend and drew a tiny effigy in my journal.

I asked ‘A’ how her week had been. She gnaws on a biscuit in response, “it’s from study club miss” she says, embarrassed and wiping the crumbs from her mouth- completely ignoring my question. We propose to look at a creative writing question we had planned from the previous session; we look at the mark scheme. ‘A’ highlights the key words, slumped into her chair and I try to keep a chirpy tone, anxiously sipping on my own cold coffee.  When we finally commence writing a creative passage she slumps even further. “I’m really sorry miss” she confesses, “I’m exhausted.”.

I ask her what time she was in this morning, presuming 9AM; my own earliest lecture and a pain at that. She tells me that students must be in for 8:11 promptly every day. If a student is more than 1 minute late they lose their break time and their lunch time is halved. I gawp, and she continues, the other one-to-one student who my colleague is overseeing chirping up too, and before I know any better they are both outpouring.  Girls must have their hair in ‘one unit’ [one hairband- two are deemed unprofessional]. If a student is caught rolling their eyes or saying ‘oh my god’ they are excluded for a week. Any student put in isolation must ask permission to drink water. The school day is 8.17AM to 6PM, for 5 days a week plus compulsory Saturdays 9AM-1PM. ‘A’ informed me that the academy would be rolling this out over the Easter period as well.  What’s more is that before the start of every single of the six lessons that make up the day, the students stand behind their chairs and recite:

‘Throughout this lesson I aspire to maintain a calm disposition and an attentive air so that in this class and all classes I can fulfil my true potential’.

Whilst immediately evoking visions of a Dystopian 1984-esque institution, nay, prison, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the pupils I had taught in India, rote learning a Robert Louis Stevenson poem but who could barely spell their own name. The words are hyperbolic and pointlessly archaic to the extent that their meaning is totally redundant. It’s a literal fucking incantation to the ghost of the Grammar school.

I couldn’t shut my mouth if I wanted to.  

What is perturbing is that this academy is doubtlessly not exclusive. Gove’s upheaval of the UK education system now places immense pressure on students through the introduction of linear A-Level exams culminating in exams at the end of the 2 year stint meaning Universities shall have to consult a student’s grades at GCSE, exams typically sat when a student is 16 years old.

I asked ‘A’ if she thought the strictness of her school improved her grades? She said no.

Did the strictness of her school detracted from her enjoyment of her studies? She said a little.

I asked ‘A’ what she intended to do once she had completed her exams. Her friend sat across the room said she had been planning to ‘stick it out’ for sixth form. I tried in vain to stress that the levels of discipline at this age are far higher than at A-Level, let alone in university.’ A’ was keener to leave as soon as she had the chance to do so.

Well done Michael Gove, it’s working. You’re dissuading future generations from pursuing further education, apprenticeships will be on the up and A will secure herself a job through hard grit, providing she sticks at the same industry for the rest of her life.

I don’t know what I’m proposing, if proposing at all. I am documenting the perspective of a child emotionally and physically drained by a school fighting for funding like tigers over a buffalo.

This school’s principles are grotesque [as I’m sure hundreds other are] and the most perverse and industrious husk, devoid of humanity and nurture I have ever had the misfortune to teach at.

I am still seething.

A [my] sad puppy, as a reflection of the author's angst.