In spite of P-8's unremarkable non-place, it was the transversal ..... anthropologist Marc Augé characterizes transient public spaces, like airports, supermarkets ...
The Curatorial Turn of Curricular Architecture
This is an Accepted Manuscript of an article published by Intellect, Ltd., in the journal Visual Inquiry: Learning & Teaching Art in 2017, Vol. 6, Number 2, pp. 83-94, available online: https://www.intellectbooks.co.uk/10.1386/vi.6.1.83_1 Charles R. Garoian Penn State University Abstract In this writing, I conceptualize the curricular explorations, experiments, and improvisations in a collaborative high school art and architecture history course as a curatorial riffing that activated a curricular architecture from which new and differential histories emerged. Homologous with curatorial experimentation, the curriculum consisted of historical and contemporary works of art and architecture positioned along side disparate, seemly-unrelated tasks, events, and students’ memories and cultural histories to evoke from their interstices a plurality of discursive encounters, alliances, and emissions. The curatorial contingencies of that curriculum will be conceptualized in curatorial, cross-citational1 alliance with the following theoretical constructs: the movement-image and time-image of Gilles Deleuze as they activate thinking standardized figurations of curricular scope and sequence differently; thinking historical discourse as a curatorial plurality according to Michel Foucault’s notions of heterotopia and genealogy differently from hegemonic curricular constructs; and, the implications of Paul O’Neill’s concept of the curator as artist in thinking curricular creation in terms of curatorial performance.
The solution to a contemporary problem will never be found in a problem raised in another era, which is not the same problem except through a false resemblance. Paul Veyne, 1993, p. 2 Performing architecture in our bones While architectural history was periodically addressed throughout the school year, it was during our study of Gothic cathedrals when a multiplicity of architectural concepts converged. By then we had already covered the Caves of Lascaux, the Egyptian pyramids, the Greek temples atop the Acropolis, the Coliseum, Pantheon, aqueducts, and other examples of Roman architecture, as well as Early Christian basilicas and Romanesque cathedrals, all of which made evident the complex structural phenomenon of architecture with its internal microcosmic space signifying the macrocosmic space of the universe: the domain of the gods.
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In The Tao of Physics: An Exploration of the Parallels Between Modern Physics and Eastern Mysticism, physicist Fritjof Capra (1975) conceptualizes the complex spatial dynamic between the architecture of the atom and its nucleus thusly: To see the nucleus, we would have to blow up the atom to the size of the biggest dome in the world, the dome of St. Peter’s Cathedral in Rome. In an atom of that size, the nucleus would have the size of a grain of salt! A grain of salt in the middle of the dome of St. Peter’s, and specks of dust whirling around it in the vast space of the dome—this is how we can picture the nucleus and electrons of an atom. (p. 66) Inspired by Capra’s architectural metaphor, we visited the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center (SLAC) at Stanford University where experimental and theoretical research on particle physics was being conducted by colliding and smashing atoms to extrapolate from their imperceptible, microcosmic structural operations new scientific understandings about the macrocosmic workings of the universe. What our befuddled2, nuclear physicist host told about was the performative entanglements of electrons, protons, and neutrons that hold together to constitute the atom’s structural integrity—knowledge that we immediately associated with the complex material and social entanglements that were at work in the building of Gothic architectural monuments: stonemasons and other artisan communities engineering and constructing high rise cathedrals in stone with vaulted stone ceilings suspended above lofty naves, their thin-walls reinforced by the grain in the stone, and by flying stone buttresses to affirm an overall structural integrity. While mindful of the dynamic virtuality of the atom, we also considered the discursive religiosity that was inspired by the cathedrals’ spectacle of biblical grandiosity: their throng of sculpted saints on the exterior; their stained glass windows diffracting natural light through biblical representations into the interior; and, their resonant evocations of choral music and liturgical chanting’s sounding throughout the hollow, aspirational acoustics of the nave. These contingent atomistic3 materialities of Gothic architecture evoked sensations, affects, and movements in the congregational body to constitute the atomistic immateriality of religious experience.
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Then, in contiguity with these material and immaterial contingencies, we performed an alternative architecture with our bodies (Figure 1). To experience the structural integrity of Gothic cathedrals in our bones, and in relation with that of the atom, a small group, six students (A-1) standing abreast to mimic a nave wall, with six other students (A-2) standing abreast directly behind them to serve as flying buttresses, faced two similar groups (B-1 and B-2) standing approximately 24'' in front of A-1 and A-2. As the students in groups A-1 and B-1 raised, reached across, and crisscrossed their arms to clasp hands to constitute a vaulted arch, those in groups A-2 and B-2 outstretched their arms and placed their hands on the shoulder blades of the students in A-1 and B-1 standing directly in front of them.
Figure 2. Body suspended from center vault. Courtesy Charles Garoian
After having achieved a Gothic structural formation with their bodies (Figure 2), I entered the “nave” and suspended my body from two of the center “vault” to demonstrate how the counter resistance of the flying buttresses against the nave walls supported the lateral thrust of my weight. When I then asked the students in A-2 and B-2 to remove their buttressing arms from the shoulder blades of A-1 and B-1, the vaulting arms of the latter two groups collapsed from the weight of my body and felled me to the floor (Figure 3).
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Figure 2. Collapsed vault. Courtesy Charles Garoian
Thereupon, we discussed the physiological system (primarily skeletal, but not without the support of our muscular, nervous, and circulatory systems) buttressing our bodies in relation with the structural integrity of Gothic architecture. The particularities and vicissitudes of this performance, in accordance with those of the atom that we learned from the physicist at SLAC, and a field trip during which we experienced the design and engineering of three architectural sites in the City of San Francisco4, constituted the curricular singularity of our curatorial riffing5 on architectural history. Curatorial adjacency The brief, albeit incongruous complex of histories that you the reader just read are constitutive of my past high school students and I situating historical and contemporary works of art and architecture along side disparate, seemly unrelated tasks, events, and happenings including those of our respective personal memories and cultural histories. As mentioned above, the logic of our contiguous process was curatorial: for my students and I to experience the contingent encounters and alliances between these radical historical adjacencies, and their plurality of ideational emissions. Curatorial adjacency, about which I will discuss more in depth later in this writing, is curiously interstitial, incipient, and immanent. Its in-between is where the potential for real learning emerges experientially through pragmatic, relational processes of being-with, doing-with, and saying-with, and where disparate ideas disentangle from the chaos of everyday life to constitute a discursive singularity without being reduced to one another6. The alternative histories that materialized from the middle of our curricular collaborations on architectural history are homologous with what curator, artist, and writer Paul O’Neill (2007) refers to as the discursive turn in curatorial practice. The impetus for this writing is also worthy of mention. The call for submissions for this volume on curatorial practice in art education, having piqued my curiosity about the disjunctive encounter between these seemingly oppositional frameworks, also roused
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involuntary memory (Deleuze, 2004)7, and re-minded me of the anomalous ways in which my high school students and I studied art and architectural history those number of years ago. The folding of that past curricular encounter onto the occasion of the call for submissions is consistent with Foucault’s “history of the present” (1973)8, and Deleuze’s “swimming in signs” (1995)9. It is thusly that I describe the contingent circumstances of our collaborative study in association with Deleuzian and Foucauldian theories to then turn to O’Neill’s conceptualization of curatorial research and practice in order to explore their relational alliances with our alternative study of architectural history at the high school. In what follows, the teacher||student collaborations from which the curricular architecture of our architecture curriculum emerged, will be discussed in terms of the following contiguous theoretical frameworks: the movement-image and the time-image of philosopher Gilles Deleuze; heterotopia and genealogy of philosopher Michel Foucault; and O’Neill’s curatorial turn. While, Deleuze’s notions about movement and time offer significant ways of thinking standardized forms of curricular scope and sequence differently, Foucault offers ways of thinking curricular history as a plurality rather than a hegemonic construct, and O’Neill’s curatorial performativity, in contiguity with the two philosophers’ frameworks, offers differential ways of thinking and performing curriculum. Our teacher||student histories Incidentally, our10 course was nevertheless called “Art History.” It occurred in a northern California High School for twelve years (1974-1986). In a 30' x 30' portable classroom that was identified as P-8, my twenty-five students and I studied and discussed historical and contemporary images and ideas of art and architecture in relation with our lives for fifty minutes: 10 a.m. to 10:50 a.m. Monday through Friday, for the entire school year beginning in September and until mid-June. Our teacher||student relationship was interchangeable throughout the academic year. As we co-researched, co-created, and cotaught the curriculum of the course, I learned from them, they learned from me, we learned together. Our objective was to explore the historical images and ideas of art and architecture to understand our own research and practice as artists in relation to their ideological force. P-8 was unremarkable; a non-place11 insofar as it lacked any distinguishing characteristics. Basically, it had a rust colored, tight pile carpet, no chairs, two aluminum louvered windows with cranks for opening and closing, a single gray-steel door for entering and exiting, a white fiber-based and textured drop ceiling with six recessed florescent lights, fiber-based walls surfaced with neutral toned and textured plastic, three remote controlled Kodak Carousel slide projectors suspended from the ceiling in the rear of the classroom with their telephoto lenses aimed at three 6' x 6' white projection screens in the front of the classroom. In spite of P-8’s unremarkable non-place, it was the transversal, collaborative study between my students and I that made it spatially remarkable.
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Our school library contained a few general knowledge art books, and a few art slides, but both collections were inadequate for a yearlong course. To supplement the library’s assortment, I acquired books from the large collections of a nearby university library. Using a close up lens mounted on my 35 mm, single lens reflex camera, I photographed images of art works from their pages and had them processed into 2'' x 2'' slide transparencies. I then provided the presenting student/s with the books and the slides to research and organize into a 40-50 minute presentations including time for discussions and a surprise five-minute live performance. Also, on their own, each student or small group of students brought images, objects, and materials with which they prepared a disjunctive, surprise performance to riff-on the main idea or ideas emitting from their art historical topic. Performed either before or immediately following their presentations, the objective of the riff was to introduce an unanticipated event, a surprise counter narrative that would activate transversal ways of conceptualizing our art and architectural topic of history differently. On the day prior to their presentations, I met with my students either individually or in small groups, during one of my fifty minute prep periods, to go over their reading notes, the organization of their slides, and to exchange ideas that their topic generated in relation to our personal memories and cultural histories. Their learning to “play-with” historical events and images, served as an engine to activate class discussions and actions; to encounter, entangle, and riff-on historical knowledge transversally in accordance with the vicissitudes and contingencies of living in the world. Understanding that the purpose of the class was to learn while riffing-on art history, the presenting student/s remained open to unexpected questions and comments from their classmates, to accommodate their historical contingencies, and the conceptual associations that would generate as they experienced historical works of art and architecture in differential ways. Our movement-curriculum Compared with the nondescript character of the classroom, our curriculum in the course was aberrant. Its diachronic, western-European chronology began in the fall semester with Paleolithic and Neolithic Art and continued with Egyptian, Greek, Etruscan, Roman, Christian, Medieval, Renaissance, Baroque, Modern, and up to and including contemporary American and European Art by the end of the spring semester. Naively, its imperfect episode-to-episode, epoch-to-epoch fragmented discourse left much of Western European art, and especially the art of non-western cultures, virtually hidden if not actually nullified. That reductive History was destabilized by the multiple histories that we each brought to the classroom, and with which we created a multiplicity of historical understandings. Structurally consistent with Deleuze’s cinematic theory of the movementimage (1986, pp. 58-61; 1989, p. 29), its logic consisted of diachronic framings, and rational progressions and juxtapositions in determining curricular movement according to the flow of historical content. As understood within the theoretical framework of the movement-image, the linear causality of its curricular scope and sequence was narrowly aligned and conformed to the Western European canon. As such, its diachronic content constituted the movement-curriculum of our course of study. Our time-curriculum
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To shift our studies from the confines of content causality12, we folded the images and ideas we were viewing, reading, and discussing onto and adjacent with each other, with those of contemporary visual culture, and with our respective memories and cultural histories. The episodic and epochal encounters and alliances of our folding process constituted chronological time-out-of-joint, a synchronic event of cinema that Deleuze (1989) conceptualizes as the time-image: “It is no longer time that depends on movement; it is aberrant movement that depends on time…by a non-localizable relation, pure optical and sound situation—direct image-time” (p. 41). That is, having shifted from the linear logic of historical discourse, to the sensations, affects, and movements that the enfolding images themselves generated, activated a transcursive curricular-turn.13 Our movement-curriculum, having altered according to the contingent encounters and anomalous alliances between and among intervals of time and image, reconstituted as the time-curriculum—intermezzo14—a rhizomatic curricular assemblage with no beginning or end, always in the middle, in-between, its dissonant, synchronic algorhythm15 riffingon and mutating the consonant, diachronic algorithm of history to expose the agential significance of our particular memories and histories heretofore hidden or nullified by the dominant representations of Western European history. Put somewhat differently, ours was an experimental encounter, a curricular short-circuiting of that historical paradigm. Our emporium of histories Consistent with the synchronic contingencies of the time-image, our curricular assemblage constituted a taxonomic classification of disparate and disjunctive images and signs. My contention that ours was not a study of art and architecture history, resembles, repeats, and affirms Deleuze’s declaration in the first sentence of the French version of Cinema 1: The Movement Image (1983): “This study is not a history of cinema. It is a taxonomy, an essay of the classification of images and signs” (p. iv). Our curriculum also constituted a “classification of images and signs.” By conceptualizing cinema thusly, Deleuze aligned its disjointed, alternative structure of time according to an imaginary ancient Chinese encyclopedia entitled Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge that Jorge Luis Borges (1993) cites in his essay The Analytic Language of John Wilkins (p. 103). Similarly, in The Order of Things: An Archeology of the Human Sciences (1973), Michel Foucault characterizes Borges’ alternative system as heterotopias, places that are disturbing, probably because they secretly undermine language, because they make it impossible to name this and that, because they shatter or tangle common names, because they destroy ‘syntax’ in advance, and not only the syntax with which we construct sentences but also that less apparent syntax which causes words and images (next to and also opposite one another) to ‘hold together’. (p. xviii) Such syntactical disturbances to which Deleuze and Foucault are referring, function as generative machines that, by activating and producing alternative systems of curricular discourse, challenge the foundational understandings and practices of art historical content. For Foucault, discourses are modes of address that constitute knowledge according to social and historical practices, performances of subjectivity, and power
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relations that inhere among and between them. There are discourses that constrain alternative modes of address and those that activate and enable them. Foucault elaborates on these opposing discursive systems in terms of the archive: The archive is first the law of what can be said, the system that governs the appearance of statements as unique events. But the archive is also that which determines that all these things said do not accumulate endlessly in an amorphous mass, nor are they inscribed in an unbroken linearity, nor do they disappear at the mercy of chance external accidents; but they are grouped together in distinct figures, composed together in accordance with multiple relations, maintained or blurred in accordance with specific regularities. (Foucault, 1972, p. 129) In other words, while curricular discourses are regulated, standardized, and may appear immutable, they are nevertheless constituted as mutable singularities; that is, disparate and “distinct” objects, ideas, and materials archived together on a plane of consistency. Such an event of curriculum discourse specifies the inherent points of discourse itself. It is in-between the inherent episodic and epochal figurations of “unbroken linearity” and the “amorphous mass” of the curricular archive where the incipient potential for alternative discourses is immanent. Our curatorial curriculum It is the event of curricular mutability to which I now turn to address its trans-discursive potentialities in terms of curatorial performance. As such, for the remainder of this writing I will focus on the relationship between our aberrant process of art historical research, teaching, and learning in the High School, and what O’Neill (2007) refers to as “the curatorial turn.” Positioning the curricular turn of our high school course in art history adjacent with O’Neill’s curatorial turn reveals significant discursive correspondences. Given their resemblances in spelling and pronunciation, currere, the etymology of curriculum as “running the course,” and curare, the etymology of curator as “caretake, protect, and preserve” are worthy of mention in this writing insofar as both concepts are coextensive and complementary based on their affinity with educational discourse. In terms of currere, my students and I “ran the course” of art history by riffing on our teacher||student exchanges, riffing on art historical images and ideas, with those of contemporary visual culture, and our respective memories and cultural histories. In terms of curare, our riffing process constituted an affirmative critique that “cared for and protected” the dominant chronology of our curriculum while repeating it in differential ways. In doing so, the differential curricular attributes of our course constituted a dynamic, curatorial complex. Education theorist Madonna Stinson’s (2007) contention that curriculum development constitutes curriculum curation rather than curriculum creation is noteworthy insofar as curation, like curriculum, “involves similar processes of selection and organization…cognizance of existing practices and materials…selection of content, concepts, and processes…based on the work of previous curriculum developers” (pp.
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203-204). Her conceptualization of curriculum certainly aligns with conventional understandings of curatorial performance as selecting, organizing, and caring for exhibited and collected artifacts with the intent to “allow for diversity of interpretation, encouraging educators and students to see familiar concepts and materials with new eyes (p. 204). Nevertheless, Stinson’s understanding of curatorial scope and sequence suggests a content driven curriculum homologous with the diachronic framings, and rational progressions and juxtapositions of Deleuze’s movement-image discussed above. What her curatorial theory of curriculum does not account for, however, are the transversal contingencies and potentialities of the time-image from which creative curatorial production is immanent. It is about the creative production of discourse that O’Neill conceptualizes as the curatorial turn, which is “indicative of a shift in the primary role of curator…as carer to a curator who has a more creative and active part to pay with the production of art itself” (2007, p. 15; 2012, p. 103). Our curatorial turn In his essay, “The Curatorial Turn: From Practice to Discourse,” O’Neill (2007) makes a compelling case about the shift that has occurred over the past four decades from understanding the role of the curator as caretaker of art works to one who is engaged in the creative research and practice of artists. Where “curator” was once considered a noun, it has since evolved into the verb “to curate” and established “curatorial practice as a potential space for critique…[thus] usurping the evacuated place of the critic” (p. 14). While having met opposition from professional curators and artists wanting to distinguish between their differing roles, this “curator-led discourse” nevertheless asserted the interdependence of both practices within the field of cultural production (p. 14). According to O’Neill, group exhibitions served as the space where such experiments occurred: Since the 1980s, the group exhibition has become the primary site for curatorial experimentation and, as such, has generated a new discursive space around artistic practice. The group exhibition runs counter to the canonical model of the monographic presentation. By bringing a greater mix of people into an exhibition, it also created a space for defining multifarious [transversal] ways of engaging with disparate interests, often within a more trans-cultural context. (2007, p. 14) One could discern from O’Neill’s characterization of curatorial experimentation with group exhibitions a similarity with the “greater mix of people” that constituted the course of our curriculum and its accommodation of our “multifarious” and “trans-cultural” memories and cultural histories. As in Deleuze’s time-image, and Foucault’s heterotopia, the enfolding of our differing histories onto those of diachronic art history activated what philosopher Pierre Bourdieu (1993) characterizes as a contingent, experiential relationship with works of art compared with a relationship that conforms to content that has been historically determined. To support his claim about the discursive inclusivity of curatorial production, O’Neill cites Bourdieu:
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The subject of the production of the artwork—of its value but also of its meaning—is not the producer who actually created the object in its materiality, but rather the entire set of agents engaged in the field. Among these are the producers of works, classified as artists…critics of all persuasions…collectors, middlemen, curators, etc.; in short all those whose who have ties with art, who live for art and, to varying degrees, from it, and who confront each other in struggles where the imposition of not only a world view but also a vision of the art world is at stake, and who through these struggles, participate in the production of the value of the artist and of art. (Emphasis added, O’Neill, p. 15; Bourdieu, p. 261) Bourdieu’s contention that it takes an “entire set of agents in the field” confronting, struggling, and participating with each other in the production of an artwork, is consonant with the contingent encounters and alliances of curatorial performance. Regarding the agential field to which Bourdieu is referring, I would also include members of the public who have no professional ties to art but who frequent art galleries and museums to entangle with its experience. And of course, I would include the participation of my students considering their explorations, experimentations, and improvisations; that is, their curatorial riffing on art and architectural history through which new and differential histories emerged. The curatorial curriculum of genealogy Yes, for all intents and purposes, we actually curated our curriculum to virtually exhibit the interstitial, incipient, and immanent potentialities of art and architecture alongside the structural dynamics of the atom, alongside the physiological bearings of our bodies, alongside our differential memories and cultural histories to constitute the heterotopic complexity of Borges’ Celestial Emporium, the disjunctive synthesis16 of Deleuze and Guattari, and Foucault’s genealogical architecture of history. Foucault’s is a tactical construct that refuses historical regularity, debunks the concept of chronological progress, deconstructs teleological assumptions of history, and the search for and restoration of historical origins. His is an “effective history” insofar as “it introduces discontinuity into our very being…deprives the self of the reassuring stability of life and nature. It will uproot its traditional foundations and relentlessly disrupt its pretended continuity. This is because knowledge is not made for understanding; it is made for cutting” (Emphasis added, Foucault, 1977, p. 154). The effective history of Foucault’s genealogy “cuts” through moralizing assumptions of traditional Historical discourse to expose the ethics of differential histories heretofore hidden or nullified. In our collaborative high school course, we cut to extract from the ideological representations and foundational assumptions of art and architecture history distinctive images, ideas and signs that resonated with our contemporary cultural experiences. We cut to unsettle the unbroken linearity and amorphous mass of art and architecture history. We cut to expose the betweenness of History’s distinct figures where the incipient potential for alternative histories is immanent. We cut to riff the contingent encounters and alliances of history. That is, we cut to curate an effective curricular architecture that evoked our historical multiplicity.
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********* Notes 1. “Curatorial, cross-citational alliance” refers to performance theorist Della Pollock’s (1997, pp. 92-94) concept of “citational writing” where differing concepts and scholarly voices are situated in a contiguous relationship, alongside, and entangled with one another, which comports with the contingent encounters and alliances of curatorial practice. 2. My phone call to SLAC asking about the possibility of an informational tour of their facilities and a conversation about the “architecture of the atom” was unexpected by the nuclear physicist with whom I spoke. When he explained that he and his colleagues lacked expertise in architecture, I assured him that all we were asking for was his expertise on the structural dynamics of the atom, and that we would address architecture within the context of our course. Curious that a group of teacher||students studying art and architecture history would make such an unusual request, he booked us for the tour. Upon our arrival, we were informed that word of our request had spread throughout the SLAC community, and halfway through our host physicist’s presentation, a crowd of his colleagues entered the room to witness our collision of architecture with the atom. 3. Atomism is here define according to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED)as “the doctrine or theory that the independent action of the isolated individual is of fundamental importance to the function or study of the whole.” 4. During a class field trip to the City of San Francisco we experienced the corporate architectural form and function of Transamerica Pyramid Center, the form and function of the hospitality industry at the Hyatt Regency San Francisco, and the form and function of the Catholic faith at the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption. 5. The OED defines “riffing” as an “extended use: to improvise or expound upon a subject; to produce (usually extended) variations on a theme, topic, etc.” (OED, Online). In this writing, riffing is used to improvise, expound, and extend foundational assumptions art historical study in differential ways. 6. John Dewey (1934) refers to the non-reductive singularity of an experience as a “retaining [their] own character” (p. 37). 7. Whereas involuntary memory repeats the past differently in the present, voluntary memory repeats the same of the past (Deleuze, 2000, pp. 57, 61). 8. Foucault’s “history of the present” is a genealogy that positions the historical past adjacent with present circumstances to enable differential discourses on history to emerge.
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9. Deleuze (1994) uses swimming as a metaphor to argue that learning is constituted by “an encounter with signs, in which the distinctive points renew themselves in each other, and repetition takes shape while disguising itself” (p. 23). 10. The reason for the plural pronoun “our” is that teaching and learning occurred between and among students||teacher in the high art history course discussed in this writing. 11. In Non-places: An Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity (1995), anthropologist Marc Augé characterizes transient public spaces, like airports, supermarkets, and hotel rooms as non-places due to their inability to maintain enough significance. 12. In her seminal book, Against Interpretation: And Other Essays (1961), art critic Susan Sontag writes about the reductive characteristics of content: “Real art has the capacity to make us nervous. By reducing the work of art to its content and then interpreting that, one tames the work of art. Interpretation makes art manageable, conformable…Interpretation, based on the highly dubious theory that a work of art is composed of items of content, violates art. It makes art into an article for use, for arrangement into a mental scheme of categories” (Emphasis added, p. 8, 10). 13. Deleuze and Guattari (1983) characterize “transcursivity” as a polyvocal way of writing that “ceaselessly composes and decomposes the chains” of linear discourses into a-signifying signs that resist any definitions, assumptions, and interpretations applied to them (p. 39). It is important to keep in mind that this transcursive “turn” of curriculum, is not an escape toward Immanuel Kant’s transcendental ideal, but an affirmative critique, a way of thinking with which the contiguous, asignifying images, ideas, and signs of the movement-image and time-image of art history can be read and understood through each other. 14. Deleuze and Guattari (1987) refer to intermezzo as “always being in the middle, [moving] between things [transversally]…” (p. 25). 15. In their conceptualization of The Exquisite Corpse, art historians Kanta KochharLindgren and Davis Schneiderman (2009) describe the Surrealists’ synchronic parlor game as a “technopoetic process, a productive algorhythm that mutates the materialities of artworks, classrooms, and social relations (Emphasis added, pp. xxii-xxiii). 16. A disjunctive synthesis can be characterized as a relation of nonrelation between two or more disparate ideas that when situated contiguously resist synthetic closure (Deleuze and Guattari, 1983, p. 39).
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References Augé, M. (1995). Non-places: Introduction to an anthropology of supermodernity. J. Howe (Trans.). London: Verso. Borges, J.L. (1993). The analytical language of John Wilkins. In Other Acquisitions 1973-1952 (pp. 101-105) R.L.C Simms (Trans.). Austin, TX: University of Texas. Capra, F. (1975). The Tao of physics: An exploration of the parallels between modern physics and eastern mysticism. Boulder, Colorado: Shambhala. Deleuze, G. (1983). L'Image-mouvement. Cinéma 1. Paris, France: Le Editions de Minuit as Cinéma. Deleuze, G. (1986). Cinema 1: The movement-image. H. Tomlinson and B. Habberjam (Trans.). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Deleuze, G. (1989). Cinema 2: The time-image. H. Tomlinson and R. Galeta (Trans.). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Deleuze, G. (1994). Difference and repetition. P. Patton (Trans.). New York: Columbia University. Deleuze, G. (2000). Proust and signs: The complete text. R. Howard (Trans.). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Deleuze, G. and Guattari, F. (1983). Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and schizophrenia. R. Hurley, M. Seem, and H.R. Lane (Eds). Minneapolis, University of Minnesota. Deleuze, G. and Guattari, F. (1987). A thousand plateaus: Schizophrenia and capitalism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Dewey, J. (1934). Art as experience. New York: Putnam. Foucault, M. (1972). The archeology of knowledge & the discourse on language. A.M. Sheridan Smith (Trans.). New York: Pantheon. Foucault, M. (1973). The order of things: An archeology of the human sciences. R.D. Laing (Ed.). New York: Vintage. Foucault, M. (1977). Nietzsche, genealogy, history. In D.F. Bouchard (Ed.), Language, counter-memory, practice: Selected essays and interviews (pp. 139-164). Ithaca: Cornell University.
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Herzog, A. (2000). Images of thought and acts of creation: Deleuze, Bergson, and the question of cinema. In[ ]visible culture: An electronic journal for visual studies. Accessed April 21, 2016: Kochhar-Lindgren, K., Schneiderman, D., and Denlinger, T. (2009). Introduction: The algorhythms of the exquisite corpse. In K. Kochhar-Lindgren, D. Schneiderman, and T. Denlinger (Eds.), The exquisite corpse: Chance and collaboration in Surrealism’s parlor game (pp. xvii-???). Lincoln: University of Nebraska. O’Neill, P. (2007). The curatorial turn: From practice to discourse. In J. Rugg and M. Sedgwick (Eds.), Issues in curating contemporary art and performance (pp. 1328). Chicago: The University of Chicago. O’Neill, P. (2012). The culture of curating and the curating of culture(s). Cambridge: Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Pollock, D. (1997). Performing writing. In P. Phelan and J. Lane (Eds.), The ends of performance. New York: New York University. Sontag, S. (1961). Against interpretation: And other essays. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Stinson, M.T. (2007). The shifting sands of curriculum development: A case study of the development of the years 1 to 10 the arts curriculum for Queensland schools (Doctoral dissertation). Accessed May 6, 2016: Veyne, P. (Autumn 1993). The final Foucault and his ethics. Critical inquiry, 20(1), 1-9.
