Sounds: The Ambient Humanities

Sounds

Sounds

The Ambient Humanities

JOHN MOWITT

University of California Press

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu.

University of California Press

Oakland, California

©2015 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mowitt, John, 1952– author.

    Sounds: the ambient humanities/John Mowitt.

        p.    cm.

    Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-520-28462-3 (cloth : alk. paper)

ISBN 978-0-520-28463-0 (pbk. : alk. paper)

ISBN 978-0-520-96040-4 (ebook)

    1. Sound (Philosophy).    2. Sounds—Psychological aspects.    3. Sounds—Sociological aspects.    4. Sounds—Political aspects.    I. Title.

B105.S59M68    2015

    121’.35—dc23

2014044113

Manufactured in the United States of America

24  23  22  21  20  19  18  17  16  15

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

To and for Bette

Contents

Acknowledgments

INTRODUCTION: SQUAWKING

1. ECHO

2. WHISTLE

3. WHISPER

4. GASP

5. SILENCE

6. TERCER SONIDO

Notes

Works Cited

Index

Acknowledgments

At some point in the early 1990s, before everything in the United States became post-9/11, the diasporic performance practice of the ring shout morphed into the expression shout-out. Turning away from a defiant acknowledgment of the ineradicable source of one’s hope, the shout-out simply became an acknowledgment made, typically in the context of live performance, to helpers (in Propp’s sense). However, from the beginning the shout-out was more than the act of calling out. It named itself in the act: I’d like to give a shout-out to . . . my manager, my mother, my charity, who or whatever. As such, and this despite the familiar and dubious genealogy of the term, the shout-out is the deliberate forging of a sonic bond. Part of what matters about the gesture is that acknowledgment becomes attachment, an attachment that happens in the agitated void between, at a minimum, two bodies that accompany each other before others.

The shout-outs that follow, and in written form remain infelicitous (in Austin’s sense), actually try to square the philological circle: they are acknowledgments both of the ineradicable source of hope and of helpers who, in the end, are one and the same. I hope, in this spirit, no one objects to being called out in this way and attached to the sounds that wave between us.

Sounds: The Ambient Humanities is an interspliced collection of essays, one of which, Whistle, dates from a conference, Warp and Woof, convened in the summer of 2003 at the University of Leeds, with which I am now affiliated. I am grateful to Barbara Engh and CentreCATH for their invitation. Adrian Rifkin, who has since left Leeds, responded to my keynote with wit, insight, and generosity. I thank them all for setting it in motion and wish to acknowledge that Whistle is a much extended version of Tune Stuck in the Head, which appeared initially in Parallax 41 (2006): 12–25. Parallax is published by Taylor and Francis of Great Britain. Further details are available online at www.tandfonline.com.

One other essay, Tercer Sonido, was occasioned by a conference, and I wish to thank Silvia López for inviting me to participate on her panel for the International Congress of Americanists convened in Vienna in the summer of 2012. While there, I had hugely generative discussions with Chris Chiappari, Ricardo Roque, Fabio Durao, and Laura Novoa. Sara Saljoughi was an earlier inspired and inspiring reader of the essay. Both she and José Rodriquez Dod got me listening with filín. I am grateful to them all for their patience and insight.

Two other essays, Whisper and Silence, were initially conceived as contributions to edited volumes. Whisper is a revised version of Like a Whisper, which appeared initially in differences 22, nos. 2–3 (2011): 169–89 (reprinted by permission of Duke University Press). Further details are available online at www.dukepress.edu. I am extremely grateful to Rey Chow and James Steintrager (the editors of The Sense of Sound special issue) for both involving me in the project and pressuring my contribution in such fruitful ways. Julietta Singh deserves hearty acknowledgment for helping me hear what emerges from the horse’s mouth, and Jeanine Ferguson for insisting that a dog’s life is even more worth sharing than having.

Silence is a revised version of Kafka’s Cage, from Freedom and Containment in Modernity: Kafka’s Cages, edited by A. Kiarina Kordela and Dimitris Vardoulakis (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 63–86 (reprinted by permission of the publisher). Further details are available online at www.palgrave.com. Just prior to the publication of this text, Kiarina organized a panel discussion of the project at Macalester University and invited me to participate. I want to warmly thank her, her coeditor Dimitris, her colleagues at Macalester, and the friends and students who turned up to listen: Silvia López, Rembert Heuser, Verena Mund, Michelle Baroody, and Thorn Chen.

Two other professional occasions helped to shape the material gathered here. The portion of Echo given over to a reading of Michael Ondaatje’s Coming through Slaughter was first presented on a panel at the annual meeting of the American Comparative Literature Association organized by Laura Zebuhr and Alexandra Morrison. I am grateful to Laura and Alexandra for their invitation but also to fellow panelist Cory Stockwell for taking us to the end of the shit. While in attendance, I reconnected with a friend and former colleague at Minnesota, Asha Varadharajan, whose so what are you working on? query helped sort so much.

Squawking was conceived for and presented at a miniseminar here in Leeds convened during my year of transit between the United States and the United Kingdom. I want to thank my new colleagues who attended—Barbara Engh, Catherine Karkov, Eric Prenowitz, Marcel Swiboda—and the wonderful students, notably Sam Belinfante, Peter Kilroy, James Lavenier, and Lenka Vrablikova—who insisted I not get away with anything, but in the most gracious possible way. Lenka deserves considerable additional shouting for her brilliant work on the index to Sounds. I wish also to note that Squawking was first picked up in my last class at Minnesota, Music as Discourse, and I want to thank all the fabulous students who helped me hear what I was trying to say.

Two final shout-outs then: first, to the brilliant colleagues, students, and friends who have allowed me to believe that what I think and write about sound matters: Maurits van Bever Donker, Alexander Cancio, Cesare Casarino, Patricia Clough, Lisa Disch, Frieda Ekotto, Carla Farrugia, Andreas Gailus, Heidi Grunebaum, Patricia Hayes, Qadri Ismail, Neelika Jayawardane, Joya John, Niki Korth, Erin Labbie, Premesh Lalu, Anne-Marie Lawless, Richard Leppert, Alice Lovejoy, Gary Minkley, Marissa Moorman, Neo Muyanga, Anaïs Nony, Laurie Ouellette, Tom Pepper, Suren Pillay, Helena Pohlandt-McCormick, Ciraj Rassool, Kevin Riordan, Simona Sawhney, Adam Sitze, Nathan Snaza, Ross Truscott, Dag Yngvesson, three of the four original members of Ill Will and the Stale Mates—Tony Brown, Jason McGrath, and Michelle Stewart—and, and, and Mary Francis, my unflappable editor at the University of California Press.

Finally, I just want to say again how important it has been, every day and in every way, to have my brothers and sisters and their amazing kids, but especially Jeanine, Rosalind, and Rachel, with me wherever I may wander.

Introduction

Squawking

I

During the weeks when this text was assuming final form, a sound dominated the global news cycle. The sound was routinely referred to as a ping, an onomatopoeic rendering of the sonic sign transmitted by the flight data recorder thought to belong to Malaysian Air Flight 370, presumed (at the time of writing) to have crashed under mysterious circumstances somewhere off the coast of western Australia in the Indian Ocean, tragically sealing the fates of all aboard. Sounds, specifically infrequently heard ones, do not typically attract this kind of global attention, and while only time will tell whether we are dealing here with what Peter Dale Scott might call a deep event (that is, a happening whose sociopolitical conditions of possibility are structurally repressed), what is clear enough is that this ping triggered two different but related questions: where was it coming from, and how did it get there? For many, an answer to the second question was thought to follow from an answer to the first. For others, and I count myself among them, the ping’s power to trigger two searches—the one for its source, the other for its significance—was an equally intriguing, even troubling, dimension of the problem generated by the odd, and thus all the more horrible, disappearance of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370. In the studies that follow this search for significance, this work to make sense of (a) sound is precisely what provides them with a common orientation. And, at the risk of overstatement, one might consider that onomatopoeia (literally, sounds that make names), as exemplified in the word ping, registers precisely the not entirely arbitrary relation between sound and sense that my words are essaying to contour.¹

But more than that, this text seeks to attend to the sound/sense snarl humanistically, that is, from within a problematic where the epistemological aim of problem solving has been displaced by the aim of what Richard Sennett has called problem finding (287). Perhaps because the contemporary fate of the humanities is not squarely on his radar, Sennett avoids precisions that deserve to be made. Specifically, finding problems is not the familiar asking better questions that has displaced the search for answers in certain quarters, and this for two reasons: first, questions, precisely to the extent that they belong to the hermeneutics of dialogue, do not in any essential way suspend the principle or practice of problem solving. Better questions are formulated so as to get better results. Second, because finding problems points immanently to the problematic within which the dialogue of question and answer is intelligible, it leads more directly into the epistemological snarl that, I argue, is the humanities or, to acknowledge that its now endemic crisis is shared by crucial aspects of the social sciences (frankly, on all practices of scholarly inquiry whose outcomes are hard to measure), humanistic inquiry. If this bears emphasis at the outset, it is because this text casts its lot with those in sound studies impatient with a certain technophilial tendency to treat sounds as mere emanations of devices, or practices and devices, or practices grasped best when placed either in some sort of chronological order of development or in a particular geographic location. Or both. Sounds, whether in the world or on the page, are Text (cf. Echo), that is, provocations to reading, especially readings that find problems not only in or with other readings but with the conditions and limits of reading itself.² Indeed, a repeated theme in what follows is the issue of whether sound is the sort of object that can be meaningfully contextualized and, if so, how the work of its contextualization must be carried out. This is a problem. It is one I find and refind even in silence, and it pricks our ears toward the very problem of the humanities as such: can the field now be justified, not in the face of the market but in the face of empire.³ I proceed, then, prudently aware, even if incompletely, that the endeavor is fraught and that my soundings may not in the end add up. Strictly speaking, this prudence is what is required to attend and attune to the faint/feint sounds that compose this study. And, in the end, it is what I am squawking about.

Such a course prompts one to find, almost directly, another problem: that of the need to come to grips with what, following Don Ihde, I will call visualism.⁴ A clear counterweight to the denigration of vision set forth by Martin Jay, visualism and the problem it poses for this text can be detailed, its gravity measured, by retracing some of the intellectual history put in play in Jay’s influential study.

The distinction between eye and gaze introduced by Jacques Lacan in The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (Seminar XI) has had a profound and lasting impact on the analysis of visual culture within the humanities. Although this distinction, especially as it concerns the gaze (le regard), had its precursors in Sartre, Merleau-Ponty, and even the diehard antiphenomenologist Foucault, it was Lacan’s elaboration of it that proved decisive even when defended, as in the case of Joan Copjec’s The Orthopsychic Subject, from its devotees. Even the later innovation of distinguishing between vision and visuality (think here of Hal Foster’s important anthology) can fairly be said to have its touchstone in Lacan’s work. Crucial here is not the matter of who came first but the theoretical character of the distinction itself. Although it is in certain respects misleading, what is at issue in this distinction can be summoned by invoking another—that between seeing and watching. That the latter suggests a certain form of concentration is nevertheless not the decisive element, as Benjamin’s well-known critique of contemplation in The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility immediately suggests, for watching can also occur in a state of distraction. Instead, what is decisive is the mediating work of sense or, to use a more Lacanian vocabulary, signifierness, as Bruce Fink proposes to translate significance. Put this way, seeing is implicitly deprived of sense, and while there are ways in which this is realistic, it is not true. Seeing, as in witnessing what Freud called a primal scene, is doubtless mediated by the work of sense but in ways that are structured by afterwardness. What is seen, to put the matter enigmatically, is always watched later and watched as if seen for the first time. The misleading complications freighted within the distinction between seeing and watching are thus here thrown into relief.

That said, if I invoke this material at the outset, it is because Sounds is a study that will entertain the value of floating (positing, but with the hesitation or hazard of a guess) a concept analogous to the gaze in the field of sound studies. Partly, this is in acknowledgment of the vexed productivity of the concept in the analysis of visual culture but not only this. As the preceding precautions make manifest, the risks of this analogical reasoning are considerable, thus inviting a careful elaboration of the reasons for taking them at all, but by way of adumbration, at issue here is the entwinement of sound and sense outside the frame of linguistics. Put differently, we need to insist on a difference between the phonic and the sonic. This difference, in order to matter methodologically, will call for a name.

To be sure, there is an available parallel distinction between hearing and listening that might well be deployed in this context, and several important theoretical examinations of it offer themselves as touchstones. I am thinking here of, for example, Adorno’s On the Fetish-Character in Music and the Regression of Listening, Barthes and Havas’s Listening, Chion’s chapter dedicated to the three types of listening in Audio-Vision, Szendy’s Listen: A History of Our Ears, and Nancy’s two studies of listening (one of which serves as the foreword to Szendy’s text). To justify the logic of the analogy itself, one might also add to this short list, Adorno and Eisler’s discussion of the differences between hearing and seeing (the ear archaic, and the eye modern) in Composing for the Films.

These texts, in their own ways, admit of difficulties very much like those that haunt the seeing/watching distinction. To take a still resonant case: in Barthes and Havas’s study the authors differentiate among three modes of listening, the first of which is named the alert. In precisely bridging between human and nonhuman animals, the alert appears to introduce within listening itself something like a faculty unmediated by sense. The alert is simply perceived, and if it carries a sense, it is one reduced to the binary of flight or fight. One might expect this to generate a distinction like that between hearing and listening (and French has the relevant vocabulary, ouïr versus écoute), but it does not. Barthes and Havas fold this into what they mean by listening, as if to stress the precariousness of both the modes and the faculties.

Here again what this foregrounds is the prudence with which one is advised to approach the work to come. But let’s cut to the chase. Looming before all other difficulties of the sort entertained above is the terminological and, in the long run, conceptual one. In English we have no convenient analogue to gaze in the auditory or sonic domain. In Audio-Vision Chion runs into a version of this problem when he tries to think the sonic equivalent to point of view, and he quite reasonably proposes point of audition, only to immediately complicate its implied isomorphism with point of view. This, while instructive, does not help. Audition cannot substitute for gaze any more than it can substitute for view. Or, at least this substitution is not entirely satisfying, and not simply because, as Chion worries, point means little in the sonic register. Let me then propose audit as, if not an entirely satisfying substitution, at least a coherent one, and let me further suggest that its awkwardness as a name bounces back from the discourse of visualism in relation to which we hear it.

Audit? In contemporary English usage audit can refer to the review of financial records, as well as to an attenuated form of enrollment in a college or university course. As such, a student listens but does not, at least in principle, speak or write. The former, an audit, is a noun, the latter, to audit, a verb. Etymologically, audit bears the semantic profile that allows us to recognize its presence in audition, auditorium, and audience. It is a hearing. Beyond that, and the following chapter on the gasp will elaborate the matter in detail, this hearing, as a mode of perception, has a primordial tie with aesthetics, with what Rancière has called the distribution of the sensible (Rancière, Politics 12). Pulling these threads together, one arrives not so much at a perception or sensible event but at a fold where perception turns back or over on itself, traversing the faculty of hearing with the angle, the posture of listening. It is here that the audit serves as a coherent analogue to the gaze.

To bring out necessary conceptual detail regarding this analogy, it is useful to revisit the debate between Merleau-Ponty and Lacan on the question of vision, or the visible. No less redoubtable a figure than Sartre urges this on us when in his eulogy (published in Les temps modernes as The Living Merleau-Ponty) he draws attention to the precise point of contact between the two writers in adducing the Lacanian formula, the unconscious is structured like a language. This encounter is a vexed one because when the formula is deployed in the posthumous The Visible and the Invisible, it is qualified if not repudiated altogether, whereas in Sartre’s eulogy it is proposed as a tenet with which Merleau-Ponty is in accord. The theoretical contours of this discrepancy are teased out in Lacan’s own enigmatic eulogy for Merleau-Ponty aptly titled Merleau-Ponty: In Memoriam (Hoeller 73–81).

Published in the issue of Les temps modernes immediately following the one in which Sartre’s statement appeared, Lacan’s essay—as if vying for attention—takes up the same text characterized by Sartre as the crystallization of Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy, the late (indeed last) Eye and Mind. Ostensibly a phenomenological account of painting, Merleau-Ponty’s text, in establishing the ontological character of painting, is keen to elaborate what about vision exceeds mere seeing. Lacan, while compelled by this strategy, works hard to stress that, at the end of the day, Merleau-Ponty folds this excess back into a body present at the fleshy seam between itself and the world. In effect, Merleau-Ponty draws on a phenomenological account of sense, the embodied proprioceptive ground of intentional consciousness, to get at what about vision cannot be squared with seeing, now understood as the recognition and appropriation of things seen. What he means by the invisible has precisely to do with what exceeds and conditions seeing.

Lacan and Merleau-Ponty disagree about the theoretical status of the invisible—not in the sense of disagreeing about whether something exceeds the limits of seeing but in the account of sense required to think this limit. Whereas for Merleau-Ponty this always comes back to the matrix of perception and conception, for Lacan—following a post-Saussurean Freud—sense always derives from the slither of the signifier, or signifierness. Crucial here is the equation Lacan draws between the spatiotemporal coordinates of the signifier and what he means by the unconscious. Put differently, and this was something of a mantra in the 1960s, phenomenology had no real account of the unconscious, Sartre famously equating it with censorship only to then show that the censor must recognize what it seeks to censor, meaning that even what is unconscious is part of consciousness. Even more recent exertions, such as those in Jean-Luc Nancy or Michel Henry, take their cues from this snarl of theoretical problems.

For Lacan this means that the concept of the gaze must be produced, and this is precisely what he undertakes in The Four Fundamental Concepts. In effect, the gaze (and he uses the same term, le regard, found in Sartre’s Being and Nothingness) comes to designate that which limits seeing, or organizes the field of the visible, at the level of the encounter not between eye and mind but between eye and the signifier.⁵ Thus, if the audit might be said to serve as a coherent analogue to the gaze, it is because it bears the same, if not identical, relation to signifierness. The theoretical parallel might then be not ear and mind but ear and signifier.

Interestingly, one finds comparatively little in the Lacanian corpus that deals in equivalent detail with the ear. Eye and voice, yes, but not the ear. The recent publication in Lacanian Ink of two interviews with Lacan about the topic of music suggests that this might be a good thing. Just the same, it gives one pause. Specifically, it invites prudence about the conceptual tie between the audit and