Iconomy: Towards a Political Economy of Images

INTRODUCTION: EPIDEMIC IMAGES

I began writing these chapters while in quarantine in Sydney, having flown there from the United States on May 25, 2020, anticipating my usual three months stay. The strict lockdown conditions due to the pandemic meant that for the first 2 weeks I was confined to a hotel room, no argument, no exceptions, no problem. I had resolved to devote the coming days to revisiting an idea I have, for decades, taken as a given but never had time to think through: that the visual imagery so pervasive in contemporary life might exhibit definable structures, elusive and changeable but consistently so, just enough for its histories to be written and its emerging shapes perceived. I already had a name for this economy of images: iconomy, a simple combination of the Greek words for icon and economy. Like several others who have used this term before and since, I foolishly thought that I had coined it. I was thinking about how certain buildings, then dubbed iconic architecture, stood as symbols of cities within a worldwide chain of such images, how they operated within tourist economies and broader public imaginaries. The other side of this seemingly benign coinage became apparent at a moment when widespread trauma was occasioned by a war of images, when many of these buildings became targets. My response to 9/11 was The Architecture of Aftermath, published by the University of Chicago Press in 2006.

But the broader logic within which the contest of images is fought kept on eluding an analysis fitting its growing importance. I carried with me to Sydney a small cache of books, among them Guy Debord’s The Society of the Spectacle, the locus classicus for any thinking about the nature of image economies under capitalism. It would, I figured, be a familiar place from which to start over. Decades of thinking about these issues in the company of many others doing the same was my greatest resource. There was also Google Books, my University Library access to e-books and articles, and the many files I had on my laptop. As the plane took off, the prospect before me was a few weeks, with minimal distractions, to think more about iconomy, this plausible but fugitive idea.

While I was in the air over the Pacific Ocean, asleep, something occurred at a street intersection in Powderhorn, Minneapolis, that quickly proved to be of enormous consequence. As part of a routine arrest for suspected petty theft, a White police officer placed his knee on the neck of a prone, shackled Black man who pleaded, in vain, for his life. On my arrival in Sydney, media was awash with stories about the killing of George Floyd, most featuring the cell phone video of it happening in real time. The murder, and its instant electronic propagation via the posted video, precipitated an extraordinary eruption of protests on the streets of cities across the United States then around the world. Iconomy ceased to be an abstract idea, the name of a theory about the image flow. Here it was, at maximum intensity, right here on the screens in my world: on my cell phone, my laptop, on this huge hotel television monitor, and inside my head. Soon, I learned of the mass protest marches occurring in Sydney, on streets and in a park on the other side of the city, a mile from where I was, demonstrations that I would have joined, despite the COVID-19 risk, were I able to leave my confinement. All I could do was watch and write. So, I did both. And continued to do so during the following months as I tried to gauge the value for critical thought and political action of theorizing image economies as iconomies.

Etymology and Iconomy

Iconomy combines icon and economy, words with deep etymologies and long, usually separate, histories. Oἰκονόμος is a Greek composite word derived from οἶκος (house; household; home) and νέμω (manage; distribute; to deal out; dispense), giving economy its most literal meaning, that is, household management. In Greece, during the fourth-century BC, this was the basic meaning of the term, as codified by Aristotle and his followers, underscoring other levels, from the personal, through the political (of the polis, the city), that of the managers and, at the top, that of the king, ruler, or, in rare cases, elected leader.¹ In 1374, Nicole Oresme, Aristotle’s French translator, explained this usage:

The second division is called economics, from Greek ycon, meaning image or conventional sign; and from nomos meaning rule or law; and from ycos, meaning science. For by means of economics the master of the house is able to establish conventions or rules or ordinances for governing his family and himself with respect to his family.²

In modern times, the broader meaning has come to prevail. The economy now routinely designates a society-wide system of resource allocation dedicated to the production, distribution, consumption, and exchange of goods and services to meet the needs of those living within it. The scope can be reduced to sections within a society or expanded to include the economies of nations in a geographic region, and further, in our contemporary condition, to encompass the world or global economy. The study of patterns of behavior within this system (economics) is routinely divided into microeconomics, which focuses on the differing values of various goods and the behavior of individuals, families, companies, or other collective entities as producers and consumers, and macroeconomics, the study of large-scale factors that affect the national, regional, or world economy. The adjective economical usually connotes appropriate, even cautious—or, in its rational version, calculated, efficient—behavior within such a system.

Economical is, however, among the words least likely to capture the immense, and immensely volatile, traffic in images that—it is now equally routine to affirm—has become the definitive mode of exchange in contemporary societies. Intense visual presence, clamorous competition, and incessant diversification leading to massive overproduction are the most evident features of contemporary commodities. Social media is simply the most obvious and widespread vehicle of this saturation. Images seem to have become the primary commodities produced and consumed in contemporary economies. Images, too, are its primary currency. Substituting εἰκών or eikṓn (image, resemblance) for οἶκος, while retaining νέμω, gives us a word for this very contemporary phenomena: iconomy.³

There is, however, much that is misleading about making such a simple substitution, especially if one were to do so on the basis of such simplifications about the nature of modern and contemporary life. Several problems arise, as I will show. But I will also argue that a step of this kind is necessary, if taken with some restraint, if exercised from historical and critical perspectives, and, therefore, with careful but also bold attention to the politics of so doing.

In the first part of this book, I will interrogate some ideas about the necessitous relationships between images and economies, conceptions that have shaped our inheritances and that remain in currency. They take various forms, among them: myths, allegories, metaphors, edicts, narratives, theories, and world pictures. They are, in turn, Indigenous, ancient, medieval, modern, and contemporary. Part I tracks key conceptualizations of the relationships between images and economies, from Yolŋu Dreaming stories and Plato’s Allegory of the Cave through Byzantine iconoclasm, Marx on commodities, Benjamin on the reproducible arts, and Debord on spectacle, up to contemporary theories of iconomy. It shows that each of these were or are propositions about the kind of political economy required by their place and their time.

This sequencing is largely a coincidence of selection: my treatment of them does not amount to a complete history. Several key figures receive scant reference: among them, Aby Warburg and Marshall McLuhan. Rather, I set out some landmarks, evoke aspects of their original contexts, but mostly read them from contemporary perspectives. I interrogate what they said for what they can offer to a political economics of images today.

Part II engages directly with image economies as they are currently constellated within public political spheres. Its chapters are studies of what David Levi Strauss calls Iconopolitics.⁴ It begins during the summer of 2020, when the usual business of the iconosphere⁵—depicting everyday life, selling commodities, enacting governmentality, and showing natural forces undergoing global warming—was displaced by three imageries of total emergency. Graphic imagery of the coronavirus and its national and global spread, plus film of its effects in hospitals, at testing sites, and on crowds, masked and not; the events staged by Donald J. Trump across a variety of mediums; and the cut-through impact of the cell phone video of a police officer kneeling on the neck of George Floyd as he died. The first announced information about the current and future state of the global pandemic. The second acted as the volatile epicenter of vast tracts of political and cultural agenda-setting, both in the United States and across its worldwide reach. The third brought to the boil a social struggle that is profoundly shifting relationships between the races, and those between citizens and police, in the United States and elsewhere. The ways in which these three constellations of images interacted—and cut through the other memes jostling for attention in the iconomy—continue to resonate today, even as they change, and change everything around them. Including, as we shall see, how artists and activists working in professional contexts and on the streets anticipate and respond to these events.

The chapters in this book are dispatches from inside the contemporary image wars, from positions at times at their many fronts, at others nearby, or at oblique angles. Yet always, I hope, from the distances necessary to critical implication. To achieve this kind of engagement with our contemporaneity, it is, I believe, necessary to both historicize and deconstruct its political iconomy. That is the goal of this book.

Notes

1See Aristotle, The Politics and Economics of Aristotle , ed. Edward Walford (London: Henry G. Boyn, 1853). Aristotle understood images to be foundational to all perceptions, thoughts and judgements, viz.: Images belong to the rational soul in the manner of perceptions, and whenever it affirms or denies that something is good or bad, it pursues or avoids. Consequently, the soul never thinks without an image.— De Anima (III, 7, 431a, 14–17).

2Nicole Oresme, Le Livre de yconomique d’ Aristotle [1374], ed. Albert Douglas Menut (Philadelphia: Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, 47. no. 5 (1957), 807–808). Cited Richard Allen Shoaf, Dante, Chaucer, and the Currency of the Word: Money, Images, and Reference in Late Medieval Poetry (Norman, OK: Pilgrim Books, 1983), 168–169. Oresme’s " yconomique is a Middle French spelling of œconomique ," now archaic.

3Another common Greek word, omoíoˍma , evokes less the sense of an icon, more that of a likeness that is an effigy, a simulation, a mockup of some kind. When it comes to the contemporary spectacle as defined for us by Debord, Baudrillard, and many others, we might need, then, a word closer to omoniomy . If we wanted to evoke the constant foregrounding of the imagery of humanity within several image economies, homoniomy would be useful, but would likely be of diminishing range.

4David Levi Strauss, Co-Illusion: Dispatches from the End of Communication (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2020).

5Here, I register my debt to the pioneering work of Arjun Appardurai, Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy, Theory, Culture & Society , 7 (June 1990): 295–310; in Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996).

Part I

A BRIEF HISTORY OF ICONOMY

Chapter 1

A STRANGE IMAGE: SEEING THE DREAMING

Glaucon: It’s a strange image you’re describing, and strange prisoners.

Socrates: They’re like us.

—Plato, The Republic, Book VII, 515a

Plato’s Allegory of the Cave is the most famous evocation within Western thought of what it is to know something, indeed, anything—from that which is immediately evident to everything that might be knowable. What kind of visual image does the allegory itself bring to our minds? W. J. T. Mitchell gives us the most useful answer: It is what he calls a hypericon, that is, a summary image […] that encapsulates an entire episteme, a theory of knowledge.¹ No surprise that the allegory is right up there among his exemplars:

Discursive hypericons such as the camera obscura, the tabula rasa, and the Platonic Cave epitomize the tendency of the technologies of visual representation to acquire a figurative centrality in theories of the self and its knowledges—of objects, of others, and of itself. They are not merely epistemological models, but ethical, political and aesthetic ‘assemblages’ that allow us to observe observers. In their strongest forms, they don’t merely serve as illustrations to theory; they picture theory.²

He goes on to note Wittgenstein’s concerns about the danger that a visual image—or picturing in general, indeed, any kind of representation—might short-change a complete understanding of complex phenomena and subtle ideas. Such disquiet is ancient. Indeed, as I shall show, it is the starting point of the cave allegory itself.

The allegory has attracted several interpretations, from the banal to the brilliant.³ Most interpretations of its main meaning, however, have sedimented into contrasting pairs: between appearance and reality; seeing and knowing; superstition and objective knowledge; lies and truth; mystification and revelation; and the real and the ideal. It is an obvious starting point for our quest to trace some of the paradigmatic moments when images and economies have been thought together. The allegory vividly evokes two ways of world knowing, two kinds of spectatorial agency, two ways of managing (oikonomía), and two distinct regimes of truth (as Foucault came to name them)—both established first and foremost through the showing and seeing of images.⁴ The two image economies stand in clear contrast to each other. Although one (the second member of each of the pairs just listed) is designated as superior, their pairing seems destined for perpetual impasse. As Plato’s brother Glaucon says, the allegory is a strange image. Socrates affirms that it is this uncanny strangeness that makes it so familiar.

When we read more closely, however, the allegory quickly exceeds interpretations that would lock it into contrasting, self-canceling pairs. There are, to start with, three settings, each primarily devoted to managing images in a distinctive way. There is the main part of the cave where the inhabitants, chained to their chairs, unable to move their heads, see only the shadows on the wall in front of them. They take these shapes, and the sounds they hear, as constituting the world as it is. They even compete to remember the shadows more or less clearly, to recall the order in which they usually occur, and somehow award and receive honors for their predictions. What prevails here is an image economy in its most basic form, as pure, passive consumption of whatever appears in front of your eyes.

In the second section of the cave, behind a low wall dividing it from the first, people (Socrates compares them to puppeteers) parade back and forth before a fire holding up images of people and animals carved in stone and wood and other materials while talking at will.⁵ These icons (eidolon) cast the shadows seen by the enchained spectators. This is another image economy, a factory in which images are manufactured and displayed, even though perception of them is heavily mediated. While the fire is its source of energy, it is also partially lit by the sunlight coming down through a tunnel that connects the cave to the world above. This third domain is that of the Ideal Forms (eidos), usually interpreted as a literalized picture of the categories employed by a clear-thinking mind. As an economic sector, it is the warehouse in which prototypes and archetypes of thoughts and things are stored, in their most perfect arrangement, under the management of the Sun, which has generated them. The Sun is the source of light for this entirely rational system.

Each of these economies has created a condition in which a certain way of seeing the world has come to seem natural. Each worldview seems, for the most part, appropriate to the purposive functioning of its inhabitants. Each is an economy in its own right—until movement between them occurs, until they are experienced as linked and understood as relative to each other. At this moment, a fourth kind of seeing/knowing arises, a fourth arrangement of the elements occurs. The mysterious someone (the philosopher) who frees one of the prisoners already knows of these contingent economies and understands them to be valuable in ascending order, that is, as located within a larger system, governed by the Sun. The freed prisoner is first led past the dividing wall and shown the icon carriers and the fire, the mechanics producing what he now understands to be an illusory existence. (In Socrates’ telling, he is blinded by the fire and passes through this section in a confused state.)⁶ He is then led up the tunnel to the outside world, where the sunlight blinds him again. Soon, he begins to discern phenomena as shadows, and misreads reflections, but eventually comes to understand the world he is seeing as superior to that of the cave and as encompassing it. In a crucial pivot, he feels compelled to leave this world and return to explain it to his previous companions in the cave. Far from being welcomed, this would-be liberator is rejected—threatened with deadly violence by those who have flourished in the cave as it is if he persists in peddling his confused, implausible, utopian fantasies. At this point, a fifth relationship between seeing and knowing comes into view: the reality that humankind cannot bear too much Reality. The story reaches a climax in an odd mixture of farce followed by tragedy. The enlightened returnee foolishly tries to apply his newly found insight to the game of predicting the order in which the icons will appear. His double vision means that he fails miserably. The leaders among the shackled cave dwellers decide that his message is endangering their community and kill him.

Five ratios between seeing and knowing. These readings (some among several others, equally compelling) complicate the relatively simple configuration that comes to mind when we ask, as I did in the beginning, what kind of visual image does the allegory itself bring to our minds? Its symbolic form is a small stack of visual archetypes: a cave filled with flickering shadows below, a brilliantly lit array of ideal forms above, with blurred movement between them. What are these blurs if they are not figments of the movement in our own minds as we attach concepts to what we are being invited to imagine, and then, in memory, fix them in place by naming them? There is a reductive tendency here, the image becomes an icon of the generalizing kind, one that evokes a category which any instance will do to signify. But the allegory itself contradicts this tendency by its double trafficking up and out toward certainty, then back down into the domains of delusion, to end in ambiguity.

No surprise, then, that awkwardness attends almost all illustrations of the allegory, especially those which attempt to capture its several scenarios in one image. An illustration in the Parisian Magasin Pittoresque in 1855 shows the two basic levels but fails to show the passage between them (Fig. 1.1). Neoclassical in style and in narrative, it highlights the role of philosophy by depicting Plato himself bringing a Greek youth from delusion and blindness to a state of Sun-lit Enlightenment.⁷

Fig. 1.1: Chevignard, La Caverne de Platon, Magasin Pittoresque, no. 23, July 1, 1855, lithograph. Pictorial Press Ltd/Alamy Banque d’Images.

This reminds us that the allegory is a very local story, based on actuality. In c.380 BC, Plato was writing in retreat, in his Academy, profoundly affected by the recent suicide of Socrates, his teacher, condemned by the people of Athens, who were fed up with his constant efforts to enlighten them.

Yet the Allegory of the Cave is not simply a parable about philosophy and its publics or lack of them. It is the centerpiece of one of the founding texts of political economy. Within the overall narrative of The Republic, it is located at a turning point. It comes at the end of lengthy discussions in which Socrates’ interlocutors have been induced to envisage an ideal society, one that is led by a philosopher king, is policed by guardians, and made functional by workers. Plato envisaged three classes of people as necessary to form the ideal city: those whose souls are ruled by passions for wisdom or honor or money. The wise should rule, albeit reluctantly, the honorable should serve as military auxiliaries, and those who focused on money should perform economic functions such as farming for the city’s food and making utensils, arts, and crafts (Book III, 434a–b). Karl Popper was right in pointing out the potential for racism in Plato’s myth of the metals (Book III, 415a–c.), a eugenicist parable of these gold, silver, and bronze classes of people naturally and appropriately reproducing their qualities in their offspring.⁸ But he was wrong to claim that Plato advocated racial purity based on inheritance. The Republic is explicit, and consistent, in requiring that birth be ignored when the person shows the qualities, or virtue, that fit the membership of another class.⁹ We come to understand that the allegory is introduced as a dramatization of the challenges of educating people, against their natural inclinations, toward the building of a just society.¹⁰

Plato envisioned three social tiers, each with a kind of insight appropriate to its station, its duties, its daily life. The realm of Ideas is clearly the natural habitat of the philosopher king. The natural inhabitants of each part of the cave are less obvious. The icon carriers must be aware of the tunnel and of the occasional traffic up and down it, in which sense they are guardians preparing workers for their tasks. Yet their task is repetitive, making them more like workers. The enchained spectators, in their passivity, and their acceptance of their lot, would seem neither guardians nor workers. More like slaves. But when liberated and taken to see the Truth, they become guardians, among whose tasks is educating the citizens of the republic. Among the challenges they will face is rejection by most of those citizens.

When taken this literally, the allegory, like all poetry, begins to fray at the edges; the illusion reveals its mechanics; the backstage becomes visible; and the play loses its magic.

Nevertheless, when taken in its own spirit, the allegory artfully condenses the inevitability of friction between the three economies. Friction will arise, but not because Plato had in mind, as we might today, some missing element (such as religious revelation, democratic freedom, or authoritarian rule) to which all humans naturally aspire, the absence of which means that they will never achieve a coherent politics. It will arise because its constituent elements are incompatible.

The allegory itself has already shown the kind of role that the limits of representation will play in this impending shortfall. We have been told of shadows produced by imitations of those things and concepts, and told of shadows habitually, even willingly, mistaken for