With Usura: From Reliquary to the Culture Industry

Who in Italy will have not noted her reliquaries? Vast collections grace even the humblest hamlet — carefully provenanced thumbs, teeth, hair, thorns, fingernails, arms, jaws — all held captive in exquisite vitrines of greenish glass.

Tourists file dutifully past these things, a guilty giggle suppressed – ‘Popish idolatry’.  Yet to go to the Basilica of Sant’Antonio di Padova is to see not merely a display of specimens, but sacred objects in use.  Tearful pilgrims crowd the back of the chapel, touching the Saint’s sepulchre, some knocking their heads on cold stone.  Meanwhile the less devout visitor gingerly steps around them to find the Tullio Lombardo relief.  The contrast is stark – desperation born of sickness, juxtaposed with the Instagram-ready culture vulture, ticking off a tourist itinerary.

From what source then derives the power of the relic, and its cousin, the icon?  We are assured that Christ and the Virgin Mary were safely lifted into the empyrean through the Resurrection and the Assumption, respectively.  Thus, in a historical echo of the Arian Controversy, the question of Christ’s physical remains does not arise and may border on blasphemy.  For these principals, it is usually secondary objects — thorns from the crown, nails from the cross, the Mandylion of Edessa — that are venerated.

A supply-demand imbalance presents itself, leading to a panoply of martyr’s remains.  Between the years 360 AD to 430 AD, the early Church sought to resolve its foundational disputes, through a string of synods, councils, and diets.  It became theologically acceptable to divide up bodies of martyrs, thus causing an extraordinary efflorescence in relics across the empire.  In the historian Cyril Mango’s words: ‘regions that had an excess [of relics] could supply those that suffered a deficiency’.

Not only bodily remnants attracted veneration. At Rome’s church of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, the Empress Helena (c. 246/50-330 AD), mother of Constantine the Great, brought back pieces of the True Cross, and a great quantity of blood-soaked soil from the Crucifixion.  Alexander Nagel, theorising the connections between contemporary land/installation art and Medieval chapels, sees this church as ‘an ancient earthworks project…a piece of transplanted territory, a bit of Jerusalem installed in Rome’.  An age of effortless travel makes it difficult to appreciate the impact — most in the congregation would never make it to the real Jerusalem — this was an opportunity for them to visually and phenomenologically project themselves to Golgotha.

Santa Croce in Gerusalemme
Earth from the Crucifixion in Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Rome. Source: http://www.booksandideas.net/Not-Ruled-by-Time-and-Space.html

Nagel, discussing Robert Smithson’s Non-site works (c. 1968), shows a 6th-century reliquary held in the Vatican Collections. A wooden box contains rocks and a splinter from the Holy Land, inscribed in faded Greek: Bethlehem, the Mount of Olives, the citadel on Mount Zion.  The artefacts rest in ossified mud, presumably from Palestine, whilst the cover, designed to slot into the box, features five tiny primitive paintings from Christ’s life.  This, the obverse to Santa Croce: instead of an architectural environment transporting the faithful, here a small, rather crudely-made object acts as a visual and haptic aid to the viewer’s imagination.

Vatican reliquary Santa Sanctorum
Inscribed rocks in a reliquary box from Vatican Collections, originally from Sancta Sanctorum in the Lateran Palace. Source: http://phdiva.blogspot.co.uk/2011/08/early-images-of-crucifixion.html

Neither dismembered bodies nor transplanted land fully satisfied the proselytising needs of an œcumenical church; hence Roman painting was pressed into service.  Larger, mobile, and above all, unambiguously narrative, the painted picture could reach far more people, even the dim-witted and unimaginative. Yet, the early Church had inherited the Judaic prohibition on holy images.  Over the years, a variety of justifications were proposed: some didactic, others citing as precedent L’evangelista Luca, pittore.  Canonical guidance held that religious paintings could be efficacious in intermediating with the Divinity, and could even perform miracles, speak, bleed, and exude oil.  Paintings were to be done from life — that is, from direct observation of the saintly subject. When it became obvious that this wasn’t always practicable, a welcome theological flexibility, anticipating the Jesuits, ruled it acceptable to copy from a faithful likeness, subject to certain pictorial conventions being observed.  Needless to say, the issue was periodically revisited, not least in the First and Second Iconoclasms (726-787 AD and 814-842 AD respectively), yet the sacred image was never proscribed for long.  The drastic contrast between Christianity’s attitude to images, and that of say Islam and Judaism, led the essayist George Steiner’s to observe that ‘Christianity…is a form of polytheism…charged with an awareness of the symbolic, allegoric and the imaginary’.

So far then, the venerated thing, whether relic or icon, derives its agency from physical and temporal proximity,  or else a mimesis, to a holy site or person.  But how does one go from a smallish, intricately-worked panel covered in a jewelled carapace, and made for private, perhaps rare, worship, to large mosaics and frescoes on church walls? Such architectural decoration is at one remove from the font of spirituality, neither divinely touched nor a directly-painted likeness.  Further, large scale makes them expensive, while site-specificity is inseparable with the local population’s ethnicity, customs and politics.  Hence we see that the raw, early belief of a besieged sect, Edward Gibbon’s ‘poor and simple’, needs step aside, in order to make way for an established religion, that practiced by the Imperial house — as well as the merchants, bankers, and generals who formed the body politic of, and funded, a far-flung and multi-ethnic Empire.  These worthies sought to commemorate their presence, and perhaps, having lived lives of distinctly imperfect ethics, hedge their bets on eternity.

Julius Argentarius monogram
Julius the Banker’s monogram, San Vitale Source: Carla Linville White, ‘Reassembled Art and History: The San Michele in Africisco (Ravenna) Mosaics’ , 2014. http://digitalcommons.lsu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=4610&context=gradschool_theses

In the exarchate of Ravenna, there was Julius Argentarius, financier of San Vitale and Sant’Apollinaire in Classe.  Possibly commemorated in the Justinian mosaic, he lent his name to distinctive long flat bricks known as giulianei.  Nearby, in Padova, we find the patron Enrico Scrovegni, fearing for the soul of his usurer father, endowing a small chapel for public use. On the Scrovegni Chapel’s Last Judgement, the torments awaiting moneylenders are exquisitely rendered under Giotto’s hand.

Julius the Banker (centre), San Vitale Source: Carla Linville White, ‘Reassembled Art and History: The San Michele in Africisco (Ravenna) Mosaics’ , 2014. http://digitalcommons.lsu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=4610&context=gradschool_theses

In another Byzantine theme, Sicily, one comes upon the most moving, and visually explicit, of such donative works.  At Palermo’s Church of the Martorana, there is George of Antioch, admiral of King Roger’s fleet and successor to the protonotarius Christodulus.  George resembles a glittering, cowering turtle, posed as if handing up a tiny model of the church to the Virgin. A similar motif is replicated in Constantinople, at the monastery of St Saviour in Chora, as well as in the Hagia Sophia.

Why these curious images? Are the donations of Late Antiquity a type of contract?  Not in the strict sense — after all, two contracting parties should be roughly equal in status, and at a minimum, a contract needs to specify actions by both parties, and penalties for breaches.  We would have to wait until the dawn of the Renaissance to see contracts per se: by the 1500s, much Italian religious art appears to have been made on commission, with a written, notarised contract stipulating precious materials, timing, milestones, while leaving, perhaps surprisingly, the precise subject matter somewhat open to development.

Martorana, Palermo
Donation portrait of George of Antioch in Church of Santa Maria dell’Ammiraglio (Martorana)

More plausibly, one may view these images as covenants, in the Judaic sense.  It would appear that the church is being dedicated, financed, indeed physically offered upwards, in exchange for a promise, that of salvation, handed down by a benevolent deity.  We do not know how these donations were documented, but contemporary sources give some clue — in the early Byzantine world, charity became a way for an increasingly wealthy Christian class to retain control over society as well as increase social status.  The great Bishop of Constantinople St John Chrysotom (c. 396 AD), baldly writes that alms ‘quickly raise human beings to the heavenly vaults’, and constitute ‘ransom from the bondage of sin’.  One suspects that a transactional view of charity, and organised religion, was possibly all the more pronounced in the Byzantine milieu owing to caesaropapism: an institutional unity of the secular and spiritual authorities — perhaps discernible today in Russia, heir of Byzantium.

In summary, as the sacred image grows larger and more complex, organisational and pecuniary needs place it in the warm embrace of patronage.  The source of its efficacy becomes more bureaucratised and less authoritatively steeped in apocryphal antiquity.  From sacred object to devotional image to architectural decoration – religious art in the Late Antique can be seen to be circumscribed within an arc of gold.  That arc stretches from the time of Attic tragedy and the pre-Socratics, becomes increasingly secularised and financialised through the ages, and comes down to us as Adorno’s culture industry, insipid and pervasive.  The art object, no longer embedded in a people’s belief, metastasises into its own autonomous reality, becoming reliant on global markets in luxury goods and academic theories for value and justification.  Against this world where the medium has indeed become the message, a dull knocking of heads on Proconnesian marble, as in Padova, dimly memorialises the archaic and performative origins of art.

Nagel, Alexander Medieval Modern: Art Out of Time New York, London: Thames and Hudson, 2012, p. 112
Mango, Cyril (ed) The Oxford History of Byzantium Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002, p. 108
Nagel, p. 100
Nagel, pp. 118-120
Mango, p.154
Nagel, pp. 230-231
Ronald A. Sharp The Paris Review George Steiner, The Art of Criticism No. 2, Issue 137, Winter 1995, https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1506/george-steiner-the-art-of-criticism-no-2-george-steiner accessed 12 April 2017
Gibbon, Edward The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire London: Penguin, 1776,  Ch 15
O’Malley, Michelle The Business of Art: Contracts and the Commissioning Process in Renaissance Italy New Haven: Yale University Press, pp. 3-6
Kevin C. Robbins in Powell, Walter W. and Steinberg, Richard The Nonprofit Sector: A Research Handbook p. 22
Mango pp. 14-15

Hieronymus Bosch: At the Border of Disorder

The 2016 quincentennial of Jeroen von Aken’s death has given rise to two major exhibitions – at the Noordsbrabant Museum (’S-Hertogenbosch) and at the Prado (Madrid).  Rather than add to the excellent reviews already written, this essay considers the  Prado’s Garden of Earthly Delights primarily as a political object.  Three 20th-century European theorists of the state frame the work’s patronage, interpretation, and provenance: Giorgio Agamben, Carl Schmitt, and Alexandre Kojève.

Hieronymus Bosch, “Garden of Earthly Delights”, c. 1500, Museo del Prado. Source: Wikipedia

The triptych has long obsessed its aristocratic owners and puzzled historians studying it.  Unlike its Netherlandish antecedents, The Garden‘s exterior is painted in precise grisaille, enigmatically depicting either the third day of Creation or the aftermath of the Flood. Inside, the left leaf presents a magical Eden, seemingly at the instant following Eve’s emergence from Adam’s rib. Christ, in common with some of Bosch’s other paintings, looks out, firmly yet gently, at the viewer.  The central panel’s formal garden is inhabited by a multitude of fruitophages, naked yet guile-less, both black and white, diverting themselves amorously around a lake, surrounded by vegetal pink towers, blue orbs and a host of friendly animals.  The less jolly right-hand leaf, a vision of Hell, is centred upon Bosch’s eponymous ‘tree-man’, below whom a diaphanous devil, seated atop a bog-throne, simultaneously ingests bodies and defecates souls. Yet a parsimonious description omits much: what is it about those monsters that grips us so?  Why do we, eagerly if slightly shamefully, stare at those scenes of evisceration, limbs being rent asunder, indiscriminate fornication? The scatological merges with the eschatological, leading the viewer to ask – what was El Bosco up to?

Hieronymus Bosch, “Garden of Earthly Delights”, c. 1500, Museo del Prado. Source: Wikipedia

Patronage and Image
Bosch’s images, combining detail, vividness and sheer weirdness invite scrutiny and disputation.  Yet, owing to a lack of clear evidence or contemporary accounts, it is hard to establish why, or even when, he painted what he did. It has been proposed that Garden may simply have been a moral allegory.  Others have perceived an alchemical theme in the work, while the historian Wilhelm Fraenger saw a primitive and promiscuous Adamite cult at work in the painting.

A more interesting interpretation suggests it may have been commissioned, as a teaching aid, by Engelbert II, the syphilitic Count of Nassau for his nephew and heir Henry III.  A cultured man, Engelbert had brought Henry to Brussels, and sought to give him a princely education from the Burgundian court’s own excellent library.  Books for rulers-to-be are one of the oldest veins of political writing: prior examples are Xenophon’s Cyropaedia (Greece, 370 BC), Chanakya’s Arthshastra (India, 150 BC – 125 AD), or Machiavelli’s Il Principe (Italy, 1532 AD).  As befitting the practices of his sumptuously ornate, performative, and visual court, Engelbert may have wanted to supplement his charge’s education with a magnificent image.  Falkenburg links the hermeneutics of the image with the content of a travelling library, which included Augustine’s City of God, and Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.  These, and other texts, are documented as accompanying Duke Phillip the Fair, on his journey to Spain, where he would assume, via marriage, his Spanish possessions.

Moreover, Garden was not a static wall-hanging – it was active object of theatre.  First documented by Antonio de Beatis in 1517, it is described as a bizarre thing, calculated to induce stupefaction at the intricacy and variety of its contents.  One imagines that the austere grey-black leaves would open in front of the astonished viewer, revealing for an Augenblick a tableau of coloured wonders, only to be slammed shut again, leaving him befuddled as to what was actually glimpsed.

So why do I belabour the origins of a 500-year old painting?  Because it begs a question raised by Giorgio Agamben on the role of art today.  Whereas in the past art fulfilled a clear spiritual vocation, today it has lost this potency, neither threatening the established social order nor bringing forth truth from the shadows. Agamben also discusses the importance of the patron as a co-creator, rather than merely a source of funding.  He specifically points to Popes Julius II and Clement VII as being intimately involved — commissioners, collaborators, tormentors — in the Sistine and (Florence’s) Medici Chapels, respectively.  In the same way, one imagines senior members of the Burgundian court, documented as reciting poetry to each other, guiding, even hectoring, Bosch to bring to fruition his phantasmagoric work.  In our age, when we have neither courts nor court artists, that crucial transmission channel between audience and artist is much more diffuse, largely mediated by the market, mass-culture, and the ideological proclivities of curators and other tastemakers.  Thus the artist must create, seemingly ex nihilo, without any urgent and personal connection to a single figure of authority and patronage.  Thus, art has been diluted to a matter of tepid aesthetic appreciation on the part of a great mass of ‘culture vultures’: some more, others less, well-schooled in art theory and history.

Who is my Enemy?
One of Agamben’s philosophical antecedents was the conservative German jurist Carl Schmitt, from whom we get a second perspective on Bosch.  Schmitt, immensely influential in political philosophy, had a decidedly chequered record in practical politics.  Yet his thought cannot be stripped from its context – the fatally-flawed Weimar Republic, hyperinflation, combined with a decadent Berlin, which, while perhaps admired today with the distance of nostalgia, was in stark opposition to the Zeitgeist of a defeated, occupied, and bankrupt Germany.  In his world, Schmitt perceived looming revolution, apocalypse, the eschaton; indeed, it is (Christian) theology that drives his conception of the political.

Carl Schmitt. Source: http://nationalinterest.org/feature/carl-schmitt%E2%80%99s-war-liberalism-12704

Schmitt’s Hobbesian view on man’s nature correlated with his interest in Bosch, the demon-painter par excellence.  The jurist, commenting on Hobbes’ Leviathan, writes: ‘[Bosch’s] devils are ontological reality, not the products of a fantasy or horror; the landscape is hell, whose fire in many places breaks through the veil of earthly colours…’.  In his Gombrich lectures on Garden, Joseph Koerner starts with Schmitt’s relationship with this painting.  In 1947, as a prisoner awaiting possible trial at Nuremberg, Schmitt is described by Koerner as reviewing and critiquing Wilhelm Fraenger’s iconological analysis of the triptych. In response to the American interrogator’s question ‘Wer bist du?’ (‘Who are you?’), Schmitt responds with his own ‘a priori “Who is my enemy?”’.  For Schmitt had built his very definition of politics around the friend/enemy distinction, with its implicit threat of violence amongst groups or nations, without which ‘life…would be shallow, insignificant, and meaningless’.

So, who was this enemy that so exercised the old man from Plettenberg?  His writing states that it is liberal society, cosmopolitanism, the consequent dissolution of all values – a possibility he perhaps perceives in the licentious, gluttonous frolicking in The Garden of Earthly Delights.  But can we be more specific? Returning to Bosch, in works such as Christ Crowned With Thorns (London, 1479), or Christ Carrying the Cross (Ghent, 1515), we cannot but miss the apparent, yet not definitively identified, presence of Jews and Muslims.  Or, in the triptych Adoration of the Magi (Prado, 1500), we see an enigmatic, partially-unclothed, pseudo-monarch (see image below) with an unattractive leprous sore on his leg.  This figure is variously identified as the Antichrist, an alchemical representation of lead, or the Jewish Messiah.  The ambiguity in these examples illustrate Schmitt’s point that the enemy is not a factual or objective category, therefore an outsider cannot recognise the enemy.  It is a classification made subjectively by a group.  Logically then, how does the sovereign, or any outside observer, distinguish between the merely different Other (perhaps living alternatively, but ultimately in a reconcilable and law-abiding manner), and the irreconcilable enemy (who acts outside the law in the name of a radicalised religion).   It has not been possible, for the purpose of this essay, to establish to what extent Schmitt had seen or written about these particular paintings while developing his theory of the enemy, but one hopes Prof. Koerner will analyse this point in an upcoming book on the enemy in Bosch and Brueghel’s art.

Hieronymus Bosch, “Adoration of the Magi”, c. 1500, Museo del Prado. Source: Wikipedia


Schmitt also seems haunted by the katechon, an obscure figure from early Christian theologyKatechon, ‘the restrainer’, who keeps Antichrist at bay until the Apocalypse, is never explicitly identified in scripture, and has had many interpretations over the ages.  Schmitt himself refuses to specify who the restrainer is, merely citing as one example, the last Hapsburg Emperor Franz Joseph.  He seems to view it as a category that, in every age and in various guises, has been a bulwark against chaos.

The nature of katechon is important, because it leads to Schmitt’s other major conceptual contribution – the definition of the sovereign.  For if the state is not to descend into chaos, it may be necessary, from time to time, to suspend its normative workings (namely the constitution), and impose rule under an exception.  In Schmitt’s words: ‘Sovereign is he who decides on the exception’.  In this sense, the sovereign, by preventing chaos through the instrument of exception, might act as restrainer, in a practical if not necessarily theological sense.

Schmitt’s thought has acquired renewed relevance, in part because other philosophers have built upon it, but also because governments post-9/11 have adopted policies that seem to reference him.  Moreover, although Schmitt viewed the exception as a temporary condition, governments have increasingly relied on states of exception or emergency as the ordinary course of business, so to speak. Lastly, Schmitt’s view of a nation and a state that are organised around a friend/enemy distinction, if ever it made sense, throws up particular problems in a multicultural, tolerant society, which the US, UK, EU, and India (to take the most populous examples) identify as. To summarise, while some left-wing commentators therefore view his thought as incompatible with modern democracy, others find a degree of Schmittian influence impossible to avoid, as a practical matter of how a democracy negotiates pressures from competing groups.

Europe’s Unbridged Chasm
To establish our third vantage point, we must step away from Bosch’s paintings themselves, to examine the milieu in which they were created and still exist: namely, a Continent that remains divided between North and South, notwithstanding the EU’s foundational vision of an impartial, technocratic state that would rise above national, linguistic, and ethnic differences.

This post-war environment found a Russian emigrè, Alexandre Kojève working in France’s Ministry of Economic Affairs, planning what would become the Common Market.  At a conceptual level, Kojève felt the era of the nation-state was over, and would be supplanted by one of international alliances.  In a quixotic yet prescient 1945 memo to General Charles de Gaulle, he predicted Germany as likely hegemon within the new Europe. He also felt that Germany would inevitably fall into an Anglo-American orbit.  Germany’s population advantage, proven technological and organisational skill, a Weberian appreciation for work as highest good, and finally a cultural affinity for England, would reduce France to an impotent ‘dominion’ state.   He proposed a counterweight – a Latin Empire that would comprise Spain, Portugal, France, and Italy – Greece presumably being left to fend for itself. He next raised a mirror-image of the Schmittian question – what glue would bind the peoples of the proposed Latin Empire, if not ethnicity, nor language, nor religious fervour (France having long become a secular republic), nor a common monarch, nor colonies, not even a rampant American-style capitalism?

Alexandre Kojeve Source: Wikipedia

Kojève’s answer was a secularised Catholic Church.  He envisioned the Church as the historical fountainhead of all European culture, having risen, by the time of the Renaissance, above narrow theology to realpolitik and patronage of the arts, as exemplified in the Janus-faces of the Papal State.  Were it to shed its remaining Italian and theological baggage, it might become a unifying cultural force, and thus live up to the full dictionary meanings of the words catholic and œcumenical.

Writing before the messy denoument of France’s own colonial escapade in Algeria, Kojève was relatively silent on how to accommodate non-Catholics – by axiomatically defining a secular Church, he seemed to wave away the question of how Muslims, and others, such as Jews or Gypsies, were to be integrated.

The idea might have remained a curious footnote in the proto-history of the EU.  However, in 2013, amidst a continuing crisis in Greece, Giorgio Agamben resurrected the concept of a Latin Empire.  Agamben’s provocation caused a predictable firestorm in the German media, to which he gave a rejoinder of wry surprise.  Yet, the notion is not as fanciful as it might first seem – although not couched in the grandiose, quasi-theological terms of a Latin (Catholic) Empire, the structure of a ‘two-speed’ Eurozone has become increasingly credible.

What has this to do with Bosch’s painting?  At the most simplistic level, the central garden panel may evoke the (apocryphally) care-free Mediterranean life.  But the subtlety lies in the left-hand leaf where Christ’s eyes meet those of viewer.  Falkenburg extensively comments on this as the spectator being drawn into the speculum of the painting – which one could think of as a personal relationship being created between the viewer and Christ.  This, in turn, is essentially the message of the Reformation: direct salvation, with a generous lashing of original sin, bypassing the malefic intermediation of Popes, Saints, indulgences or any of the other panoply of Roman Catholicism.  In this light, it is notable that not even a God, seated atop a nimbus of angels, graces the triptych’s interior.  Thus this work, painted about 40 years before the Reformation, foreshadows a humanist and anti-institutional perspective on faith.

“Garden of Earthly Delights” (detail)

Provenance also illuminates the North-South divide. In 1567, Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, the Duke of Alba and Spain’s greatest general, was sent to the Netherlands by King Phillip II to crush a growing civil and religious insurrection.  Alba’s action in the Netherlands would inaugurate the Eighty-Years War, ending in 1648 with the Peace of Westphalia, which of course was the starting point of Carl Schmitt’s analysis of the nation-state. The result of the War are still visible: Protestant Flanders and The Netherlands, Catholic Wallonia and Luxembourg.  Koerner, perhaps employing poetic license in his Gombrich Lectures, depicts (Spain’s own) Iron Duke, obsessed by this painting, as declaring a state of emergency primarily to acquire it.  Eventually though the triptych ended up in Philip II’s collection. One imagines this most Spanish of monarchs, alone in his monastery-fortress at El Escorial, grimly signing warrants for The Inquisition’s autos-da-fé, his days lightened only by the Apocalyptic visions of an obscure Netherlandish painter.

‘Master of the Princely Portraits’, Engelbert II, Count of Nassau, c. 1475, Rijksmuseum. Source: Wikipedia

Notes & References

1)  Hieronymus Bosch’s family seems to have come from Aachen, though his name was eventually Latinised and linked to the town in which he worked, ’S-Hertogenbosch. Source: Laurinda Dixon, Bosch (London/New York: Phaidon Press, 2003), 20.

2) http://www.hetnoordbrabantsmuseum.nl/

3) https://www.museodelprado.es/en

4) One of the most insightful reviews: http://www.nybooks.com/articles/2016/08/18/mystery-of-hieronymus-bosch/

5) Interpretation cannot help but be influenced by this title, a relatively modern attribution.  More likely, the work was originally untitled, while a 1593 inventory refers to the work as a painting of the madroño plant.  This fruit, visually similar to a strawberry, is essentially tasteless.  Some interpretations have centred on this fruit as metaphor, see Reindert Falkenburg, The Land of Unlikeness (Zwolle, NL: WBOOKS BV, 2011), 18-22.

6) Lynn F Jacobs, “The Triptychs of Hieronymous Bosch” The Sixteenth Century Journal, Vol. 31 No. 4 (Winter 2000),1019, http://www.jstor.org/stable/2671185, accessed 31 August 2016.

7) E. H. Gombrich, “Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’: A Progress Report” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, Vol. 32 (1969), 163, http://www.jstor.org/stable/750611, accessed on 31 August 2016.

8) Laurinda Dixon, Bosch (London/New York: Phaidon Press, 2003), 228-232.

9) ibid 233.

10) Joseph Leo Koerner giving the E.H. Gombrich Lecture at The Warburg Institute, 15 March 2016, https://youtu.be/VoujwsX_AKE, accessed 31 August 2016.

11) FALKENBURG (2011), 271.

12) ibid 266-267.

13) E. H. Gombrich, “The Earliest Description of Bosch’s Garden of Delight” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, Vol. 30 (1967), 403-406, http://www.jstor.org/stable/750758, accessed on 31 August 2016.

14) ibid, 74.

15) FALKENBURG (2011), 268-270.

16) Once again, books may have played a significant part in Bosch’s creative process – many of the hybrid beasts in his paintings can be traced to images and marginalia of Late Medieval manuscripts.  See FALKENBURG (2011), 55, 63, 68, 81, 123, 138-139, and others.

17) Giorgio Agamben, The Man Without Content, trans. Georgia Albert, (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1994), 19-23.

18) Carl Schmitt, The Leviathan in the State Theory of Thomas Hobbes, trans. George Schwab and Erna Hilfstein (Westport, CN and London: Greenwood Press, 1996), 24.

19) Joseph Leo Koerner giving the E.H. Gombrich Lecture at The Warburg Institute, 15 March 2016, https://youtu.be/VoujwsX_AKE, accessed 31 August 2016.

20) Lars Vinx, “Carl Schmitt” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward Zalta, (Spring, 2016), http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2016/entries/schmitt/, accessed on 31 August 2016.

21) William Alexander Hooker, “The State in the International Theory of Carl Schmitt: Meaning and Failure of an Ordering Principle” London School of Economics PhD Thesis 2008, 16.

22) Koerner’s Gombrich talk provides a supporting quotation from Schmitt.

23) JACOBS (2000), 1035.

24) Slavoj Žižek, “Are We in a War? Do We Have an Enemy?” London Review of Books, Vol. 23 No. 10 (May 2002), 3-6, http://www.lrb.co.uk/v24/n10/slavoj-zizek/are-we-in-a-war-do-we-have-an-enemy, accessed 5 September 2016.

25) press.princeton.edu/titles/10815.html

26) The term is found in St Paul’s 2nd Letter to the Thessalonians (2 Thessalonians 2:6-7)

27) HOOKER (2008), 79.

28) HOOKER (2008), 39.

29) VINX (2016).

30) Philip Golub, “The Will to Undemocratic Power” Le Monde Diplomatique, September 2006, http://mondediplo.com/2006/09/08democracy , accessed 5 September 2016.

31) For instance, the Nazi regime suspended the Weimar constitution for three successive 4-year periods, under Article 48, rather than simply repealing it.  Slavoj Zizek describes General Alfred Stroessner’s bizarre state of emergency in Paraguay: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v24/n10/slavoj-zizek/are-we-in-a-war-do-we-have-an-enemy

32) ŽIŽEK (2002)

33) Matthew Wilks, “Theories of Multicultural Toleration: An Examination of Justice as Fairness and Political Theology“ Inquiries Journal, Vol.6 No. 3 (2014), http://www.inquiriesjournal.com/articles/874/4/theories-of-multicultural-toleration-an-examination-of-justice-as-fairness-and-political-theology , accessed on 5 September 2016.

34) Translated/reprinted at https://www.marxists.org/reference/subject/philosophy/works/fr/kojeve2.htm

35) ibid

36) Robert Howse, “Kojeve’s Latin Empire” Hoover Institution, August/September 2004, http://www.hoover.org/research/kojeves-latin-empire, accessed on 1 September 2016.

37) Giorgio Agamben, “The ‘Latin Empire’ Should Strike Back” VoxEurop, (26 March 2013), http://www.voxeurop.eu/en/content/article/3593961-latin-empire-should-strike-back , accessed on 5 September 2016.

38) German interview with Agamben: http://www.faz.net/aktuell/feuilleton/bilder-und-zeiten/giorgio-agamben-im-gespraech-die-endlose-krise-ist-ein-machtinstrument-12193816.html

39) Matthew Karnitschnig, “Welcome to a two-speed Europe” politico.EU, (18 May 2016), http://www.politico.eu/article/welcome-to-a-two-speed-europe-deal-british-voters-brussels-open-marriage/ , accessed 1 September 2016.

40) FALKENBURG (2011), 76.

Review: Yuri Pattison, ‘User, Space’ at Chisenhale Gallery

Installation View, Yuri Pattison, ‘User, Space’, Chisenhale Gallery, 2016. Author’s own image.

A visitor to Yuri Pattison’s exhibition User, Space at the Chisenhale Gallery is confronted by a large, nearly empty, room that is, paradoxically, filled with stuff. Orange industrial shelving on two walls support stacking plastic boxes, miniature designer furniture and computer servers. In the middle is a long glass table flanked by semi-opaque room dividers, a profusion of transparent Eames chairs covered in plastic sheeting, and a pile of plants under a steel canopy.  Rectangular panel lights, hanging overhead, come on and off at seemingly random intervals, and the room is filled with the hum of computer equipment. Monitors abound while electrically actuated bottles emit vapour.

The show is a product of an 18-month residency which allowed Pattison to spend time in London’s tech community: the non-profit Hackspace, as well as in Second Home, a ‘co-working’ business where freelance workers, writers, graphic designers, and coders use shared desks. The room represents a “speculative live/work environment drawing influence from Modernist architecture and science fiction”.

Installation View, Yuri Pattison, ‘User, Space’, Chisenhale Gallery, 2016. Author’s own image.

There is little physical transformation of materials – other than said plastic sheeting, quite a lot of dust, and electronics stripped of casings.  Lighting and electric window-films are controlled by computer server, while cameras feed live footage from the gallery to a monitor.  A large monitor shows a video based on the architecture of co-working spaces. Some notable contemporary art tropes are missing: 3-D printed objects, UV-printed plastic, casts of body parts (though there is a little finger stuck onto a server), crutches-as-sculpture.

In an accompanying printed interview, one learns that Dexion shelving units relate to Pattison’s interest in global logistics. He talks about an Amazon fulfilment centre in London, recalling for the viewer how work and labour have changed in the contemporary gig economy.  The interview goes on to explain that transparency, surveillance, modification of sleep patterns, and the history of computing are amongst the ideas that occupy Pattison.

Installation View, Yuri Pattison, ‘User, Space’, Chisenhale Gallery, 2016. Author’s own image.

He also talks about the work-leisure slippage, a phenomenon that started with the mobile internet, and developed most famously in Silicon Valley offices with their bean-bags, ping-pong tables, and free food.  On a related note, companies like WeWork, which started by developing co-working spaces, are now building ‘co-living’ spaces.  In a co-living arrangement, millennials, finding city-centre housing unaffordable, rent rooms in a shared flat (often decked out as a loft with exposed brick, cable runs and concrete), complete with ‘concierge’ services like cleaning and laundry.  Sounds like a conventional flat-share, except that the flats are owned by a large corporation; in WeWork’s case, valued at sixteen-billion dollars.  Co-living and its economics have attracted mild incredulity in the venture-capital press, and apoplexy in the art press.

Pattison’s particular take is how these practices result in individuals who “isolate themselves…[and] create a physical filter bubble”, resulting in a “disengagement with the fabric of the city”.  Moreover, the sharing economy means time gets carved up, as people rent desks by the hour or co-living spaces by the week, again to the potential detriment of the broader community. Yet this isn’t really picked up, visually, in the installation – the videos and CGI feel a little lazy and could have taken a more critical perspective.

Installation View, Yuri Pattison, ‘User, Space’, Chisenhale Gallery, 2016. Author’s own image.

The 14-page interview is fascinating in its breadth, touching on almost ever trendy topic in contemporary cultural and economic theory: Bitcoin-mining rigs, pop-up restaurants and stores, the new international style in interior design, coffee culture, mass-marketing of Modernist furniture, and so forth. These first-world concerns, arguably familiar only to the culturally-aware metropolitan, when combined with the visual poverty of the exhibition, fail to move or surprise the viewer.

The closest Pattison perhaps gets to eloquence, is in the dried sebum and dust covering many surfaces – the abjection of which somehow speaks to the absence of the worker, of the human.  One misses the jargon, rituals of coffee, cigarettes or Soylent, inside jokes, backstabbing, gossip – all of which characterise shared places, whether of work or life.

To end with a counter-example, consider Simon Denny.  He has similar concerns: intersection of corporate and hacker culture, surveillance, the physical and digital material of the work environment.  In contrast to Pattison, Denny’s 2015/2016 exhibition at the Serpentine maintained a tight focus on organisational and software structures.  He married, mediated, and abstracted the graphic and architectural elements of corporate and governmental intelligence entities, producing an installation of sculptures memorable as much for their totemic presence as for any politically-charged content.

Installation View, Simon Denny, ‘Products for Organising’, Serpentine Galleries, 2015/2016. Image courtesy Serpentine Galleries.

The overwhelming sense of Pattison’s show was that of a research project rendered visible, almost a ‘core dump’ (computing term for the aftermath of a crash: the entire contents of memory are dumped into a file, to help programmers debug).  That is not to suggest the collection or display were un-curated or arbitrary, and there were some clever twists, such as a circulating economy of Bitcoins that are mined using free electricity.  Yet somehow, there was a whiff of incoherence, and it is not clear the interview, perhaps due to the sheer catholicity of Pattison’s avowed interests, helped.  Most importantly, the social element that energises any working or living space, was missing.  Yet one could argue, it was precisely that exclusion of the human that generated a pathos and brought forth the moral and ideological bankruptcy of the sharing economy.

Rites of Spring: Gergovie & Tutto Wine Tasting

View of Tutto/Gergovie Spring Tasting 2016 in the Round Chapel, Hackney
View of Tutto/Gergovie Spring Tasting 2016 in the Round Chapel, Hackney

Those lucky enough to be in London for the Bank Holiday had a chance to go to an superb event at the Round Chapel in Hackney, organised by Tutto Wines and Gergovie Wines.  Both importers, along with a handful of others, have done much to create a space for natural wines in the London market – 15 years ago wine-drinking here was neatly segmented into high-end Bordeaux and Burgundy, set against high-alcohol, often New World, rotgut sold to the masses at off-licenses.  Natural wines, with their exacting standards of facture, respect for the land, artisanal approach, and sheer contagious enthusiasm, have brought in younger, cosmopolitan drinkers and really breathed life into the wine scene here.  While events like RAW have popularised natural wine, bringing in producers from Germany, Austria and further afield, Tutto and Gergovie have maintained a distinct Italian and French focus.  On the retail side, Noble Fine Liquor, closely associated with Tutto, has made Broadway Market in Hackney pretty much the hottest place to buy top-end, often idiosyncratic producers, particularly from Italy.  A short distance away, the eno-bistrot Brawn, by another natural wine pioneer Ed Wilson, keeps Columbia Road amply fed & watered. Lastly, south of the Thames, Gergovie’s food venture 40 Maltby Street, with its phenomenal but simple food and tiny menu, the place to go, even as Borough Market has descended into a tourist-driven fracas of selfie-sticks and ‘street-food’.

Wine swatches, akin to artist's colour samples, hundreds of them lined the entrance to the hall. The Gergovie team have been collecting these for years, and they were lovely in their minimal evocation of some phenomenal wines from far-off lands.
Wine swatches, akin to artist’s colour samples, hundreds of them lined the entrance to the hall. The Gergovie team have been collecting these for years, and they were lovely in their minimal evocation of some phenomenal wines from far-off lands.

Rant over…so this event was organised primarily for trade and growers, almost entirely from Italy, France, and Slovenia.  It was in an awesome de-consecrated Victorian chapel off Lower Clapton Road, across from Noble’s second venue P. Franco.  I can’t find much on the history of the chapel, but it had distinct echoes of the fine early Christian basilicas found in Constantinople and in Northeast Italy, the old Exarchate of Ravenna.  The room was hung with the lovely posters that have long been a feature of the London and Paris natural wine shops/enotecas, and are so sorely missed in the hyper-commercial (and somewhat more restaurant-based) New York wine scene.  There was a distinctly aesthetic vibe to the whole thing, from the posters, to the small-scale but utterly conscientious attitude of the growers, and even to some of the London-based staff, artists working part-time in the food and wine businesses around Maltby St.

40 Maltby St's spectacular grub: to start, a gutsy terrine, refined liver mousse; duck egg with asparagus; salt cod fritters. Mains: wood-grilled rabbit, aioli, and simple rough greens; a seafood rice. To end: selection of 3 cheeses; a stunning lemon-rind tarte with pure butter base, creme fraiche. This wasn't the day for vegans or diets.
40 Maltby St’s spectacular grub: to start, a gutsy terrine, refined liver mousse; duck egg with asparagus; salt cod fritters. Mains: wood-grilled rabbit (shown), aioli, and simple rough greens; a seafood rice. To end: selection of 3 cheeses; a stunning lemon-rind tarte with pure butter base, creme fraiche. This wasn’t the day for vegans or diets. Wine: Cristiano Guttorolo’s amphora-aged primitivo.

We ended up mostly sticking with the Italian stalls, with no disrespect intended to the others !  Food was essentially a holocaust of rabbits, grilled outside by 40 Maltby Street’s awesome team.  The evening ended at Brilliant Corners in Dalston, where wine crosses audiophile vinyl.

The distinctive wine posters
The distinctive wine posters
...and the sun from basilica windows
…and the sun from basilica windows

In keeping with the superb spring day, it all got a bit out of hand, with a bit of a Dionysian rendition on the preacher’s pulpit.  A tender respect for religious sentiment restrains me from a pic…

Doyen of the corps de vigneron, Gabrio Bini of Serraghia has long been a fixture on the London wine scene. His wines, from Pantelleria, closer to Africa than Sicily, come from old vines, are hand-tended, and partake of the saline air. Our favourite is his amphora-aged white of Zibbibo (local name for the Moscato di Alessandria, the name of which brings out Cavafy's poems of a vanished city).
Doyen of the corps de vignerons, Gabrio Bini of Serraghia has long been a fixture on the London wine scene. His wines, from Pantelleria, closer to Africa than Sicily, come from old vines, are hand-tended, and partake of the saline air. Our favourite is his amphora-aged white made from Zibbibo (local name for the Moscato di Alessandria grape…evoking perhaps Cavafy’s poems of a vanished city).
Gabrio's distinctive bottles.
Gabrio’s distinctive bottles.
The wines of Cantina Giardino come from the highlands of Irpinia, in Campania, known for the great Taurasi appellation. The noble grape Aglianico (Nebbiolo being the Alianico of the North) dominates reds, here and in Basilicata. The white wine Sophia, is based on Fiano, foot-trodden (by children apparently) and aged in unlined clay amphorae. Other wines are aged in chestnut/acacia barrels from the area.
The wines of Cantina Giardino come from the highlands of Irpinia, in Campania, known for the Taurasi appellation. The noble grape Aglianico (Nebbiolo being the Aglianico of the North) dominates reds, here and in Basilicata. The white wine Sophia, is based on Fiano, foot-crushed (by children apparently) and aged in unlined clay amphorae. Other wines are aged in chestnut/acacia barrels from the area.
Cantina Giardino's amphorae
Cantina Giardino’s amphorae
The wonderful proprietors Antonio & Daniela De Gruttola of Cantina Giardino.
The wonderful proprietors Antonio & Daniela De Gruttola of Cantina Giardino.
Farnea's wines, from the Eugenean Hills just outside Padova in Veneto. The soil is volcanic, grapes are fermented in concrete with natural yeasts and skin contact - Emma, based on Moscato Rosa and Moscato Giallo was a fave.
Farnea’s wines, from the Eugenean Hills just outside Padova in Veneto. The soil is volcanic, grapes are fermented in concrete with natural yeasts and skin contact – Emma, based on Moscato Rosa and Moscato Giallo was a fave.
Marco, one of the nicest chaps, in a roomful of them, isn't averse to a cuddle from a comely Celtic lass...
Marco, one of the nicest chaps, in a roomful of them, isn’t averse to a cuddle from a comely Celtic lass…
...meanwhile back in the Colli Eugenei (Source: Tutto Wines)
…meanwhile back in the Colli Eugenei (Source: Tutto Wines)
Again from Veneto, Daniele Piccinin lands are in the Alpone valley near Verona. His focus is on the local, and almost extinct, Durella grape (aka Rabbiosa - the angry i.e. acidic and hard to vinify).
Again from Veneto, Daniele Piccinin’s wines come from the Alpone valley near Verona. His focus is on the local, and almost extinct, Durella grape (aka Rabbiosa – the angry i.e. acidic and hard to vinify).
Cristiano Guttarolo from Apulian karst-covered hills at Gioia del Colle emphasises the local stalwarts Primitivo and Negroamaro, but works hard to tame them and harness refinement and balance instead of the alcoholised fruit that often marks lesser wines of the mezzogiorno.
Cristiano Guttarolo from Apulian karst-covered hills at Gioia del Colle emphasises the local stalwarts Primitivo and Negroamaro, but works hard to tame them and harness refinement and balance instead of the alcoholised fruit that often marks lesser wines of Italy’s mezzogiorno.
Guttarolo's phenomenal Negroamaro - skin contact in steel and clocks in at 12% ABV.
Guttarolo’s phenomenal Negroamaro – skin contact in steel and clocks in at 12% ABV.
...all the better to follow his Trebbiano/Verdecca blend, again skin contact but in terracotta amphorae, giving a salty savouriness. Here supported by a brodetto w/ saffron, staple seaside soup of the Abruzzese, Molisano, and Pugliese coasts.
…all the better to follow his Trebbiano/Verdecca blend, again skin contact but in terracotta amphorae, leaving a salty savouriness. Here supported by a brodetto w/ saffron, staple seaside fare of the Abruzzese, Molisano, and Pugliese coasts.
From the Slovenian border with Friuli-Venezia-Giulia, near Gorizia, we had some excellent wines from Klinec, based on Malvasia, Ribolla Gialla, Jakot (i.e. Tokai Friulano), growing in marl/sandstone soil similar to that of the neighbouring zone in FVG. The wines are aged in cherry, acacia, mulberry, and oak.
From the Slovenian border with Friuli-Venezia-Giulia, near Gorizia, we had some excellent wines from Klinec, based on Malvasia, Ribolla Gialla, Jakot (i.e. Tokai Friulano), et al, growing in marl/sandstone soil similar to that of the neighbouring zone in FVG. The wines are aged in cherry, acacia, mulberry, and oak.
One of our favourites was the aged blend Medana Ortodox, aged since 2006.
Aleks Klinec with one of our favourites – the aged blend Medana Ortodox 2006.  He was here with his wonderful family, with whom he runs an agriturismo we’re going to try to stay at on our winter pilgrimage to NE Italy.

There were a number of other Italians that I didn’t manage to get pictures of – like Skerlj from the Carso in Friuli-Venezia-Giulia, and of course all the wonderful French winemakers.  We also missed, but are looking forward to see at RAW, some others: Cornelissen, Radikon, Lamoresca, Quarticello and so many more from other regions in Italy.

From Bearer Bonds to the Blockchain: Artistic Perspectives on Digital Money

Bitcoin and the blockchain have generated an enormous amount of press, as well as investment by governments, banks and technology companies. Ruth Catlow of Furtherfield  and Ben Vickers of Serpentine Galleries, with the generous support of the Austrian Cultural Forum London organised a fantastic workshop attended by artists, representatives of public and commercial arts organisations, and technologists. The agenda was to consider what the blockchain, a poorly-understood yet politically-charged technology that means many things to many people, might mean for art and artists, and society-at-large.


Although our audience had a specifically artistic interest, the discussion around blockchain intertwines economics, technology, and public policy, so I thought it might help to take a step back and start by thinking about money pre-bitcoin. Specifically, I wanted to un-entangle some of the philosophical and historical questions around money; not least because the nature of money itself, and long-standing assumptions in Western economies, are today being subverted by the ongoing after-shocks of the 2008 financial crisis, to wit: negative interest rates, the potential phasing out of cash, and financial repression.

Money as Social Construct

I see money as a social construct, or alternatively, a de-centralised social contract with few explicitly articulated constraints on the individual, but plenty of implicit conventions-in-use. The essence of this contract is that money gives its holder a claim on assets or labour. It generally implies at least two parties in any given transaction; as well as a belief system that most parties in the given society mostly agree upon. These ways we use money are diverse, but are closely related to metrics for the utility of the money in question: authentication, anonymity, portability, convenience, legal certainty and fungibility.

Some examples may help.


Cash appears to be the simplest form of money. U.S. Dollars represent a claim on the American Treasury via the Federal Reserve Banking system. Since dollars are no longer backed by gold reserves – in other words, if one goes to the Fed or Treasury with a briefcase of dollars, one is not generally entitled to an equivalent amount of gold coins in return – this claim on the U.S. is termed fiat money. That is, most people, domestically and globally, agree that the Fed, and therefore the Treasury, is good for its dollars, and that everyone else in the system will provide goods and services against dollars. Furthermore, most people agree that the Fed will run the U.S. economy in a reasonably responsible way – though this consensus is far from unanimous. When, and if, this confidence erodes substantially, one may see devaluation, or inflation, depending on how the relative price of dollars to foreign currency, or to domestic goods/services, respectively, have changed. A recent example on how belief systems regarding money can change: during the summer 2015 EU crisis when Greece looked likely to be ejected from the Eurozone, there was much serious talk on how a parallel currency could co-exist with the Euro (the so-called ‘New Drachma’).

Cash is more or less anonymous in use, often is free of record/receipt, and may be irreversible (i.e. no refunds). The central bank doesn’t generally keep a ledger of individuals or businesses that hold modest amounts of cash; they do keep a ledger for commercial banks, which have a special relationship with the central bank. The central bank also closely watches how much cash is in circulation on an aggregate basis (so-called M0 or base money) and monetary policy is the science, and art, of managing M0 (and its friends M1-M4), in order to meet various legislative or statutory goals: often, price stability and low unemployment. The anonymity of cash is one reason it is interesting for tax evaders and tax authorities alike. As an aside, for all the noise about offshore accounts in the Panama Papers, HMRC estimates £16.5BN of lost UK tax revenue actually comes from VAT evasion – i.e. paying one’s plumber in cash, an entirely British affair that has nothing to do with offshore centres.

The authenticity of cash is verifiable in a relatively de-centralised way, in a reasonably short period of time: an experienced eye can spot most counterfeit bills, and marker pens or UV lights can easily be used anywhere.  Cash is portable, yet is purely symbolic – for the most part, the social contract that underpins cash, isn’t spelled out in other than the most terse terms on a bill. Most of the enabling legislation, case law, and so forth, exists outside the cash note. These points will become important later in the blockchain section.

It’s worth noting that many of the features above, which fall under the rubric convenience, mean cash can also be stolen easily and thus is expensive to store, transport, and insure.

Precious Metal

I will intentionally not say much about gold and silver, as the history and cultural aspects, while fascinating, would hopelessly complicate the discussion. Indeed, most respectable commentators hold that gold is a ‘barbarous relic’ (as John Maynard Keynes’ put it in 1923) and should be consigned to the bejewelled dustbin of history. Suffice it to say: gold is anonymous, reasonably portable (relative to value), easily authenticated, requires no ledger, but like cash, is expensive to protect. As above, gold relies on an obscure social contract and judging by the price action, I’m not sure the consensus on gold’s value hasn’t changed. Gold also may suffer from the nasty habit of being declared illegal just about when it might prove useful, due to inflation or war – for instance see Executive Order 6102, signed in 1933, that criminalised private ownership of monetary gold during the Great Depression.

Bank Deposits

In contrast to the above, money sitting in a bank has no material form, until it is pulled out of an ATM. It sits in the bank’s ledger, and definitely belongs to someone – namely, the depositor. Thus it is not anonymous, and is, in the absence of fraud or error, authenticated. Nor is it portable, though one can transfer deposits to another bank.

Bank (time) deposits do, however, earn interest , while cash obviously doesn’t. More accurately, they used to earn interest – in what some will call financial repression, and others, unconventional monetary policy, retail deposits in most Western nations, and Japan, earn near-zero interest. In an increasing number of situations, certain deposits now earn negative interest rates – one pays the bank to place a deposit.

Bank deposits also exhibit double counting. In its first guise, double counting is more commonly known as fractional reserve banking. Basically, very little cash money actually exists in the banking system. A great deal of the ‘money’ in circulation is in the form of on-demand deposits at various commercial banks (so-called M1). But those deposits rarely become cash. Bluntly, when a mortgage bank disburses a loan to a home-buyer, it almost never pays out hundreds of thousands of pounds in cash; rather, there are a chain of debits and credits, respectively, of the buyer and seller deposit accounts, that result in the seller’s account going up by the price of the house. The bottom line, for the financial system as a whole, is that a tiny sliver of M0 cash supports a large volume of M1 deposits. A bank run is when all depositors want their cash out of the bank at the same time, and there isn’t enough to go around.

A more relevant example of double-counting is when a transaction actually happens, there is often a period of 1-3 days, when balances are in transition between the seller’s deposit account and that of the buyer. Again, there are a chain of transactions, often involving two or more banks (i.e. the seller’s and buyer’s), as well as the central bank, during which time deposits may well be double-counted in the accounts of multiple financial institutions. This is mostly fine, because the central bank, in theory, supervises the system, provides plenty of extra cash liquidity and, in any case, the double-counting doesn’t last for very long; however, when there is a financial crisis, this could become a problem. This double-counting problem applies to blockchain precisely because the latter is basically a simultaneous system – transactions are confirmed and settled almost instantaneously.  I would point the reader to Izabella Kaminska’s writings over at the Financial Times for more on this topic, and in general for excellent critical commentary on how various quasi-utopian aspirations of digital money square up to the sometimes brutal realities of the financial world.

Bonds and Shares

The last animals in this taxonomy are bonds and shares, of which I’ll only treat the former. Bonds combine many of the features above, namely they are a promise (i.e. debt) by a party (the issuer) to pay another party (the bondholder) in a certain currency (dollars, pounds, etc.) at a certain rate of interest (known as the coupon) on a certain date (the maturity date of the bond).

The first difference we note is that bonds have a maturity date – unlike on-demand deposits, the bondholder generally can’t get his/her money back whenever he/she wants. So they look more like time-deposits in a bank (which incidentally go into M2).

Bonds, interestingly, used to come in two flavours: bearer and registered. Registered bonds usually have no physical form: rather they are an entry on the ledger of a central record-keeping agency, a so-called custodian. There is usually a specific method of transferring them, through a so-called clearing system – basically this is the bond-world equivalent of the bank that kept track of who had what deposit, and provided a way of transferring money between deposit accounts. Bearer bonds are more interesting – they belong to whoever physically holds the bond document and therefore are anonymous. That owner can transfer the bond to another by simply giving the transferee the document. Bearer bonds used to have little pieces of paper attached to them, called coupons, that one tore off and took to the bank, where one could get cash in return for the coupon. So bearer bonds actually look a lot like cash. They are mostly extinct now, since they were often used for tax avoidance or evasion. Also, if one misplaced a bearer bond, the wealth that it represented (for them) was often lost, disappeared, gonzo…

Bonds as a class have a particular relevance for blockchain – the ‘system of beliefs’ that govern how they work are mostly contained within the bond document itself, in hundreds of pages of legal language specifying how the bonds are to be transferred, what happens if the bondholder defaults on their payments, which courts are allowed to resolve disputes between bondholders and issuers, and so forth. However, in order to enforce contractual terms or resolve a dispute, a bondholder needs to approach the issuer or chase down the custodian/trustee, and if that doesn’t work, sue everyone – all of which is a time-consuming and expensive process.

Bitcoin, the Blockchain, and Digital Money

After that lengthy preamble, we can perhaps see, in the proper perspective, what bitcoin and the blockchain might offer to various societal stakeholders. Firstly, terminology: bitcoin and the blockchain are easily conflated, but for the purposes of this essay, bitcoin is a ‘digital currency’, while blockchain refers to a complex of underlying technologies that support and enable bitcoin and other digital currencies. Blockchain-based platforms may be available to everyone (public) or only accessible by a specific group of users (private). Bitcoin has attracted a great deal of attention and notoriety, but I, mirroring the FF/ACFL conference, will concentrate on the blockchain, which also happens to be the focus of intense investment by technology firms, venture capitalists, banks, and regulators. Furthermore, I will wave my hands and abstract away exactly what the blockchain is. Suffice it to say that it replaces the central ledger or repository variously referred to above, with a distributed ledger which is held at various nodes in a network, in multiple, synchronised copies. Every time a transaction happens, this information about asset ownership is updated across the network (essentially) simultaneously. Most of the complexity arises in authenticating transactions and in working out the time order in which transactions have happened, to avoid double counting/spending, ensure anonymity, reward the various agents in the network for participating, etc.  An engaging lay explanation of bitcoin (blockchain is easier to grasp if one starts with bitcoin) is here.  A sophisticated, but not especially mathematical, explanation of the blockchain, which starts with bitcoin’s implementation of the blockchain, is here.  For those interested in the undressed guts, see the Nakamoto PDF below which references Hashcash and other bits of prior work in this area.  Lastly, I’d be remiss in not pointing to the blog of he whom some, depending on their cultural background, might deem the Pretender, the false Dimitry, or a mere Anti-Pope: self-outed as Satoshi Nakamoto.

Smart Contracts

One of the most exciting, from a commercial perspective anyway, things about the blockchain is the idea of a ‘smart contract’. As I touched on above, bonds have fixed contractual provisions but in order to enforce any of them, one needs go to court or to a custodian. What if there was a bond which would automatically do certain things, like pay its coupon, or shorten its maturity date, in such a way that the (small) bondholder didn’t need to go fight the (big) issuer in court? A real-world example arises with Everledger diamonds that have blockchain-derived serial numbers etched onto them, accompanied by smart contracts that describe their provenance. One of the important points to note about blockchain, posited early on by bitcoin’s (ex-)pseudonymous inventor Satoshi Nakamoto, is the idea of immutability – once a transaction is inserted into the distributed ledger, it is impossible, or unfeasibly hard, to reverse. This means, in a contractual, financial, and legal sense, the history and provenance of diamonds (say Angolan or stolen) cannot be re-written or laundered. Another of Nakamoto’s principal aspirations was that, in a manner analogous to authenticating cash, authentication and verification of blockchain-based transactions should be something that could be done easily by an agent, even if they weren’t technologists or didn’t have the resources of a network node (i.e. a farm of computers mining bitcoins).

Devolving Funding, Ownership, and Contract

Smart contracts may also allow groups of (not necessarily rich or especially knowledgeable) collectors to jointly buy stakes in an artwork that none of them could have afforded singly. A digital contract would accompany the artwork, and the collectors would be immutably bound to that artwork. Conversely, the artist too could be immutably bound to the work, so that, in 30 years, when it sold at auction for millions, the artist could get paid. This is in contrast to the current situation, where artists or early-stage collectors don’t always benefit from the eye-popping gains in the value of artwork they created or nurtured.

It is however, important to point out that the issue I highlight above is not essentially technological – it is a contractual problem. Nothing actually prevents groups of collectors buying shares in paintings, just as nothing prevents artists from selling artwork with a restrictive covenant that constrains further sales or attaches to such  sales (and plenty of artists have explored these ideas of contract-in-art). The practice isn’t widespread presumably because few collectors would buy an emerging artist’s work with such a proviso. Having blockchain technology doesn’t really change the picture, in my view. What blockchain does do is automates execution of the relevant provision, and in the event there is a breach or dispute, might lower the cost of enforcement. Because smart contracts don’t require lawyers or court enforcement, and are almost instantaneous to execute, they become useful for relatively small sums of money. The diamond example above can easily be ported to art: Ascribe and MONEGRAPH provide content management suites that use blockchain to manage rights to digital art assets.  The notion of lowering barriers-to-entry is one of the most prosaic, and therefore most adoptable, applications of blockchain.

A high-profile applications in the area of funding and rights management was by the musician Imogen Heap, who has established Mycelia, a music storage and rights-management system built upon the Ethereum platform. Mycelia hosts an artist’s tracks, automatically updating as and if new and improved recordings are added; the information is stored in the cloud, and as a track is played, a smart contract is triggered to automatically pay the artist. Mycelia would also store other digital assets, such as liner notes, videos, etc., and contain provisions to allow derivative use: content to be embedded into other media (such as videos, advertisements, etc.) would trigger automatic payment to the artist. In theory, this all happens in the music industry already, but I suppose the point is that middlemen or artists’ agents handle the process, often badly (from artists’ perspective) and take a significant slice of the economics. In Heap’s words, Mycelia’s promise is that it might make the contracts between music artists and whoever ultimately is paying for content, whether record labels, advertisers or the public, much more transparent, easier to understand, self-executing, and thus, cut out layers of middlemen, while ensuring artists received as much revenue as possible, as quickly as possible.


It appears that Heap’s ideological perspective is that audience, listeners, can and almost should be brought in as partners with the artists, and thus Mycelia allows for more direct links between the two. An analogue of this forms the curatorial practice of Helen Kaplinsky, who talked about how to share assets in the current British cultural climate, where the concept of ‘civic publicness’ is crumbling, throwing into crisis the Enlightenment-era model of the museum as a public good. She has been converting a cultural space from a single-landlord entity into one that is owned by a community land trust. In a related project, she wanted to think about how artworks, accessioned into institutions but not currently on display, may still remain in circulation (and visible) rather than just sitting in a warehouse. In her vision, viewers, artists, and institutions would share an artwork in a fundamentally different way than the previous institutional model, which was binary – either a work was on-display or in-storage. More generally, the project tries to address questions that are coming up now in the contemporary economy & in art, revolving around what to do with artwork that might not have a ‘permanent’ or ‘stable’ state, something that has become key in museum conservation departments globally. Blockchain-based platforms like Ascribe provide a way of keeping track of interactions (ownership, borrows, licensing, insurance, liability, etc.), and because of the relatively low legal/financial cost, perhaps enable large-scale sharing of an artwork or a collection. Again, incorporating blockchain seems to me an incremental, and possibly worthwhile, technological improvement to an existing real-world solution: at MIT, students are already able to borrow artwork for their residence rooms.

Geo-wallets: Monetising the Self

Another intriguing applications of the blockchain lies in the integration of money, via the digital wallet, with GPS technology. Max Dovey presented a project undertaken with University of Edinburgh’s researcher Chris Speed where geo-location technology was connected with a digital wallet, such that the account balances within the wallet would change depending on how the user/viewer moved through Edinburgh. Another project called Handfastr also meshed geo-location with digital money, allowing couples to form temporary fake ‘marriages’ and temporary pooled accounts based on proximity: as long as the couple were near each other, they would have a joint digital wallet, and when they moved apart (spatially) they would revert to individual wallets.

These projects exemplify how small collaborative groups, physically co-located, can self-organise, and pool their financial resources easily and with a minimum of legal and contractual overhead.

In my view the more interesting perspective is an ambiguity of the whole thing: by linking money so closely to other digital technologies (GPS today, and in the future, say, bio-medical data from an Apple Watch), the move towards monetising individual identities and bodies continues apace. At a basic level, one can imagine large corporations, and the state, having even more information and potentially, control, over people. Given the enthusiasm with which people have adopted cashless, non-anonymous, immutable-record and friction-free payment methods (tapping debit cards, Apple Pay, or Uber), I can imagine many people will happily opt-in to linking more and more elements of their identity into a variety of surveillable and monetisable, albeit ‘free’ and convenient, networks.

From Self-Executing to Self-Replicating

Most of the approaches above have looked at funding, ownership, and sharing implications of the blockchain. Another potential artistic trajectory could be investigating the underlying technology itself. For instance, Plantoid is a system implemented on the Ethereum blockchain, that takes the initial form of a sculpture; however, once a certain trigger, described in an Ethereum smart contract, is reached, the blockchain instructs human collaborators to make a new version of the sculpture (and an algorithm embedded in the smart contract provides the specific dimensions of the sculpture to the human producers). The auto-generative potential, even if it is, at the moment, human-assisted, is combined with an economic metric, as encoded in the smart contract. If one takes a dystopian view, the project, loosely paralleling certain concerns about hypothetical self-replicating AIs, perhaps shows a future where mechanical things make themselves over and over, with human beings as mere workers or artisans operating under the (benevolent?) guidance of the an automated, financialised network.

Questioning Some Shibboleths: Доверяй, но проверяй

In the FF/ACF discussion, the word ‘trust’ kept coming up.  All the while, I was reminded of U.S. President Reagan’s little joke phrase he’d trot out regularly at his meetings with General Secretary Gorbachev: “Trust, but verify”.

In Nakamoto’s original technical paper, in which he drew up the bitcoin idea, he quite explicitly describes it as a system not predicated on trust. Specifically, it doesn’t require participants to trust the keeper, whether governmental or corporate, of the central ledger, as was the case with bank deposits or bonds. In fact, the technology makes distinctly non-idealistic assumptions: rational actors, often intensely individualistic even quasi-autistic, who don’t know each other, thus have no reason to trust each other or any third party.  Hence the importance of ensuring that each transaction can be authenticated and verified independently and quickly.

Other words came up in our discussion: ’emancipatory’, ‘radical’, which appear to be sentiments that come in from the hype around bitcoin. A cursory Google search tells us bitcoin and other crypto-currencies would eliminate the need for governments, central banks, courts, international law. Many of these aspirations seemed to gloss over the point that bitcoin doesn’t operate in a vacuum, it needs telecom networks and lots of computers, and in most cases, it interacts with real world laws and regulations. These quasi-public goods represent a societal subsidy (or shackle), often by profit-maximising evil capitalists and neoliberal-infected governments. Moreover, even self-executing ‘smart contracts’, pace theory, are unlikely to do away with disputes or fraud. What about when the system makes a mistake or simply breaks? Just as in the real world, we keep a wary eye on cash wallets, in the digital world, there will presumably be a need for users to constantly monitor digital balances, as well as familiarise themselves with applicable Terms & Conditions (which most of us currently Ignore & Accept). When something bad happens, counter-parties may, in extremis, need to resort to boring physical-world things like courts, lawyers, and contracts. As an aside though, Vitalik Buterin, the main force behind Ethereum, has proposed a ‘decentralised court’ that would arbitrate disputes.

My view, and I think that of some in the FF/ACFL room, was that the blockchain technology isn’t inherently emancipatory, just as it isn’t inherently repressive. As Vinay Gupta pointed out, blockchain can be used to support pretty much any political outlook. In fact, the reason banks are interested in it is pretty tedious stuff: it might dramatically shorten the amount of time it takes to finalise transactions in bonds, stocks, and other financial instruments. It might also minimise the risk of double-counting money or assets during the payment settlement period, as mentioned above. Similarly, governments are interested in blockchain because it might reduce tax fraud, make for a safer financial system, better track eligibility for welfare support, and increase employment.

Steve Fletcher at Carroll/Fletcher Gallery noted the ecological cost associated with implementing blockchain – again, hardly something that fits comfortably in the radical story-line. The ecological cost arises from the electricity utilisation of thousands of computers that, collectively, form the network which underpins the distributed ledger. These computers are constantly running to process transactions, a process sometimes called ‘mining’ (analogy with mining gold), and this eats up lots of power.

At a poetic level, insofar as economics can be looked at poetically, this process, called ‘proof-of-work’ in the blockchain jargon, is a loose analogy to what I originally defined money as: a socialised claim on labour (or assets). Hence, it would almost be philosophically perverse to expect a form of money, digital or physical, that did not perform this almost-sacramental act of abstracting labour into monetary value.

From another perspective, and this lies beyond the scope of this post, I’m also not sure how scalable the various blockchain technologies are – if everyone in the world used blockchain for all transactions, does that imply a huge increase in mining processes (with consequent ecological cost), or can a very limited stream of proofs-of-work be used to support all transactions? While blockchain might reduce the need for trust (in government or big corporations), it does so tortuously and expensively; I can’t help sensing a vague analogy with American survivalists who flee the Federal government for a rural homestead, armed-to-the-teeth and stocked with tinned provisions, bleakly awaiting the End of Days.

In summary

The FF/ACFL programme was a great opportunity to bounce ideas around, without a tightly-framed artistic, commercial, or ideological agenda. What I’ve tried to do here is sketch out how one might think about money generally, using the metrics of authentication, anonymity, convenience, fungibility, and contract, and apply these metrics to the bitcoin/blockchain complex. What seems to emerge is a potential for blockchain to devolve mechanisms and processes for funding for artists, as well as allowing various players in the arts ecosystem – artists, collectors, viewers, curators, and others – to define how they want to interact, with the possibility that sharing and artwork almost merge, or at least become as two sides of the same coin. Both of these potentialities seem more evolutionary than revolutionary. Other approaches offer fertile ground for exploring bio-politics and auto-generative physical artworks. A constant I observed through the entire conference was the inherent ambiguity of the technology: in contrast to the original libertarian or revolutionary claims made for bitcoin, the evolution of the technology today seems to offer as many risks of a dystopian future as emancipatory opportunities.

U. Kanad Chakrabarti  is an artist and former banker based in New York and London.