It is all problematic. There is no outside. Everything is written. There are only these tools. You cannot escape. There is no origin and no end, if these are understood as places where meaning resides. The shapes of your desire are not only politics but there is politics in there. What beauty is to you is part of the social and political construction you call “you.”
Maybe the destruction of the sublime is more interesting then the coherence of beauty?
Any identifiable identity is just another category for marketing. It doesn’t matter as long as you buy. And any individual escape from the system is just going to reinforce the basic narcissistic individualism the fuels it.
[…] difference in the postmodern world isn’t there to be overcome; it’s there to be intensified, put to use, capitalized. The logic of intensification is the (non)site where the logic of the individual subject sutures itself to the logic of globalization. – Jeffrey Nealon
Robert Anton Wilson talked about the notion of the “useful idiot,” and how to avoid it. It gets harder every day. Everything can be labeled and used. Contraband and sabotage are options, but difficult ones. I find that I mostly just try to stay alive. And that might be the point. Are romantic visions of making-a-difference part of the problem?
You do not name beauty after the fact. Your conceptual apparatus (culture, language, etc.) makes a gap where your aesthetic pleasure can take place. You can only feel that for which you have a concept. When confronting something unintelligible you are given the opportunity to increase the possibilities of what being “you” means.
I gave an introductory lecture on modern/contemporary art for a group of administrators at a public university some years ago. At least one of them understood at that moment very well what art means. He felt in his body how the tools he used on others where suddenly alien to him. The experience of other possibilities where nauseating, his head was spinning, all absolute categories where put into motion. He was seen throwing up behind the auditorium.
— J Lundberg