I’m not sure if this wasn’t a much harder book to read than it needed to be. There was a lot of this that I simply didn’t understand, that I expected the author to explain to me. This might not be entirely her fault. I’m painfully ignorant of theology and the Kabbalah, for example. I know next to nothing at all about German Tragedy. So, I felt I really needed much more handholding than I think Susan felt would be appropriate this early in our relationship.
She begins in the preface: “This book is long, and its argument is intricate. It demands effort on the part of the reader. Yet I have tried to ensure that such effort is not compounded by intellectual jargon that speaks only to those already initiated into the world of academic cults (among which the Benjamin "cult" now plays a leading role). The book requires no specialized disciplinary knowledge. It presupposes no particular philosophical background.” I’m really not sure that is the case, I do think it assumed quite a lot of knowledge.
That said, this wouldn’t have been an easy book to write. It is a commentary on a book that doesn’t exist. It is, as such, the most post-modern of post-modern exercises. To try to explain. Benjamin was considered by his friends to be something of a genius. About twenty years before he died, he started collecting material for his master work. That work was intended to not only help people understand many things about the nature of capitalism, particularly the culture of capitalism, but it was also going to provide a kind of Copernican revolution in how history was written. This revolution was to be multi-sided. Benjamin didn’t particularly believe in progress – something that must have made his ‘Marxism’ a little strained. He decided he would present his history as a kind of montage – a series of images and snippets of text smashed together that, when contemplated by those who would read the book, would appear in much the way a photograph appears as it is being developed. I’ve read what I’d taken to be his notes for this project, but it seems the notes might have been pretty much what he had intended overall. Quotes from others arranged in themes with the cumulative effect of a coming to understand, rather than of being told. I understand virtually none of this.
And this is a pity, because otherwise, I think the whole idea of the Arcades Project is utterly fascinating. Let’s say you wanted to understand contemporary capitalism. It wouldn’t be completely insane to start by spending time on eBay – considering who buys, who sells, what is said in the descriptions of the products, what linked products you get to see given your search history, how the images are displayed and how the webpages are laid out, what ends up on top. You might also want to visit a shopping mall or two. But what are you likely to see while you do that? Well, there is the architecture of the place – both the virtual place in the case of eBay and the ‘bricks and mortar’ mall. And there will be similarities between the two that it will be hard to ignore. Fans of capitalism talk about how locally specific capitalism allows the economy to be, this is meant to be its greatest advantages and proof that it is mostly an ‘unplanned’ economy – but a visit to more than one shopping mall puts paid to that idea. They are nearly identical the world over. Brand store followed by brand store in near identical order.
It is not that you are sold products in such places, as much as dreams. Mannequins, perhaps without faces, perhaps without arms, wear see-through crotchless knickers in front of photographs of heavily photoshopped teenage women wearing underwear with only slightly more material while they stare at those passing and pout fervently.
All is abundance, in fact, abundance is all. There is so much of everything that it is hard not to feel bloated and nearly sickened from just looking. Even the bookshops burst out into the passageways with books on stands, books it is hard to imagine anyone will ever read. The women in the ads for bath towels look like high-class prostitutes, the sort of prostitutes you might expect to appear in novels spilling out into the aisle. The men in the suit stores are godlike. They look down on us mere men in all senses.
We are in the world of Marx’s ‘commodity fetishism’ from the first volume of Capital. For Marx, the thing to notice about commodities, that he built his theory upon, was that they enter into exchange relationships with each other. It is their exchange value that he was interested in, much more than their use value. He recognised that the ‘uses’ of commodities weren’t nearly as easy to define or to constrain as were their exchange values. But even with that said, he also realised that people don’t just purchase commodities for the exchange value embodied in them. Rather, like holy relics, the material composition of the commodities can seem almost completely irrelevant to people’s desire for the commodities themselves. When Marx uses the word ‘fetish’ he isn’t using it in the sense of wearing feathers on your nipples – rather he was speaking of its original meaning, an object that acquires religions significance over and above the material that it is composed of. A religions icon might be, literally, a lump of wood with some paint and lacquer, but to a religious person it might feel as if it is a kind of manifestation of god. The fetish (as an index pointing to something beyond materiality) hides the physical nature of the object. And so it is with commodities too. Commodities, to Marx, display the rich interplay of relations within society that brought them into existence – not least the relations of production involving the exploitation of workers by capitalists. But all this is hidden behind the fetish of the commodities, not least in how people use commodities to define their own identity. We rarely consider the children mining for rare metals in impoverished nations when we purchase our latest iPhone – the fetish hides the relations to production embodied in the product. But the tragedy of those relations persist, all the same.
Benjamin’s arcade project focuses on the first shopping malls – the Paris arcades – and he looks in depth at the meaning behind these. Not only at the materials that needed to be brought into existence before they could be made – iron and glass mainly – but also at the types of behaviours that came into existence with these passageways or how human behaviours that had always existed became modified within these dream palaces. One character who came into existence at around the same time was the flaneur. This is someone who spends their time wandering about the city watching people and, as the French would have it, window-licking. At one point in this book, she mentions that in the 1840s flaneurs would sometimes take their turtles for a walk down the arcades – that gives an indication of the pace of their existence. The point of these places was to sell goods – but they created worlds within worlds – and those worlds were worlds of fashion and worlds of abundance.
Fashion, of course, is an anxious business. What is at the peak of fashion and of good taste today is staid and gauche tomorrow. And changing fashion is the mainstay of capitalism – the need to constantly purchase is driven by changes in fashion. For the customer to learn of these changes, the early passages provided a glimpse into what is new. This change of fashion is repeatedly referenced by a play on Nietzsche’s eternal return of the same. Recently, I keep seeing newspaper articles on Princess Diana that imply she was not really the fashion icon that people made her out to be. The articles invariably do this by showing photos of some of the outfits she wore and pointing out how tasteless they were. It’s hard to imagine anyone could be fooled by this – the point of the latest fashion is to make the previous fashion look absurd – or why would you buy the latest?
But this return of the same is also a product something more than fashion. Our time is always one that fits within a system of differences where past-times speak to us. This isn’t solely a matter of us recreating the fashions of the past, but rather our judging our own time in relation to how we understand past times – the past becomes a ventriloquist with our own voice. The desire to recreate classical forms in modern cities isn’t just about fashion, it comments on both past and present.
There is a lot jammed into this book, perhaps too much. The story of Benjamin, however, is one of tragedy. In his attempted escape from the Nazis, he brought a manuscript with him that he told everyone was worth more than his life. No one really knows what the manuscript contained now, or where it ended up, but people speculate that it was something that might tie together the fragments of his arcade project. He died, the manuscript went missing – or perhaps it was destroyed. And like that one of the most significant books of the twentieth century was both never written and survives as tantalising fragments.