Which as You Know Means Violence: On Self-Injury as Art and Entertainment

by Philippa Snow

A blending of art and pop cultural criticism about people who injure themselves for our entertainment or enlightenment.

A few weeks before he died, Hunter S. Thompson left an answerphone message for Jackass' Johnny "I might be coming to Baton Rouge... and if I do I will call you, because I will be looking to have some fun, which as you know usually means violence." Fun does not, of course, mean violence for most people. Those who choose to make a hobby, a career or an art practice out of injury are wired differently — subject to unusual motivations, and quite often powered by an ardent death-drive.

In Which as You Know Means Violence , writer and art critic Philippa Snow analyses the subject of pain, injury and sadomasochism in performance, from the more rarefied context of contemporary art to the more lowbrow realm of pranksters, stuntmen and stuntwomen, and uncategorisable, danger-loving YouTube freaks.

In a world where violence — of the market, of climate change, of capitalism — is part of our everyday lives, Which as You Know Means Violence focuses on those who enact violence on themselves, for art or entertainment, and analyses the role that violence plays in twenty-first century culture.

Genres: Nonfiction, Art, Essays, Theory, Academia, Criticism, Film

120 pages, Paperback

First published September 13, 2022

Reviews

[Krista · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Johnny,” Thompson had reportedly informed him, “we were just sitting here talking about you, and then we started talking about my needs, and what I need is a 40,000-candlepower illumination grenade. Big, bright bastards, that’s what I need. See if you can get them for me. I might be coming to Baton Rouge to interview [imprisoned former Louisiana governor] Edwin Edwards, and if I do I will call you, because I will be looking to have some fun, which as you know usually means violence.”

I was so intrigued when I read that the title for Which as You Know Means Violence came from the above exchange between Hunter S. Thompson and Johnny Knoxville of Jackass fame that, despite not having a firm appreciation (or, really, understanding) of performance art as a whole, I was delighted to have been approved for an ARC and flew through this in a couple of hours. Writer and art critic Philippa Snow analyses the use of pain and self-harm in performance art — covering artists from Buster Keaton and Marina Abramović to Johnny Knoxville and modern YouTube stars — and her knowledge and enthusiasm went a long way towards growing my appreciation for the performance of violence as an artform. This was entirely satisfying as a general interest read, seems like it would be valuable for those with prior knowledge in the field, and I am enlarged for having read it. (Note: I read an ARC through NetGalley and passages quoted may not be in their final forms.)

Because common sense dictates that hurting oneself is an idiotic act rather than one that can be radical, meaningful or creatively fulfilling, and because the players themselves were quick to distance themselves from performance artists on the grounds that categorising oneself as such was unforgivably pretentious, I had only been vaguely aware of the show when it first began to air, seeing it as a stupid joke for boys. Later, with the benefit of an arts education, I found it harder and harder to tell the difference between what Johnny Knoxville et al. did and what, for instance, Chris Burden had done in 1971 when he enlisted an anonymous friend to shoot him in the arm as what he called a commentary on “a sort of American tradition of getting shot.” Wasn’t Jackass, in its way, a kind of commentary on the directionless, uninsured and broke American slacker’s own tradition of, metaphorically speaking, getting kicked extremely forcefully in the balls?

I must confess: I have never seen an episode of Jackass, thinking of it, as Snow initially did, as a “bro-ish showcase of self-injury beloved by male lunkheads”. As an initial set-up, it seemed like a hard sell for Snow to convince me that fratboy stunts involving the abuse of rectums and penises could be considered “art”. But Snow quotes critic Uncas Blythe as writing in 2015, “The Jackass Decade, which began with the national wound of 9/ 11 and ended a hair early with the fiery crash of Ryan Dunn on June 20th, 2011, was a shamanic displacement of war trauma onto what looked to the untrained rationalist eye like idiot clowns, but who in fact were voodoo medics for the whole of American culture.” If Knoxville can elicit that kind of response, and attract the attention of Hunter S. Thompson, he must be culturally significant; but is he an artist? That — through an exploration of the history of self-harm as performance art by self-declared artists — is the question that Snow sets out to answer, and she satisfied me that the answer to the question must be “yes”.

A bad idea, executed with full commitment, can be transmuted into a good or even great idea if it is suitably interesting, unexpected, dazzling, or entertaining. It can also be transmuted into art — an act of conceptual significance, meant to elucidate some facet of society or culture that is in itself a bad idea, whether that facet is war, sex, love, patriarchal violence, or a yen for self-destruction. Whether the practitioner believes his or her bad idea to be conceptually significant rather than simply an amusing, violent goof is one way for an audience to determine whether they are watching art or entertainment.

I was recently introduced to the performance artist Bob Flanagan (whose The Pain Journal was excerpted by Eileen Myles in Pathetic Literature) and I was moved by his use of self-harm and S&M eroticism to make commentary on living with chronic disease (I didn’t need to look up the film to be provoked by the image of him pounding a nail through his own penis while singing If I Had a Hammer). Snow devotes a good chunk of space to Flanagan’s work and its meaning, and ultimately, if one accepts his self-violence as art, one must also make that determination about Knoxville and the Jackass crew, too.

This is something the performance artist, the comedian, and the stuntman have in common: an ability to conjure, often using very little means other than courage and inventiveness, an immediate reaction from the viewer, whether that reaction happens to be laughter, relief, schadenfreude, horror, terror, psychic agony or spiritual ecstasy. It is shocking to consider how close Abramović came to being shot in Rhythm Zero, just as it is shocking to read about injuries sustained by famous men who trash themselves for entertainment. In both cases, we could broadly commend this as a commitment to the bit.

Ultimately, reading Which as You Know Means Violence is like attending an art lecture, and I leave the experience with greater knowledge and appreciation for the topic. What more could one ask?

[ra · Rating 5 out of 5]

Why? by Bob Flanagan

Because it feels good;
because it gives me an erection;
because it makes me come;
because I’m sick;
because there was so much sickness;
because I say fuck the sickness;
because I like the attention;
because I was alone alot;
because I was different;
because kids beat me up on the way to school;
because I was humiliated by nuns;
because of Christ and the crucifixion;
because of Porky Pig in bondage, force-fed by some sinister creep in a black cape;
because of stories of children hung by their wrists, burned on the stove, scalded in tubs;
because of Mutiny on the Bounty;
because of cowboys and Indians;
because of Houdini;
because of my cousin Cliff;
because of the forts we built and the things we did inside them;
because of my genes;
because of my parents;
because of doctors and nurses;
because they tied me to the crib so I wouldn’t hurt myself;
because I had time to think;
because I had time to hold my penis;
because I had awful stomach aches and holding my penis made it feel better;
because I’m a Catholic;
because I still love Lent, and I still love my penis, and in spite of it all I have no guilt;
because my parents said be what you want to be, and this is what I want to be;
because I’m nothing but a big baby and I want to stay that way, and I want a mommy forever, even a mean one, especially a mean one;
because of all the fairy tale witches and the wicked step mother, and the step sisters, and how sexy Cinderella was, smudged with soot, doomed to a life of servitude;
because of Hansel, locked in a witch’s cage until he was fat enough to eat;
because of “O” and how desperately I wanted to be her;
because of my dreams;
because of the games we played;
because I have an active imagination;
because my mother bought me tinker toys;
because hardware stores give me hard-ons;
because of hammers, nails, clothespins, wood, padlocks, pullies, eyebolts, thumbtacks, staple-guns, sewing needles, wooden spoons, fishing tackle, chains, metal rulers, rubber tubing, spatulas, rope, twine, C-clamps, S-hooks, razor blades, scissors, tweezers, knives, push pins, two-by-fours, ping-pong tables, alligator clips, duct tape, broom sticks, bar-b-que skewers, bungie cords, saw horses, soldering irons;
because of tool sheds;
because of garages;
because of basements;
because of dungeons;
because of The Pit and The Pendulum;
because of the Inquisition;
because of the rack;
because of the cross;
because of the Addams Family playroom;
because of Morticia Addams and her black dress with its octopus legs;
because of motherhood;
because of Amazons;
because of the Goddess;
because of the Moon;
because it’s in my nature;
because it’s against nature;
because it’s nasty;
because it’s fun;
because it flies in the face of all that’s normal, whatever that is;
because I’m not normal;
because I used to think that I was part of some vast experiment and that there was this implant in my penis that made me do these things and allowed them, whoever they were, to monitor my activities;
because I had to take my clothes off and lie inside this giant plastic bag so the doctors could collect my sweat;
because once upon a time I had such a high fever my parents had to strip me naked and wrap me in sheets to stop the convulsions;
because my parents loved me even more when I was suffering;
because I was born into a world of suffering;
because surrender is sweet;
because I’m attracted to it;
because I’m addicted to it;
because endorphins in the brain are like a natural kind of heroin;
because I learned to take my medicine;
because I was a big boy for taking it;
because I can take it like a man;
because, as someone once said, he’s got more balls than I do;
because it is an act of courage;
because it does take guts;
because I’m proud of it;
because I can’t climb mountains;
because I’m terrible at sports;
because no pain, no gain;
because spare the rod and spoil the child;

BECAUSE YOU ALWAYS HURT THE ONE YOU LOVE.

[Naomi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Philippa Snow is actually brilliant. No pretence, and no obfuscation. Just fascinating analysis that is actually enjoyable to read!

[Jason Pollard · Rating 5 out of 5]

Really wonderful analysis, and it cites a bunch of fascinating-sounding performance art that I appreciate on paper but will likely never have the stomach to actually watch.

Kinda wish I had read this while not dealing with a particularly sticky spell of depression, because this would have been great to read in 1-2 sittings instead of 1-2 weeks but, hey, what can you do?

"Because you always hurt the ones you love."

[Willi V · Rating 5 out of 5]

A unique perspective on possibly the most radical of endeavours possible in the realm of art and human experience.

Self-injury can be a liberatory act, a feminist subversion, and radical defiance. It has something breathtakingly (awe-)inspiring and empowering.

Well worth the short read.

[Io Kovach · Rating 4 out of 5]

first of all i have a word for this phenomenon which im trying to spread so let me proselytize: this is an example of one branch of extremophilia--a human tendency to seek out extreme sensation or feeling (applies to emotions too, I thought the thread in this book linking obsessive love to pain seeking behavior was interesting) since it drowns out the sense of self and we tend to find that pleasurable/enlivening.

this book touches on that and then goes more into why people end up becoming such masochists, how those reasons differ due to their genders, and then how the response of the world to their pain publicized differs as a result of gender and sexuality of the practitioner.

I would say the conclusions of the book can be reached by anyone who thinks about pain and gender for more than 5 minutes. but of course she says it in a way that's articulate and clear and made interesting by the wealth of anecdotes and examples from the art world. the latter is the strength of this book: it has a tremendous number of references to interesting art and media on the topic of pain and death. I have a delightful list of things to watch or read now.

also seeing someone go so hard in what starts as an analysis of jackass is hilarious.

[J Earl · Rating 4 out of 5]

Which as You Know Means Violence, from Philippa Snow, is at once an interesting assessment while also being a bit frustrating.

As far as the argument about self-harm, real, staged, and even fictional, is concerned there is not a lot new here. But it is presented as a more coherent whole than in many other publications. This helps the reader to make a better evaluation of the premise(s) and more important decide where they believe the line is between art and, well, whatever you want to call the other side of the line. As far as the basic argument, I don't think there is really that much debate about the validity but about the degree.

The line is where Snow and I disagree. Some of what she values as not only art but "good" artistic expression I don't. It isn't so much that I dismiss something like Jackass, but I find some of the sociological assessments of the phenomenon and the psychological assessments of the individuals more accurate. That, however, is simply difference of opinion. With the exception of her worship of Knoxville, the book is an interesting read.

The biggest issue I had was probably where she tended to stretch reality to try to make an argument where there either isn't one or where she has to fake an opening in order to make it. Such as, based on her own quote from someone, went on to claim they were saying one thing when it sure sounds like they were not referring to the artist but to viewers such as himself. Not a scientific survey, but of 7 people I shared the section with and asked what they thought the quote meant, none were even close to the strawman Snow set up. Weak is being polite. No these were not all linguists (only one) or artists (again only one), also literature professors and a nurse. In other words, people who simply saw a quote and told me how they understood it.

Weak attempts at creating strawmen in order to make a pet argument aside, the book is interesting since a lot of what is presented is other people's thoughts put together in, usually, a reasonable manner. I would recommend this to readers who are interested in the intersection of performance art and self-harm, and particularly those who are interested in what it says about people in general and society as a whole.

Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via NetGalley.

[Trisha Renae · Rating 4 out of 5]

I found this book compelling to read but, at the end, I had the feeling that either I missed the point or a point was never made. Perhaps that was the intention. It’s not bad, just not what I was expecting.

I, also, was not expecting it to have such a seemingly positive take on self-harm in art. Others might read it as neutral but I felt it was leaning towards positive despite portraying the self-harming artists as fallible and possibly mentally il. The latter which I think likely true for most of them.

There were parts of the book at the beginning that were hard to read due to sentence structure. Either I got used to Snow’s style of writing or it became easier to parse as the book went on.

I was hoping to share this book with a high school senior who is interested in these artists but I think it is not appropriate, unfortunately. It would be great at a college level.

[Allie Rowbottom · Rating 5 out of 5]

A brilliant, bracing and often funny debut, Phillipa Snow's WHICH AS YOU KNOW MEANS VIOLENCE casts a compassionate but rigorous critical lens on self harm as art and art as accident. The smartest book I've read all year, and one I will return to for years to come.

[Veronica Ciastko · Rating 5 out of 5]

Incredible!!

[Marcus Nelson · Rating 3 out of 5]

Felt like a competent sequel to Maggie Nelson’s “The Art of Cruelty”, even if at times it felt as though she was re hashing familiar territory. There were some very interesting moments in there however, most notably the Jackass analysis and closing chapter discussing Bob Flanagan.

[Wan Feng An · Rating 4 out of 5]

A short read on slapstick, extreme performance art, dangerous stunts and the people who perform them. Explores a whole range of performances ranging from the suicidal to the masochistic, just a fascinating peek into the limit experiences where pain and pleasure intertwine and where boundaries are pulled apart and blurred in stunning fashion.

[apryl · Rating 5 out of 5]

just a very perfect venn diagram of so many of my interests.

[Robbie · Rating 4 out of 5]

“In order to attack the enemy you have to beat the shit out of yourself: to get rid in yourself of that which attaches you to the conditions of society.”

‘Which As You Know Means Violence’ came to my attention last year as I am familiar with some of Philippa’s work for Art Review, and then of greater interest following Aaron Bushnell’s self-immolation earlier this year, where discourse surrounding self-sacrificial protest started to appear online. While the topic of self-immolation doesn’t come up in the book, Philippa explores the underworld of sadomasochistic art, using a rag-tag team comprising of big name contemporary artists like Johnny Knoxville, Marina Abramović and Harmony Korine to look at the history of pain as art, as well as the themes of gender and mortality.

Philippa is extremely funny and the whole book is entertaining and informative from front to back. Her vision is without pretension and my favourite thing about the book is how willing she is to compare high-art to low-brow entertainment/“content” and find the common ground in a broad, but focused, range of source material (e.g. the banner example being Jackass in comparison with Chris Burden’s experiments, but unashamedly bringing Paige Ginn and Logan Paul into the mix did send me.) As well as this, the balance of humour and sensitivity with which she approaches different livelihoods showcases a compassionate, deeper understanding of the subject, and for the late artists mentioned, Philippa very much celebrates their life and work rather than disrespectfully focusing too much on what demons an artist might have had. I was also impressed with how the topic of masculinity and eroticism were handled throughout the book in a way I haven’t seen before.

My only gripe is that each chapter doesn’t really end on a conclusion, which can feel like ditching an aspect of the subject matter to jump to the next one. Although I appreciate that the subject matter is vast, it does feel anticlimactic when throughout the chapters Philippa does an exceptional job of controlling the flow of the narrative.

Other than that, loved this. And to anyone reading this I highly recommend sourcing out any performances mentioned in the book (I watched a Jackass compilation, The Artist Is Present, Shoot, Four scenes in a harsh life, didn’t want Logan Paul.)

[Olivia · Rating 5 out of 5]

"I'm not about death and I didn't want to die, but I wanted to come close, okay?"

NetGalley provided me with an eARC very kindly! I requested this book because the title immediately hit home for me and I had never really explored the world of performance art before. Self injurious art? It sounds so bizarre. And it is!
Philippa Snow writes beautifully and intelligently. Nothing in this book feels hard to grasp, the concepts presented are thought provoking and really made me think. Even when I wasn't reading the book, I was pondering it all day.
I loved this so much. Definitely recommend.

[Heidi · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is an interesting topic but I found this book lacked some of the analysis I wanted. Although, I'm now very keen to read the autobiography of characters like Johnny Knoxville and Buster Keaton.

[Goldfinch Bolton · Rating 4 out of 5]

I've mostly read this to help inform some of my own practice in regards to performance art in which the artist's body is harmed.

The only real complaint I have is that I want it to be considerably longer! Snow raises many questions about the effects of gender upon both our interpretation of self harm in performance art as well as the drive to commit to self harm and how it intersects with different aspects of queer identities and disease, as well as mental health. Ultimately I didn't come away with any particular conclusion about these things however. There are many things that are brought up or mentioned (such as the laundry list of typical influences for self harm in performance art) which are mostly tangentially touched upon but never feel particularly fleshed out, the implications of gender performance upon the self harm within a piece, as well as the desexing that viewers project on the body in pain as the more literally vital details become more on display.

Particularly as a non-binary artist working within the space there's much that still remains in the air, but maybe therein lies the issue: performance art is still a relatively new medium and the acceptance of trans and other genderqueer people is still on the forefront in western culture, so perhaps little has been written because it has yet to be seen/no artist has become well known enough to attract analysis.

Hopefully someone will follow up on this with more written soon. It serves as a good jumping off point in the meantime.

[Arcadia · Rating 5 out of 5]

Cannot express how much I enjoyed reading this. Apologies to all the friends that have met up with me over these weeks and have had to listen to my gushing stream of praise for this book, its ideas and all the artists mentioned within its covers.

In some ways I was the perfect reader; an avid follower of Hunter S Thompson in my youth and a new-found convert of the teenager-y cult of Jackass, when Snow introduces these two characters and unveils their mutual appreciation for the other within the first couple of pages, I had to read little more to be completely engrossed.

Snow takes us down the rabbit hole, Jackass is followed by Chris Burden, who is followed by Roy Athey, then Marina Abramović, Buster Keaton, Harmony Korine, Bob Flanagan and even a quick pit stop at the Logan Paul gas station. Every observation and every silken thread she ties between artists is revelatory - her questions are: why do people resort to violence to create art? what about violence is or can be considered art? why do people put their lives at risk (very literally) to create art? Inside the pages are answers, manifestos, even more questions and so, so many funny videos. Humour and pain go hand in hand.

[W.S. Luk · Rating 3 out of 5]

What connects Marina Abramović walking the Great Wall of China and Johnny Knoxville being kicked in the nuts (amongst other tender regions) for the sake of entertainment? Snow's short but illuminating book deals with artists who explore the limits of the human body, from online daredevils to endurance-based performance art. Why are we so fascinated by these artists' ability to endure (or be destroyed by) violence? What do these incidents reveal about the gender roles at play? WHICH AS YOU KNOW MEANS VIOLENCE dissects arts high and low, writing in an energetic and amusing style about our cultural fascination with risk and self-injury.

That said, one area I would've liked Snow to tackle in greater depth is the distinction between what we might broadly call as "artistically legitimate" forms of self-injury (an Abramović performance, or even a high-risk televised stunt) versus, say, a person engaging in self-harm due to mental health issues. While her book briefly addresses dangerous and occasionally lethal imitations of stunts, Snow's analysis could've been given more depth by considering how we might demarcate between these categories, especially when the artists involved are often determined to render them impossibly blurred.

[Katiely · Rating 3 out of 5]

DNF, got very bored very quickly. Don’t read this book expecting it to be argumentative or informative on a general sense. From my understanding of the little I read, the book chooses about 3 instances or figures who have been a victim of violence with the purpose to entertain, and spends at least one chapter analyzing one specific figure. From the title and the small amount of introductory on the book that I could find, the impression it gave was to be argumentative, which I was very excited to read, only to be disappointed. Only gave 3 stars to give it a fair chance, since the topic just wasn’t my cup of tea.

[Amber Brown · Rating 5 out of 5]

I've not read any art critique in quite a long time, and this was a great, fascinating reintroduction covering both the performance artists of art school education and popular shock entertainment in a new light. Though explorative and in depth, it reads in an easy, chatty manner that feels both accessible and digestible. Will definitely be going back to rewatch some of the shows and explore some of the performances mentioned having read this.

[Alexis Jasper Forer · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book had me in the grips of a god and will haunt me. Incredibly paced and spaced and structured and written. Every single work had a purpose and met it beautifully. Each work of art and point and story and artist flowed fluidly and elegantly from one to the next and back around, tying together a diverse range of contemporary art and self injury.

[Rome · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Because you always hurt the one you love.”

stunning work. Philippa Snow's earnest interest and genuine love for art, whether it be typically highbrow like Abramović or lowbrow like Jackass (or vice versa, whatever), makes this so riveting. such an easy read, not because the material is easy or light, but because Snow is a talented and seasoned writer. big fan!!

[Luke · Rating 5 out of 5]

An extremely nuanced and thoughtful look at violence-as-performance.

Snow has a great voice as an author; a great command of language while remaining completely free of bullshit. Sharply observant and uncompromisingly eloquent and intelligent.

[Siri Hsu]

Not what I expected. It focuses on the life and interviews of several artists/filmmakers rather than giving a convincing analysis of what it claims to explore, the liberating power of self-harming performance art.

[Genevieve Wood · Rating 4 out of 5]

loved this .... now, when asked why i love jackass so much, i can explain that it's a homoerotic + expressionist piece of cultural terrorism ... thank you philippa snow!

+ thanks to jason for the recommendation :-)

[Chloe A-L · Rating 5 out of 5]

despite desperately needing some included photographs or even some archive or photographs and video, as well as a bibliography, this manages to be a five star meditation on art, bodies, self harm, and performance.

[Maria]

So effing dope. She should’ve mentioned stigmatists but yeah

[Kerry · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a great little book. Snow strikes a perfect balance between criticism and conversation. Felt a little like chatting with a friend that just happens to be infinitely smarter than me and genuinely eager to tell me about their latest obsession. That it just happens to be the intercession of transgressive violence and performance art was a definite hook for me, but this book could just as easily be an entry point for someone who’s only getting started down an outsider art rabbit hole or, hell, even just a fan of Jackass who wonders about the drive to maim oneself in public. I’d have happily hung out with Snow for double the page count.

[Richard Kemp · Rating 5 out of 5]

In this brilliant essay collection, Philippa Snow argues that Jackass is a disengaged response to the trauma of 9/11 and also a challenge to the norms of masculinity. Very very good.