In recent years, Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Žižek has been actively exploring the concept of the future and its current state. His approach is realistically pessimistic: humanity is rapidly heading towards various global catastrophes, whether ecological, nuclear or any other. Many sociologists argue that we are living in an era when optimistic scenarios of the future have been run out, and we are left with a bunch of predictions, quite in line with the best of the best horror movie collections.

The DOM art residency decided to make future scenarios the theme of the next residency in October 2024 and ask artists to consider what options for the future they see. On the eve of the residency, curator Anna Zhurba talked to the residency's advisor Viktor Misiano about what contemporary artists think about the future and whether they think about it at all.

Viktor Misiano

May 23, 2024

Anna Zhurba

Curator

Anna:
Victor, I was thinking of starting this conversation with a current situation review compared to recent art history. The question I'm pondering is: is there a shift in paradigm from interest in the past, in archaeology, in the archive, to interest in the future? Contemplating this, I thought that interest in the future might be a phenomenon that only emerged in art in the 20th century, whereas before that, it was rather about the past or present. Do you think there is this shift in direction, alternating interest between the past and the future? Or is the direction of time not that important for contemporary art?

Viktor:
When you mention the idea of such a shift in interest from the past to the future, I don't immediately recall self-evident examples. But it is crucial to define what we mean by "future" and what aspects of it we are discussing. Among the recent trends, there's been a noticeable surge of interest in technology, such as Artificial Intelligence (AI), neural networks, and so on. By the way, it's not by chance that I partly unconsciously framed this as "another surge" because the 1990s were marked by a wave of interest in the Internet and networks, which also took art out of its museum, retrospective mode. These contemporary, modern-day technological projects are radically distinct from archival, historical projects, reconstructions, and reenactments that defined artistic exploration until recently. If we delve into the ideology and worldview behind discussions about neural networks and artificial intelligence, we see that it is about the new opportunities these technologies offer.

Things are progressing faster, and we're able to perceive, objectify, and understand things we couldn't before. From this perspective, some futuristic outlook directed towards a particular perspective does indeed emerge. However, these new possibilities and new experiences unfold in the world we currently live in. It is not about some new life, society, social relations, or a novel human being. It encompasses enrichment, uncovering new possibilities within what already is at our disposal. From this perspective, if we regard the future as a perspective of another world, another reality, then we can assert that in modern-day culture, in contemporary art, it resides more in retrospective projects than in neo-futurological ones. If we review the projects created by artists such as Deimantas Narkevičius, who have addressed the Soviet past - the past utopian project, we will see that they turned to this era exactly because it had a future. What interests them about the past is precisely the utopian charge that existed then. And therefore, indeed, the only future we have is our past.

Anna:
It sounds incredibly sad to me. I realize that when I say "future," I refer to an alternative to the present. Graeber highlights that we accept inequality as inevitable when it is a flaw in our perception, and we should aspire to reshape it differently. And when you mention that the project of a future we have at hand is rooted in the past, I wonder: is this a barrier that art and humanities must collectively overcome? Or is this barrier itself a utopian notion, implying we are trapped in an unchanging present devoid of alternatives?
I'm actively exploring and gathering information on various projects that propose alternatives. For example, there are Tomás Saraceno’s Universes, which suggests thinking about life beyond Earth (essentially, a sad perspective, but one we strive to turn into reality), or some more political projects, like International Migrant Movement by Tania Bruguera, and other projects about the society of the future - like New World Summit by Jonas Staal, for instance. Today, amid this profound crisis, there is a particular desire to find alternatives in art for a future distinct from the unchanging present. Does this mean you hold a rather pessimistic view regarding our progress in this direction?

Viktor:
I am simply observing the current situation that Mark Fisher's famous saying captures: "It is easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism." You brought up Jonas Staal and his concept of assembly, but this idea dates back to the 1990s. The spirit of utopianism, the efforts to break free from the ever-ongoing present, and the aspiring for a different world were all characteristics of that decade. It was a time of globalization, the rise of networks, and the nation-state crisis. These dynamics opened up new social possibilities and inspired a variety of compelling ideas. For instance, there is the monumental trilogy by Antonio Negri and Michael Hardt, as well as the critique of a perpetual present by Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe. They argued that a society lacking a unifying utopian vision becomes fragmented and weak. This is precisely what is happening now: society is experiencing fragmentation, breaking down into subcultures. Even within the critical sphere, we see fragmentation into subcultures, sects, and associations.
Unlike the late 1990s and early 2000s, today, we do not see powerful and broad societal movements aimed at renewal. There was a surge at the end of the 2000s and the beginning of the 2010s, like the Occupy movement in all its various forms. While its societal impact was somewhat localized, its presence was vivid - it made headlines in the media and genuinely influenced the general atmosphere. Currently, we don't see anything similar. Instead, we observe a drift toward the right in societal development, towards right-wing politics. It appears that this is what we can expect in the near future. We witness powerlessness and even some absurdity, the frivolity of possible criticism. But we don't observe any deconstruction, or to put it better, opposition, the creation of some unified, powerful alternative to this. I am not referring to art but to the broader cultural context.
On the other hand, the projects that emerged in the 1990s - the idea of assembly and non-representative democracy - once held promise as potential new societal models, but they ultimately fell short. I encounter numerous art critics, curators, and artists from the new generation, and I am filled with mixed emotions as I absorb their ideas because they are very reminiscent of the concepts we were enthusiastic about in the late 1990s and early 2010s. For example, the idea of assembly is nothing but a reissue of what was popular in those years. I do not see any substantial enrichment here with new strategies or at least new tactics. I have received some rather strange compliments regarding my projects from the 1990s related to the idea of community, the collective work of artists and curators, and creating non-institutional communities. Young colleagues say, "Victor, this is a project ahead of time." But I believe these projects were entirely adequate for their time, and in many ways, they have remained in that time. If in my previous response I stated that the only future we had is our past, now I say that the only future I notice among the new generation of artists, critics, and curators is the unfulfilled hopes of the relatively recent past.
You mentioned Jonas Staal, and I recalled Ergin Çavuşoğlu, known for his insightful and predominantly retrospective artworks meditating on the past. During Manifesta
in Spain's Cartagena and Murcia, he produced a video documenting an assembly of artists.
I mean, the project that Curator Bassam El Baroni from Alexandria initiated to assemble all future exhibition participants. Ergin was tasked to document it for later installation creation. Watching the resulting installation with the most politically active curator of that day, Charles Esche, we noticed a striking, conscientious or not, aspect: the vivid video installation, portraying participants' communication on multiple monitors, seemed more like a performance. Whether due to Ergin's cinematic style reminiscent of Hollywood films or the nature of the documentary material, it was evident that participants were sitting in certain poses and were equally, if not more, interested in how they looked rather than what was happening. This video work provocatively revealed the ambiguity of the social and political ideal, prompting questions about to what extent a protest position, a critical position, or a conversation about alternatives has any societal and discursive foundations today. Is there a predisposition in modern society towards another social perspective, a different world?

Your invitation to discuss this topic has prompted me to reflect, however, I have yet to arrive at any specific conclusions. Yet, I have come to realize that it's a profoundly intriguing question, a fascinating problem: what societal and cultural conditions, starting from the utopians in the second half of the 19th century, continuing with Marx, and then into the 20th century, make it possible to dream of something different? Where does this charge of utopianism come from? And what undermines it? What prevents us today from fully and sincerely engaging in an equal dialogue among free citizens to shape and articulate a different societal ideal without assuming forced poses? And why is critical thought today only capable of deconstructing, sometimes obsessively scrutinizing vulnerabilities in everything, but not offering any alternatives, not proposing solutions to the problem?
For instance, Western critical thought can denounce the Israeli operation in Gaza, label Israel as a fascist state, and provide numerous arguments for it. Still, it does not offer any solution to the problem, traumatic for both sides of the conflict. I'm not saying that such a solution necessarily exists. Perhaps it's an unsolvable situation, but I do not see even the process of seeking some structured, rational, realistic solution to these and many other crises. In other words, criticism of the policies of this side and that, in one area and another, of government and right-wing alternatives exists, but I don't see any new, fresh, different alternatives. Therefore, when speaking about art and how art reacts to this state of affairs, I am most drawn to those works and artists who recognize themselves in what Walter Benjamin called "left melancholy." It seems that the most productive, justified, or at least self-recognizing position in today's context is more of a resignation to the impossibility of anything else, a resignation to the impossibility of a different future. 8 in Spain's Cartagena and Murcia, he produced a video documenting an assembly of artists.
melancholy." It seems that the most productive, justified, or at least self-recognizing position in today's context is more of a resignation to the impossibility of anything else, a resignation to the impossibility of a different future.

Anna:
I want to offer a brief comment in defense of the younger colleagues you mentioned - perhaps my generation, or even younger, employs practices akin to those you utilized in the early 1990s. You mentioned that these practices are drifting into subcultures, but I can't help feeling that today, we're not dealing with subcultures but rather a genuinely marginalized sphere. I'm deeply troubled by why there is a lack of alternative solutions to the crises you mentioned earlier. Listening to you pose the same question, I wondered if it's because the discussion around alternatives exists within a fork where both options are unappealing.
On the one hand, there's an intellectual project that is inherently unpopular due to its complexity, and on the other, there's activism that is focused on immediate, direct action and involvement, but this proactive stance seems too radical for many. I don't see any middle ground - accessible yet not excessively radical - offered. The question of alternatives weighs heavily on me: why do they never come close to being actualized?
When it comes to projects like anarchist or alter-globalist ones, that is, radically different from the current reality, they often seem to exist in a format similar to a fairy tale. They are passed down from one generation of students and professors to the next. Sometimes, it feels like there's no real intention to bring them to life. They remain idealized, untouched, and unimplemented, like a pristine crystal vase that would lose its beauty if handled and, therefore, remains such a sacred grail. And this raises a question you have already voiced, and I constantly come back to it in my reflections. If we don't have some fresh project of the future now, but there is "left melancholy," some failed or unrealized projects from the past that can get a new life, then the question arises if we should consider working with the past as a strategy for paving the way to the future. I need clarification on your comments: do you see these past projects as merely accumulating experience, or could they offer us alternatives for the future?

Viktor:
Our thoughts and imagination constantly evolve based on some material, fuel in their furnace – the experience of analogs and precedents, including those that were not entirely successful. It's important to address something we haven't discussed yet, but mentioning it is crucial. After all, the problem is primarily connected with the fact that the recent post-communist decades have been broadly defined by the crisis of the left communist Marxist project, which in the 20th century had tremendous constructive power. It greatly influenced both the second world and first world, as well as the third world. A member of the Raqs Media Collective once shared a story about their uncle who, upon witnessing footage on TV of the Red Square with the lowering of the red flag and the raising of the Russian tricolor, shut off his consciousness and succumbed to Alzheimer's—such a voluntary desire to disconnect from consciousness while this was happening all the way in distant India.
Indeed, that project wielded significant influence. One way or another, it perhaps served as a central axis around which political imagination revolved, envisioning alternative worlds, relationships, and ways of life. However, in recent decades, we've been living in the aftermath of this project's failure. Today, it appears to me that countries from the former communist bloc are leading efforts to discredit this past, embracing a stance relieved that the old world has passed, and despite the imperfections of today's world, it is remarkable and acceptable at least in that it is not the same world, that it came to replace what was
a priori worse. This sentiment isn't confined to those who directly experienced that era; even younger generations, raised on stories from families, echo this sentiment. What's been discredited most is the very notion of alternative possibilities. It is often dismissed with phrases like, «So, Are you suggesting other political models? Haven't we learned enough from the tragedies of the 20th century, including the Gulag and so on?»

Yes, you are absolutely right. In whatever strange, perverse, or perhaps paradoxical forms today's discussions about the future take place, they may be discussions about new technological advancements, some technocratic utopias, it may be nostalgia or left-wing melancholy for those brilliant projects proposed in the 19th century, the beginning of the 20th century, from Marx to Gramsci; the fact that these projects continue to live on in historical memory, that some are working with them, that people are thinking about them, that the historical avant-garde, which was also part of this massive utopian turn towards culture, that people are trying to find some resources in it - I think that's very important. We might consider that the current political crisis, which seems likely to worsen soon, is the price we must pay for refusing to succumb to the voluntary coercion of conformism, manifested in the negative assessment of past utopian projects, invariably leading to the Gulag, to Nazism, to repression. Perhaps this is the price we must pay to see in that perspective some other resources, other possibilities, another substrate that public opinion currently does not want or cannot recognize.

Anna:
Expanding on your earlier point, I would like to point out that despite the diverse stances on identity politics today, its logic has become deeply ingrained in our collective consciousness. It’s possible that the post-identity politics era may not be as expansive and comprehensive as the previous conceptions preceding it. You mentioned conflicts such as those between Palestine and Israel and in Ukraine. But even beyond the most intense military clashes, the discourse landscape seems marked by division rather than unity.
Consider feminism, for instance: the challenges faced by white women differ from those of women of color, and those of women from prosperous backgrounds differ from those of working-class women. This fact suggests that the potential for unity inherent in assembly principles and similar practices of the 1990s is undercut by identity politics. We can only truly empathize with someone roughly of our age, background, education, etc. This trend certainly disarrays the prospects for any broad-based unity, as once envisioned, for instance, by the communist project.
The question arises: could it be that an alternative future is only possible now through escapist means? While man is not an island, is it possible that some alternative future can only exist as a metaphorical island? It may not be the most optimistic scenario, but it seems more realistic. For instance, projects like the Bishan Project by Chinese artist Ou Ning in a remote Chinese village or the Land project by Rirkrit Tiravanija in Thailand, where he established a commune for artists, share similar concepts. It appears that seeking escape and living in separate communities might be the only path to developing an alternative.
But then comes the question: does this approach amount to defeatism? Because once these communities, communes, or islands encounter the "mainland," they risk being absorbed. Someone great, probably Martin Luther King, once said that until all are free, none are truly free. I wonder if we should maintain this ambition today in terms of transforming the world around us or if, instead, we should focus on introspection and building our small communities.

Viktor:
I'm not a political thinker, scientist, or publicist following political events closely. I can only speak as an individual living in the modern world. Speaking about the current state of the world, as you rightly noted – how identity politics erode society's integrity, which has even led to the idolization of particular entities – confirms, in my view, the diagnosis of Chantal Mouffe and Ernesto Laclau that we discussed earlier: the absence of any grand, unifying force, providing a broad and distant perspective, indeed leads to the disintegration of the social body. It is what we are witnessing now. And I want to say (this is my perception, observation, not an authoritative political diagnosis, to be frank) that in light of this situation, traditional representative democracy, despite facing a significant crisis, ultimately remains the backbone that fosters a sense of solidarity within society, or at least among large groups.
The system of representative democracy, where parties or party alliances are required to enter parliament, form governments, and pursue their agendas, the very system that has faced criticism from political activists since the late 1980s to the early 1990s and continues to do so, still stands as the primary guarantor of freedom of expression and the adherence to legal norms in the modern world. Of course, I’m not referring to authoritarian countries where these processes have been reduced to mere rituals but to places where the system still functions to some extent. I'm not ruling out the possibility that discussions about change, the resources needed for change, and steps toward its implementation might occur within the existing system. If there's ever a rejection of representative democracy, it should ideally adhere to legal norms and a system of consolidated public decisions unless it leads to total revolution and societal chaos from which something new emerges. However, we seem to be continuously sidestepping the conversation about art...

Anna:
Let's get back to that topic. I'm aware that many colleagues are currently struggling with an existential crisis, questioning how much our contemporary art field can actively contribute to shaping a larger project, as discussed by Mouffe and Laclau, for instance. What's your take on this? I initially pursued art because I saw it as a realm where alternatives are crafted, eventually becoming common ground in a positive sense. But now, I ponder whether art can genuinely engage in this process. Or is art more akin to a doctor who measures the indicators of what's happening around us?


Viktor:
This is something that was extensively discussed in the 2000s and 2010s. Post-operaists had some curious ideas about this, with Paolo Virno having written a great text on this topic. The one conclusion I’ve drawn from all these discussions about the role of art is that contemporary art is no longer confined to museums and galleries; nowadays, it exists in a variety of forms, including performance art, research, and net art. So, these days, there are more ways to create and promote art than just making it in the peace and quiet of your studio, displaying it in a museum, and hoping it could influence society through the people who get to see this output.
Today, art and reactions to it also circulate in mass media, in the content all sorts of bloggers post online, and so on. The dissemination of art enjoys a very wide scope, and its forms are very diverse.
On the other hand, as post-operaists noted, modern society is highly aestheticized: in modern society, the aesthetic component is present in realms where it previously either existed only to a limited extent or did not exist at all. With this in mind, it can be very difficult to draw a line between political activism using aesthetic forms and artivism pushing a certain political agenda. These two practices have begun to merge. If we look at art from this perspective, it is obvious that art does have quite a lot of influence over social dynamics. Besides, it doesn’t actually matter how much influence it has; in my opinion, what’s more important is that art perceives itself as part of social dynamics, that it does not exist in isolation. The idea of living in an ivory tower, asserting that “politics have nothing to do with me and all I care about is pure art” – this kind of reasoning doesn't really hold up because of the social context I’ve just sketchily described and because the artistic milieu fully understands this context.
The scope of this influence is debatable but the very fact that art has a voice in the life of society and is part of public discourse is I believe of paramount importance for us as people pursuing careers in art. Don’t you think it is indicative that we’ve met to talk about art but, in the end, we mostly talk about other things? And we see similar things happening in the auditoriums of all art institutions: just take a look at the programs of all the dynamic and trendy art institutions that work with the agenda of contemporary art: none of their public talks, film screenings, lectures, workshops, reading groups, or roundtables deal with exclusively artistic or aesthetic matters. People normally discuss wide-ranging issues that concern society, visitors, potential users of these institutions' programs, and those who actively participate in these programs, including artists, curators, art critics, and art theorists.

Anna:
There is one question I keep asking myself as we talk about the past as a kind of key that could open the door to a different future, especially considering the present we’ve discussed, which becomes a traumatizing past with each passing second. If we, well not us, but mainly artists, and we along with them, try to analyze and reframe the past in order to pave the way for this other future, doesn’t the weight of our history impede our progress? Given the grievous history of the 20th century and the fact that the history of the 21st century so far doesn't promise to be much brighter, I suspect that our attempts to make sense of the past don’t lead to much because they unfailingly become a re-traumatizing experience.
I don't know how psychologists define this, but I remember Israeli artist Bracha Ettinger taking part in your exhibition The Haunted House, which was one of the installments in The Human Condition series. She doubles up as a psychotherapist, who writes a lot about trauma; I drew many of my ideas from her. Do you think it is possible at all to understand and interpret the past without this recurrent re-traumatization? After all, trying to engage a wide audience in a conversation that would keep traumatizing people is anything but easy. Are there any other ways available? Or could it be that this re-traumatization is a phase we need to go through to open the door to the future?


Viktor:
In fact, we can say with certainty that both the life of an individual and the life of society are to a very large extent connected with trauma. In both cases, it is living organisms we are talking about. If they don’t work through traumas, people feel sick and suffer. In authoritarian societies, one of the strategies regimes make use of is to persuade people to “not think” about traumas: “Enjoy your life, think about pleasant things, and leave the traumas and problems to us. We are, so to speak, the right people, we are the ones who have a lot of relevant experience, we are the experts here, and you shouldn't meddle in either politics or history. All you need to know is that everything will be just fine and it’s only going to get better.”
Similar pieces of advice are given to individuals: “Don't dwell on it, try to distract yourself. Time heals all wounds. Don't worry, everything must come to an end.” I'm far from being a champion of psychoanalysis, but the fact that this therapy has persisted for decades suggests that it has correctly identified at least some things and yields certain results. And, mind you, it is based on the idea of working through traumas, not ignoring them.
Therefore, I believe that in a thriving society that is looking for its identity and believes that public happiness depends on all of its members, their efforts, and their collective work, there is no getting away from acknowledging, discussing, and working through traumas together. And art – its entire system – cannot turn a blind eye to traumas but must play an active part in processing them.
The best artists usually work with traumas in one way or another. Let's look back on some of the artists featured in the exhibition I curated, The Haunted House, such as Leonid Tishkov, Aslan Goisum, Deimantas Narkėvičius, Adrian Paci, and many more. All of them are the cream of contemporary art and all of them use this method – candidly, nakedly, and daringly working with traumas of the past, the memory of those, and ways of finding your identity through these traumas. You asked about the audiences and their reactions. I believe the opposite: if a society is active and healthy, defining itself through public discussion and the collective work of its members, the audiences should relate to this, should be interested in this, and should expect this from cultural institutions.

Anya:
I hope this is something we’ll be able to achieve in this residency. Thank you for your time, Viktor.