“The Body of Michael Brown”: A Conceptual Poem, Much Debated

April 3, 2015

goldsmith-brown
Kenneth Goldsmith reading “The Body of Michael Brown”. Image via.

by Filip Noterdaeme

To give judgment on real poems, one needs an account of the poet himself. Very devilish to some, and very divine to some, will appear the poet of this new poem, “The Body of Michael Brown”; an attempt, as it is, of an intellectual, resolute, unemotional, detached, blasé, imperious person, to cast into literature not merely his wit and arrogance, but pre-existing form and content, unaltered, regardless of convention, regardless of rules or copyright laws, and ignorant or coolly indifferent, as at first appears, to all except news and data, and all within the deeply troubled land of his birth and of his parents, and of the foreign land of birth of his grandparents and several generations before them. Politeness this man has none, and regulation he has none. A self-determined outsider! No imitation––no assimilator––but a growth and idiom of alienation. Discontented––a careful typist, quoting to-day. No dilettante poet––a man who is art-and-part with the digital age, and with information technology––loves the Web––loves cyberspace––loves the uninhibited chats on social networks––likes to simultaneously answer e-mails and check status updates––can retweet with tweeters––likes the ungenteel ways of bloggers––is not prejudiced one mite against plagiarists––talks highly of them––talks highly of appropriation––does not make a stand on being creative, nor on patch-writing or cutting-and-pasting––collects weather reports, likes the dry language of newscasts, 24/7––likes to document every word he has uttered in a week––likes to make one at the White House among the President and guests––would leave a select soiree of reputable writers any time to go read gossip columns, news, copy their language and statements, list their lies, false testimonies, inanities, fluency, patter, repartee––and can transcribe them perfectly for his poems, and the like of these. The effects he produces in his poems are no effect of artists or the arts, but the effects of original copy or print, or the actual transcript, or clip, or quote. You may feel the unconscious teaching of a fine joker, but will never feel the artificial teaching of a fine writer or speaker.

Other poets celebrate great events, personages, romances, wars, loves, passions, the victories and powers of their country, or some real or imagined incident––and polish their work, and come to conclusions, and satisfy the reader. This poet celebrates the new electronic collective unconscious; and that is the way he celebrates all. He comes to no conclusions, and does not satisfy the reader. He certainly leaves him what the St. Louis County medical examiner’s autopsy left the people of Ferguson, the taste of the mind-numbing description of the dead body of Michael Brown, never to be erased again.

There can be no two thoughts on Kenneth Goldsmith’s racism. That is avowedly what he steps out of the crowd and turns and faces them for. Mark, critics! Otherwise is not used for you the key that leads to the use of the other keys to this well-educated man. His whole work, his life, manners, friendships, writings, all have among their leading purposes an evident purpose to stamp a new type of character, namely his own, and indelibly fix it and publish it, not for a model but an illustration, for the present and future of American letters and America’s young, for the south the same as the north, and for the Pacific and Mississippi country, and Wisconsin and Texas and Kansas and Canada and Havana and Nicaragua, just as much as New York and Washington. Whatever is needed toward this achievement he puts his hand to, and lets imputations take their time to die.

First allow yourself to waste time surfing the Web—such seems to be this man’s example and inferred rebuke to the schools of poets. He does not pretend to be writing something new; this seems beside the point to him; he has not a word to say for or against it, or the necessity or urge for it. He only offers copy; what he refuses to offer is the pretense of original material. Jewish American, grand and stoic—age fifty-four years, (1961)—having quit meditation long ago—never dressed casually, always dressed smartly in designer clothes—paisley suit and bowtie, countenance sallow pasty white, beard well-mottled with white, hair cropped short like poppy seeds tossed on a bagel—a spirit that mixes sardonically with the world—a person singularly envied and hated, especially by vitriolic ideologues and the political correct—one who has no firm attachments anywhere, and few associates—one who does only associate with the avant-garde—a man often called upon to make speeches at public dinners, always on platforms before the crowds of museum visitors, or college students, or studio audiences, or members of the press—never downtown with shoppers at the mall—nor ever in an outlet at a season finale sale—nor with a band of tourists on a cruise ship crossing the Atlantic—fond of quoting from radio and television reports of national tragedies—fond of noncreative writing, or buzz feeds, observing the endless wonders of that thoroughfare of the digital world—One whom, if you would meet, you must be prepared to meet an extraordinary person—one in whom you will see the eccentricity which consists in ever more eccentricity—whose contact is puzzle and consternation, and requires much deference, and has the uneasy consternation of what is unusual and foreign—of something you have never seen and did not expect—of shock value and provocations, and uncomfortable truths—there you have Kenneth Goldsmith, the begetter of a new offspring out of journalism, taking with easy nonchalance the content of its nonstop flow, and, through all misunderstandings and distrusts, the chances of its poetic potential—preferring always to have others speak for him rather than speak for himself.

This essay it is an appropriation of a self-review by Walt Whitman, originally published in the Brooklyn Daily Times in 1856.

LEAVES OF GRASS. A volume of Poems, just published.

To give judgment on real poems, one needs an account of the poet himself. Very devilish to some, and very divine to some, will appear the poet of these new poems, the “Leaves of Grass;” an attempt, as they are, of a naive, masculine, affectionate, contemplative, sensual, imperious person, to cast into literature not only his own grit and arrogance, but his own flesh and form, undraped, regardless of models, regardless of modesty or law, and ignorant or silently scornful, as at first appears, of all except his own presence and experience, and all outside the fiercely loved land of his birth, and the birth of his parents and their parents for several generations before him. Politeness this man has none, and regulation he has none. A rude child of the people!—No imitation—No foreigner—but a growth and idiom of America. No discontented—a careless slouch, enjoying to-day. No dilletant democrat—a man who is art-and-part with the commonalty, and with immediate life—loves the streets—loves the docks—loves the free rasping talk of men—likes to be called by his given name, and nobody at all need Mr him—can laugh with laughers—likes the cheap ways of laborers—is not prejudiced one mite against the Irish—talks readily with them—talks readily with niggers—does not make a stand on being a gentleman, nor on learning or manners—eats cheap fare, likes the strong-flavored coffee of the coffee-stands in the market, at sunrise—likes a supper of oysters fresh from the oyster-smack—likes to make one at the crowded table among sailors and workpeople—would leave a select soiree of elegant people any time to go with tumultuous men, roughs, receive their caresses and welcome, listen to their noise, oaths, smut, fluency, laughter, repartee—and can preserve his presence perfectly among these, and the like of these. The effects he produces in his poems are no effects of artists or the arts, but effects of the original eye or arm, or the actual atmosphere or tree or bird. You may feel the unconscious teaching of a fine brute, but will never feel the teaching of a fine writer or speaker.

Other poets celebrate great events, personages, romances, wars, loves, passions, the victories and power of their country, or some real or imagined incident—and polish their work, and come to conclusions, and satisfy the reader. This poet celebrates himself; and that is the way he celebrates all. He comes to no conclusions, and does not satisfy the reader. He certainly leaves him what the serpent left the woman and the man, the taste of the Paradisaic tree of the knowledge of good and evil, never to be erased again.

What good is it to argue about egotism? There can be no two thoughts on Walt Whitman’s egotism. That is avowedly what he steps out of the crowd and turns and faces them for. Mark, critics! Otherwise is not used for you the key that leads to the use of the other keys to this well-enveloped man. His whole work, his life, manners, friendships, writings, all have among their leading purposes an evident purpose to stamp a new type of character, namely his own, and indelibly fix it and publish it, not for a model but an illustration, for the present and future of American letters and American young men, for the south the same as the north, and for the Pacific and Mississippi country, and Wisconsin and Texas and Kansas and Canada and Havana and Nicaragua, just as much as New York and Boston. Whatever is needed toward this achievement he puts his hand to, and lets imputations take their time to die.

First be yourself what you would show in your poem—such seems to be this man’s example and inferred rebuke to the schools of poets. He makes no allusions to books or writers; their spirits do not seem to have touched him; he has not a word to say for or against them, or their theories or ways. He never offers others; what he continually offers is the man whom our Brooklynites know so well. Of pure American breed, large and lusty—age thirty-six years, (1855,)—never once using medicine—never dressed in black, always dressed freely and clean in strong clothes — neck open, shirt-collar flat and broad, countenance tawny transparent red, beard well-mottled with white, hair like hay after it has been mowed in the field and lies tossed and streaked—his physiology corroborating a rugged phrenology∗ —a spirit that mixes cheerfully with the world—a person singularly beloved and looked toward, especially by young men and the illiterate—one who has firm attachments there, and associates there—one who does not associate with literary people—a man never called upon to make speeches at public dinners, never on platforms amid the crowds of clergymen, or professors, or aldermen, or congressmen—rather down in the bay with pilots in their pilot-boat—or off on a cruise with fishers in a fishing smack—or with a band of loungers over the open grounds of the country—fond of New York and Brooklyn—fond of the life of the great ferries, or along Broadway, observing the endless wonders of that thoroughfare of the world—One whom, if you would meet, you need not expect to meet an extraordinary person—one in whom you will see the singularity which consists in no singularity—whose contact is no dazzle or fascination, nor requires any deference, but has the easy fascination of what is homely and accustomed—of something you knew before, and was waiting for—of natural pleasures, and well-known places, and welcome familiar faces—there you have Walt Whitman, the begetter of a new offspring out of literature, taking with easy nonchalance the chances of its present reception, and, through all misunderstandings and distrusts, the chances of its future reception—preferring always to speak for himself rather than have others speak for him.

About the Author:

Filip Noterdaeme is the artist behind the conceptual art project The Homeless Museum of Art, a send-up of the contemporary art museum, and the author of the satirical memoir The Autobiography of Daniel J. Isengart (Outpost19, 2013). He lives in New York City and is a teacher of art history at The New School and a gallery lecturer at the Guggenheim Museum. He writes a blog about contemporary art for The Huffington Post.