Public (E-Journal, York University)

Byford, Chris

English

The Garden of Light: Images of the Desert in Film

Contributors

Buci-Glucksmann, Christine

Icarus Today: The Ephemeral Eye

Lippit, Akira Mizuta

Catatstrophic Light: Transparency, Invisibility, and Atomic Representation

Lord, Susan

Marchessault, Janine

Introduction 
By Susan Lord and Janine Marchessault 
Each issue of Public is devoted to exploring a theme from a variety of disciplinary perspec- 
tives and cultural practices. This issue is devoted to LIGHT, perhaps one the broadest themes 
in the journal's ten year hstory. Given that we both teach cinema and popular culture studies, 
the theme had very specific connotations for us. Why does the word occupy such a privileged 
position across so many cultures: one of truth, freedom, and spirituality? How have Enlight- 
enment ideas of rational illumination come to inform the conceptualization of lighting in archi- 
tecture, painting, theatre, and photography? How has LIGHT developed as a technology 
aimed at policing movement, at breaking down the boundaries between the public and the pri- 
vate, making the darkest recesses of the lifeworld transparent--a positivism that, as Hannah 
Arendt once noted, has had detrimental effects on privacy, the imagination, and freedom in the 
twentieth century. What kinds of power relations, epistemologies and mythologies continue to 
be reinforced by the simplistic yet forceful binaries of darkness and light? 
These are unwieldy questions. We focussed our theme to include essays that engage with 
the changing significations of LIGHT as both metaphor and technology since the sixteenth 
century. Without wanting to reduce the historical complexity of these changes, we found it 
practical to locate the theme in relation to what the Frankfurt School theorists have called the 
'dialectic of Enlightenment'. In effect, this dialectic can be seen in the changing values associ- 
ated with 'light culture'. In nineteenth-century England, the literary critic Matthew Arnold 
defined high culture in opposition to the forces of modernisation as 'sweetness and light'. A 
firm believer in Enlightenment axioms, Arnold defines a culture that must rise above the bur- 
dens of civilization (democracy and equality) if the world is to progress. A little over a century 
later, light or 'lite' culture includes everything from stars, easy listening music, tv comedies to 
beer and microwave food. Lite culture stands in opposition to modernism, to anything as 
heavy as Art. Lite culture is distraction, promising that loss of self that for some is potentially 
emancipatory, and for others evidence of the subjugation of the imagination to the enchant- 
ments of mass culture. 
While the movement from Light to Lite marlzs the familiar hierarchies of high and low cul- 
ture, we wouldn't want to reduce it to a capitalist reflex. It is much more interesting. This issue 
of Public seelzs to examine the uses of LIGHT in modernism, war, cinema, DNA imaging, 
reproductive technologies and television comedy. Our aim is to think about the contradictions 
and aesthetic contingencies produced by LIGHT. As with each issue of the journal, we hope 
that the juxtaposition of artists' projects, poetry and fiction, along with historical and theoret- 
ical essays will cast some useful shadows on our topic. 


Introduction

Somet Thoughts on Light

Burfoot, Annette J.

Life Light: Explorations in Alchemy and the Magic of Enlightenment

el-Khoury, Rodolphe

Building Sight: Claude-Nicholas Ledoux's Coup d'oeil du théàtre de Basançon

Henricks, Nelson

4 T E X T S  ABOUT L I G H T  
'. 
Accelerating enponentially. . 
And then physics comes along, and ruins everything. 
My body gives o f f  heat and light, but dimly, flickeringly, in 
slow motion. I f  you could see my whole life from begin- 
ning to end in a single motionless line, it would glow like 
neon tubing, snaking through the houses and rooms where 
I have lived. 
1% standing in front of the new log church, wearing my 
Sunday clothes. Everyone from around here is in town this 
morning. A man from the city is here to make a movie of 
us. We are lined up in rows facing the camera, the shortest 
stand in front. The air is cool, but the sun feels warm. I 
can feel its heat on my face. The ground is muddy and 
thawing. Cart wheels have cut deep ruts into the ground 
we're standing on. The man asks us to smile and wave at 
the camera when he gives the signal. When he does, the 
black leather box starts going 'clickety-clack' like a sewing 
machine. The noise is so loud that it startles the horses. 
1. That sunlight traveled ninety-three million miles 
(almost nine minutes) just to touch your face. 
2. Their greeting reaches us, seated here in the scholarly, 
air-conditioned darkness, many decades later. 
Y o u  cannot see yourself in any mirror. You can't see your reflection 
in anything, not even someone else's eyes. It is not as literal as you 
might first imagine. There is something there in the mirror - an 
amorphous blob of shapes, hues, tones and colours - but your brain 
fails to identify it as 'you'. You have grown accustomed to having 
others perform certain hygiene rituals for you, especially those 
involving the face. A typical conversation while shaving might go: 
- I can't imagine what it would be like to not be able to 
see yourself. (pause) Can you see yourself in photos? 
- No. 
- Videos? 
- Nope. 
- What about drawings? 
- Well, ironically, if it is a bad likeness, I can see myself. 
Otherwise.. . 
- What about bad photography? 
- No. All photos. Never. 
Right about now is where the groomer becomes skeptical. It's obvi- 
ously psychosomatic. Some kind of childhood trauma involving a 
mirror. The steady downward motions of the razor become increas- 
ingly brusque as tight-lipped resentment settles in. 
I n  a bed and breakfast on Frenchman's Bay, I stare out the win- 
dow. It's night-time. Across the bay, I can see a mountain that rises 
above Bar Harbour, twelve miles distant. "That flash of light you 
see is from the headlights of on-coming cars as they come down the 
mountain-side," the proprietress says cheerfully. 
Back in our room upstairs, I continue to watch for the frail, flicker- 
ing lights. "It's funny to think of how our lives can come into 
contact with other people's only for a split second." I say 
this to Pierre, but he's already asleep on the bed. Over 
the next few days, I become overly conscious of this 
phenomena. I meet many people who I will never see 
again. The stupid truth of this bland fact makes me feel 
deeply sad and, at  the same time, a bit ridiculous. 
Illustrations and text: Nelson Henricks 
Design: Yudi Sewraj 


4 Texts about Light

Steadman, Nancy

The Work o f  Art in the Age of  Lite Reading 
Nancy Steadman 
INT. A WELL-APPOINTED BOARDROOM AT A DAILY NEWSPAPER. DAY. 
CLARA is in her early thirties and has worked as a restaurant reviewer for the past four 
years at a daily newspaper in Montreal. She is tall and thin, with big hair and cool 
clothes. She holds a doctorate in Cultural Studies, and is angst-ridden about the 'frivo- 
lous' way she makes her living. She's quick-witted, charming, and neurotic. Seven other 
arts journalists are sitting glumly around the table, waiting for a newly-hired editor to 
arrive. CLARA rushes into the room, late (as usual) for the meeting. 
CLARA 
Thank God! She isn't here yet. 
I hope she's one of these perpetually late people. It'll take the pressure off me. 
ERNST, a balding, pony-tailed art critic in his mid-forties, rolls his eyes. .. 
ERNST 
(laconically) 
Listen honey, in your line of work, you need as much pressure as you can get ... 
CLARA ignores him, and continues brightly ... 
CLARA 
Does anyone know anything about the new editor? Apparently she's been stolen 
away from the competition. 
Classical music critic PENNY, a slim black woman about the same age as Clara 
responds conspiratorially. 
PENNY 
Yeah? Well I heard that tl7e people over there aren't terribly heartbroken about her 
departure. 
Her colleague MARC, a 26 year-old rock music critic who looks eerily like k.d. lang, 
lifts his head from its prostrate position on the table .... 
MARC 
Great. 
(He lays his head wearily back down.) 
She's a ball-breaker. 
The other reporters look at each other apprehensively and nod, conceding that Marc's 
observation might be at least partially true. 
PENNY 
(calmly) 
Well no, not exactly. In fact according to my sources she actually. .. 
Penny's words are drowned out by the sound of the door bursting open. A smallish 
woman dressed entirely in black enters. She is carrying an inordinate amount of hand 
luggage and is muttering barely audible disclaimers. 
EDITOR 
Sorry I'm late ... got into a fight with the parking attendant ... wouldn't believe that I 
work here ... had the nerve to call upstairs ... should've parked on the street... no one 
interrogates you there .... 
Annoyed, yet somehow not flustered, the editor heaves her huge purse and two over- 
stuffed leather briefcases on the oval table. She takes a seat at the head of the table and 
introduces herself. Her head is just visible over the luggage. Although she is in her late 
twenties, she appears much younger, and the staff is taken aback. She speaks very 
softly, the reporters bend forward to catch her words. 
EDITOR 
Good morning, people. My name is Marjorie Berkshire. I'm your new arts editor. 
A few of the journalists manage a welcoming smile but most maintain an apprehensive 
silence. 
EDITOR 
Hmmm ... from your by-lines and pictures I already recognise Ernst Sims, Penn 
Hutcheon, Marc Laporte, Dylan Watts, Angelina Rossini, Albert Steinman, but ... 
(points to Clara and new film critic Michelle Gates) 
you ... and you ... I don't know. 
MICHELLE 
Oh, Michelle, Michelle Gates. I was hired a couple of weeks ago to do supplemen- 
tary film reviews. My contract is still under negotiation. 
EDITOR 
(gushes) 
Oh, you're Michelle Gates. I just loved your reviews in The Village Voice. They were 
terrific! So erudite and informed and yet so entertaining. 
Michelle blushes and shrugs shyly. 
The editor turns her gaze inquiringly to Clara .... 
CLARA 
(lightly) 
And I'm Clara Bentham, restaurant critic. You probably don't recognise me because 
I'm always photographed with a big hat over my face. I've always thought that a fake 
nose and glasses would do the trick, but our former editor wouldn't go for it. 
The editor raises her eyebrows and echoes ... 
EDITOR 
The restaurant reviewer? Surely you don't need to be at this meeting .... 
CLARA 
(bristling) 
Why not? I always go to Arts meetings. 
EDITOR 
(patiently) 
Yes, but this meeting is about some major changes I've been hired to implement. 
When you're only submitting two reviews a week, I'm not sure you need to be involved 

in any important editorial decisions. 
CLARA 
(hotly 
But 1 write precisely the same amount of copy as everyone else in this room. 
Some of the journalists attempt to veil self-aggrandizing smirks as the editor smoothes 
over the tension .... 
EDITOR 
(with fake smile) 
Well, I'll be speaking with each of you individually over the next few weeks, so we'll 
be able to iron out the kinks then. OK? In the meantime ... 
She reaches into her briefcase, pulls out a large stack of papers and begins to pass them 
around .... 
INT, THE FOLLOWING DAY. A FANCY CAFE. 
Clara and Penny are having lunch at a new hot spot Clara's been due to review. Their 
menus are open, and Clara is complaining bitterly about yesterday's meeting. 
CLARA 
I'm sick and tired of people denigrating my  writing, just because it happens to be 
about food. Gastronomy is as much an art form as music or painting or film. And 
believe me, it's not a very easy thing to write about. At least you can listen to a piece of 
music over and over again .... B y  the time I sit down to work I've already swallowed the 
subject of my  review. Regurgitation just isn't an option. 
PENNY 
(ruminatively) 
True. 
CLARA 
Did you see how much everyone loved watching that woman question my "contribution?" 
PENNY 
Come on, they aren't that bad. And you have to admit, your columns can be a bit 
nutty sometimes. Maybe if you confined your criticism to  food you'd be taken a little 
more seriously. 1 mean, do you really think a restaurant review is the place to  debate 
whether or not Karl Marx prevented his maid from snacking during the day? 
CLARA 
What are you saying? Everyone else does it. Look at our beloved art critic Ernst - 
hardly a week goes by in his column without some reference to his cutting-edge status 
as keen cultural historian. 
PENNY 
That's different. 
CLARA 
Because? 
PENNY 
Because he's balding and has a ponytail. 
CLARA 
Oh.  
Clara's expression darkens, and she looks down sheepishly. ... 
CLARA 
Well what am 1 supposed to do? 
You heard Berkshire. She obviously thinks food critics have nothing but fettucine 
between their ears. What a Philistine! 
PENNY 
(shaking her head) 
You know the brain does bear a frightening resemblance to certain pastas. 
CLARA 
You see! You don't take me seriously either. 
A waiter hovering around the table interrupts their conversation. 
WAITER 
Have you decided what you'd like for lunch, ladies? 
PENNY 
Yes. This lamb dish sounds intriguing, but I'm not familiar with Les Animelles d'Ag- 
neau - what is it exactly? 
WAITER 
A very good choice. It's Chef's favourite, a specialty from his home town ... he can't 
understand why  people aren't ordering it. 
They're saute'ed lamb testicles, served over a crispy leek and celery root croustade, 
lightly sauced with a rosemary-infused veloute'. 
PENNY 
They sound delicious! 
WAITER 
And for you madam? 
CLARA 
The poached salmon please. And a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. 
PENNY 
O h  yes, the wine. 
(She looks up at the waiter) 
What  goes well with testicles? 
WAITER 
Perhaps a light Beaujolais ... 
Penny nods approvingly and hands her menu to the waiter. He departs, mopping his 
brow. Clara takes a pad of post-it notes out of her pocket and begins to jot down some 
of the items on the menu. 
PENNY 
Don't you think you're being a little too casual with the notes? 
CLARA 
I know, it's a habit I picked up when I was finishing my dissertation. I was so worried 
I'd forget to include something that my  entire apartment was covered with little squares 
of paper. I'm still finding them. Yesterday 1 found a post-it note on a year-old package 
of tofu in my fridge. 
PENNY 
(exasperated) 
No, I'm talking about taking notes, period. Doesn't anyone ever suspect you're 
reviewing the place? 
CLARA 
Surprisingly no. I try to go at the busiest time of the day when the waiters are run- 
ning around like crazy. And if,  by chance, any of the management notices, I usually 
stare into space and pretend that I'm revving up for tonight's haiku poetry reading or 
something. Observe. 
The waiter has arrived with their meal and with a flourish places two gaudy architec- 
turally constructed plates of food in front of them. He picks up a fallen post-it note off 
the floor and sticks it to the tablecloth. Clara looks over intently at her friend's Ani- 
melles dYAgneau and goes into oratorical mode, intoning dramatically: 
CLARA 
The SMOOTH testicles were arranged in FEARful symmetry on the PLATE. 
Penny covers up her guffaws of laughter with her napkin. 
PENNY 
(muffled) 
That's not haiku. Sure, you have your 17 syllables, but that's not haiku. 
CLARA 
(whispering) 
Who cares. Look at the waiter. You can tell poetry's really hot right now. 
Hancy Steadman 135 
The waiter, repulsed, beats a hasty retreat. Penny looks suitably impressed, and then 
suddenly remembers something she's been meaning to tell Clara. 
PENNY 
Listen, I never got a chance yesterday to share what I found out about our lovely 
new editor. It's quite tantalising. 
CLARA 
Let me guess ... 
she's a cross-dresser? 
PENNY 
No, I mean, yes, but only at the office. 
CLARA 
Well, at the meeting you said that she wasn't, as Marc so eloquently stated, a "ball- 
breaker." What else could it be? 
Giving Penny no chance to reply, she continues, lips pursed righteously, her voice rising 
and gushing: 
It's probably the usual bad editor stuff, you know, like our last one - that boring 
morp17 of Edna St. Vincent Millay and Conrad Black - power brokering and inserting 
grammatical errors into everyone's work, introducing misleading punctuation whenever 
he wanted something to sound meaningful .... 
She leans forward, spit descending into her baby vegetables. 
CLARA 
Remember that ridiculous slogan: 
"There's strength in submission!" 
PENNY 
(wearily) 
Do you want to hear it or not? 

CLARA 
Yeah OK. 
She's nice. She's talented. 
And? 
PENNY 
PENNY 
(whispering) 
And she's also into S&M. 
CLARA 
What's so shocking about that? They all are. 
PENNY 
N o  I mean for real. She has a dungeon. She moonlights as an S&M nurse. Nurse 
Marjorie, instrument of doom. 
Disappointed (and jaded perhaps by years of post-graduate feminist theory), Clara 
shakes her head. 
CLARA 
I thought that it was going to  be something really juicy. 
The waiter glides by, avoiding eye contact. 
WAITER 
How is your meal ladies? C'est a votre go&? 
PENNY 
I find the testicles a little rubbery. 
WAITER 
You mean "Les animelles?" 
138 Wancy Steadnan 
PENNY 
(firmly) 
Yes, "Les animelles. " 
CLARA 
My salmon is delicious, it's perfectly cooked! 
WAITER 
Let me ask Chef about your dish madame .... 
PENNY 
Thank you, I'd appreciate that. 
(To Clara) 
Do you think I'm imagining it? 
CLARA 
You're suggesting you fabricated the Nurse Marjorie story? 
PENNY 
(annoyed) 
I'm talking about the food. Aren't you supposed to be working here? What do you 
think of these testicles? 
She offers Clara a slice of the sauteed yet undeniably gray matter, it glistens on the end 
of her fork. 
CLARA 
(chastising) 
We really don't refer to them as testicles. 
Clara tries them, chewing ruminatively. 
CLARA 
These are fine. Delicious in fact. The rosemary highlights rather than masks their del- 
icate flavour. This is a difficult dish to get right. 
She quickly jots down her observations. 
CLARA 
What a relief. Do you see how hard this job is? Imagine if they were bad. I mean talk 
about hermeuneutics! How could I explain to  our readership that the badness of animal 
balls is directly related to  a particular chef's talent and ability and not to some inher- 
ently revolting property located deep within the organs themselves. But are people 
ready to understand that? 
She makes extra notes, underlining them several times. 
PENNY 
Aren't you curious about Nurse Marjorie? Don't you want to know how I found this 
out? 
CLARA 
Of  course. 
PENNY (whispering) 
Apparently, when things are going a little rough at the office, say around big dead- 
lines, there's a bit o f  a spillage. 
CLARA 
Is spillage a word? 
PENNY 
It's an event. One of the reporters at  the other paper told me about it. The last per- 
son to leave the office gets it. 
Clara takes a sip o f  her Sauvignon Blanc. 
CLARA 
Gets it? 
PENNY 
You saw all those bags she carries. Guess what's in them? 
CLARA (laconically) 
Uh - leather gear - masks ... whips ... harnesses? 

PENNY 
Exactly. And one more thing. Slugs. 
Or  escargot if you prefer. Seems she puts on all this gear and then revs up and tor- 
tures the poor creatures right in front of the person. Apparently at the end she lets out 
this bloodcurdling scream and cuts the bug in half with her stiletto. 
CLARA 
And what's the journalist's role in all this? I mean, why  would she need someone 
there? 
PENNY 
Honestly Clara, for a writer you're not very intuitive. Without the reporter there'd be 
no gratification. She needs to force someone to eat the slugs. 
CLARA 
(enlightened) 
So that's why she doesn't want me around - Bekshire's obviously followed my  work 
enough to  know I wouldn't be impressed with her little show. Finally, an editor who's 
serious about food. 


The Work of Art in the Age of Lite Reading

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