So Much Wasted: Hunger, Performance, and the Morbidity of Resistance

brittany — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Traversing critical theory, body studies, psychoanalysis, philosophy, political theory, cultural studies, and performance studies, Patrick Anderson’s So Much Wasted captures the “politics of morbidity” embedded in the act of self-starvation. Anderson focuses on three settings—the hospital/clinic, a gallery, and a prison—to consider the way people who refuse food remain subject both to institutional means of force and control along with ideological constraints and mechanisms of discipline. What can these emaciated figures, hurling themselves toward death (or, as Heidegger calls it, “being-toward-death”), teach us about subjectivity, political resistance, and the production of power through everyday disciplinary practices?

Anderson’s central claim—that self-starvation both refuses and reproduces the power of the state, and as such produces bodies and subjects capable of radically unsettling the status quo—weaves itself through many seemingly disparate moments: the political resistance of Turkish prison hunger strikes, the state’s imposition that Terri Schiavo must live despite her husband’s wishes, the life-threatening starvation performance art of Chris Burden (who, after staging his own shooting, street death, and near electrocution, asked others to watch as he wasted away for twenty-two days in a Venice Beach, CA art gallery), and Adrian Piper, Ana Mendieta, and Marina Abromovic’s staging of self-starvation as provocative, artistic disappearance. Perhaps most compelling is Anderson’s reimagining of leading feminist theorizing about anorexia as the internalization of misogyny (e.g., Susan Bordo, Susie Orbach); instead, he argues that anorexics may cultivate a “taste for power” that subverts dominant ideas about women, gender, and queerness as they dramatically rebel against state intervention.

Playful and sharp, astute and extraordinarily sympathetic, Anderson captures the inherent tragedy, power, and radical potential in this seemingly “powerless” act of self-starvation. Not only does he write with breathtaking clarity, at times frolicking between mother-child psychoanalytic theories of feeding and sexuality only to later arrive in the world of masochistic performance art, but he also genuinely extends the leading critical theories of the body, performance, power, and subjectivity (e.g., Judith Butler, Michel Foucault, Sigmund Freud, Louis Althusser, and the like). Anderson insists that self-starvation is not simply perversion, but rather, a mechanism that produces troubled reactions from other bodies (individual or the state). Thus, he subtly asks whether psychological treatments, historiographies of starving bodies, force feeding, extensive monitoring, and even photographs might serve an even more perverse purpose: investing the state with the authority to say “who must live and who may die.”

Suitable for numerous audiences—graduate courses in psychology, sociology, gender studies, and performance; scholarly audiences interested in bioethics, fatness studies, prisons, and the philosophy of selfhood; and those practitioners who work with self-starving or self-mutilating clients—this book carefully outlines a politics of resistance through dying, near-death, and “wasting away.” Even if it sometimes floats above its subjects a bit—for example, I kept wanting more content directly from those who have survived their self-starvation attempts—Anderson has written a book worthy of attention and study. By imagining rebellion as a refusal to consume, he forges new and powerful links between gender, sexuality, the body, and the ideological apparatus of the state as it faces the many rebellions of its subjects.

Written by: Breanne Fahs, February 10th 2011

The Social Philosophy of Jane Addams

admin — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 01:00:00 +0000

By Maurice Hamington

University of Illinois

Personally, what’s best about The Social Philosophy of Jane Addams by Maurice Hamington is something he left out. His focus stays on Addams’s political and philosophical thought with absolutely no mention of her having had, as I do, a twisted spine.

When my condition had just been detected, my eighth-grade health teacher singled me out to write a report on Jane Addams. My classmates got to choose. I was mortified. I had already read a children’s biography of Addams several years previously—subtitled “Little Lame Girl” if I remember correctly—before my scoliosis was noticeable or even present. I wanted nothing to do with Addams or Hull House. I had aspired to be Miss America. I didn’t want a role model for living with a crooked back; I wanted a straight back.

Today, reading a book about someone’s ideas, especially a woman’s ideas, offers a corrective to the current emphasis on “narrative” and “story” that even those who have normal spines can appreciate. Hamington’s biographical “overview” is a scant three pages, though for a figure like Addams, the “personal” is very much intertwined with the “political.” The first half of the book recounts her influences, writings, and unique contribution to philosophy (here Hamington lays out his argument that Addams is a philosopher in the line of American pragmatists and a feminist); and the second is devoted to the issues and subjects she wrote about.

To most of us, Addams is associated with Hull House, to my mind, unfortunately relegated to history as a museum and the settlement house movement. Social work, not philosophy—or even politics—would be the second identifier to come to mind. Sexism, argues Hamington, was what caused Addams to be omitted from the pantheon of American pragmatists and relegated to her position outside academia. William James, John Dewey, and George Herbert Mead, who were influenced by and influenced Addams, were all professors. The author notes that although Addams acknowledged their influence on her work, the reverse was not true. Hamington, who supplies an impressive scholarly apparatus, partly excuses them with the comment: “Writers of the era were less meticulous about attribution than they are today.”

Feminists of a certain age who remember the outing of Addams in the 1970s will find little gossip about lesbianism, but they will find the Hull House culture cast as a prototype of what would be called “women’s space.” Not a separatist, Addams had friends of both sexes (and from all classes) and was much a part of the Progressive movement (1890-1920). Although claims are made about her construct of “lateral progress,” i.e., progress for everyone, as “radical” thinking, I suspect her emphasis on looking at things from all points of view would strike most as rather reformist. In a similar vein, she made important contributions to education, most especially adult education.

As for Addams’s place in feminism, Hamington tests Addams’s positions against a long array of feminisms, and ends up with “cultural” and proclaims her “prefigurative” of today’s more theoretical feminism. Her pacifist stand against American entry into World War I didn’t get Addams deported as Emma Goldman’s opposition did her. After all, Addams was the daughter of an Illinois state senator who corresponded with Abraham Lincoln. Still, this stand brought on bad press and considerably reduced her influence.

Hardly the avid fan of Jane Addams that Hamington is, I have come to value her and her work as I have learned to live with a spinal deformity and participated in social movements. I now more fully recognize the benefits of settlements to those reformers drawn to them as well as the neighborhood people they serve. These settlements, more than 400 of them at their peak, gave activists a direct encounter with the social needs embodied in real people, not “target populations.” This is something too often lacking in the staff of antipoverty, anti-hunger advocacy nonprofits administering services from distant downtown offices. May Hamington’s effort to enhance the legacy of Addams help move her heirs in the direction she championed.

Written by: Frances Chapman, February 22nd 2010