Summer 2004 blossomed with memories of the 19th Century. Unlike previous Junes of the past hundred years, this one began with the Transit of Venus, that planet named after the Goddess of Love, one of those unremarkable astronomic phenomenon which seem really interesting but which don’t quite measure up to the thrill of television or internet porn. Writing in 1882, William Harkness stated,

“We are now on the eve of the second transit of a pair, after which there will be no other till the twenty-first century of our era has dawned upon the earth, and the June flowers are blooming in 2004. When the last transit season occurred the intellectual world was awakening from the slumber of ages, and that wondrous scientific activity which has led to our present advanced knowledge was just beginning. What will be the state of science when the next transit season arrives God only knows. Not even our children’s children will live to take part in the astronomy of that day. As for ourselves, we have to do with the present …”

That day, June 8th 2004, I did not witness the transit, but saw pictures of it by that science of which God only then knew – television and the internet.

Those words were written in December 1882, the previous February of which brought into the world a baby named James Joyce. Twenty-two years later, on June 10th 1904, he met a girl on the street and asked her out. A normal enough thing for any 22 year old to do. She agreed but stood him up, being unable to get off work that evening. He ran into her again and they rescheduled. Today we go out for dinner and movies; I can’t imagine what they did that night a century ago. But we do know that at some point, down by an abandoned pier, she gave him a handjob that blew his mind and tied him to her for life. It was June 16th, and for this reason, ten years later, Joyce used this date for his ambitious novel Ulysses. I’m taken with the idea that as he came, Joyce had no conception that in a hundred years the English speaking world would not only know about this event, but would celebrate this day in his honour. This may have occurred to him later when he was composing the book, but as he gazed with gratitude and pleasure on the lovely Nora Barnacle, the world of a century from now was most certainly not on his mind.

The summer of 2004 was also when Andrea Fraser exhibited at the Friedrich Petzel Gallery in New York. This show rose above the usual apathy to make it into the media because its masterpiece consisted of a sex video. As the press release stated:

“Untitled, 2003 was initiated in 2002 when Andrea Fraser approached Friedrich Petzel Gallery to arrange a commission with a private collector on her behalf. The requirements for the commission were to include a sexual encounter between Fraser and a collector, which would be recorded on videotape, with the first exemplar of the edition going to the participating collector. The resulting videotape is a silent, unedited, sixty-minute document shot in a hotel room with a stationary camera and existing lighting. “

The galleries website shows us a still near the beginning of the video of Fraser in a red dress holding two glasses of white wine. Having not seen the work I cannot judge whether this amateur porn lives up to previous masterpieces of that genre of which I consider myself somewhat a connoisseur. But what drives me crazy is this:

“Untitled is a continuation of Fraser’s twenty-year examination of the relationships between artists and their patrons“.

Ok I understand.

“Known for her performances in the form of gallery tours and analyses of collecting by museums, corporate art institutions, and private collectors, Untitled shifts the focus of this investigation from the social and economic conditions of art to a much more personal terrain“.

I’ve never heard of her before now. Am I bad? But ok, I think understand what her practice consists of.

“The work raises issues regarding the ethical and consensual terms of interpersonal relationships as well as the contractual terms of economic exchange.”

What? I mean, she made a fucking sex video. That’s baloney.

Here’s the thing. I’m an artist, so I think I can say I know how the creative process works. I think I’ve had enough dealings with other artists to know that this is usually how it works for most of us. And my feeling is that she thought this guy was hot and wanted to do him; further, she had the wherewithal to frame it within the context of her practice and using a magic spell of theory was able to get her sextape on the wall. She didn’t even give it a title, which is really revealing. Unlike Paris Hilton, who was famous for her green-light blowjobs before her ignorance of Wal-Mart, this from the get-go was meant to be shown off, but it was also an excuse for Fraser to get laid. All well and good and I congratulate her on her cleverness and the originality of her seduction. But the work does not “raise ethical and consensual terms of interpersonal relationships”. It’s a simple porn. It might raise these issues if you were an alien. Let’s ignore for a second how typically pathetic that press release is and just assume that all art galleries are currently engaged in the same bullshit, thinking this is what we – an audience of intelligent people – want and expect.

And that I think that’s what I finally understand – the art-world orients itself to non-humans. The texts that accompany art works are meant to explain them to dolphins, squid, elephants and ravens, or whatever intelligent non-human life is in outer space. To entertain the “questions raised” is to enter a state where we deny our common humanity for the cheap thrill of speaking of a sex video in terms of the sociological, something most likely done with others in a social situation to begin with, and something that has been done to death already to no apparent end.

A conversation is afterall the transfer of things in my head into yours, ephemeral ideas rather than genetic material encased in goop, as is transferred during sex. What Fraser’s video shows, undoubtedly, is the limited repertoire of the sex act itself. I’m guessing here, but I have a feeling that the missionary position features more prominently than it should. If she were really familiar with this genre, it would proceed thus: she gives him head, he gives it to her. They then engage in intercourse, which can begin missionary, but than becomes doggie style and then moves on to butterfly. Anal sex usually occurs at this point, but that’s usually left to the professionals, as amateurs are far more mundane and stick with vaginal. Eventually he comes on her face.

We’re taught that voyeurism is wrong but I don’t really see why, given that it’s put up there for our consumption. Like meat, once it’s dead you might as well eat it. The problem in both cases is in the creation. I think it’s wrong to treat animals as another product, and I’m willing to accept that there are big problems with the creation of pornography, but all the stuff I’ve ever seen as appeared to be harmless to both parties, and further, both sexes appeared to enjoy their job. How many of us can say the same?

The next time I’m down by the pier with a hot girl, who unzips my pants and is about to create 22nd Century literature, I’ll stop her to raise questions about interpersonal exchange. Perhaps this would be entirely appropriate. Should we start treating the theoretical discourse as a form of sex then? The same old same old, going through the same motions and the same arguments, over and over again until the end of time or at least until the next Dark Ages. I mean, is this why such intellectual deceit has survived this long?

For some reason, watching folk going through the same sexual motions isn’t quite as boring as listening to folk go through the same motions with regard to theory. Theory is a magic spell whose power diminishes with overuse. “Abracadabra you are now a rabbit!” is the same as “You’re sex-act questions issues regarding the ethical and consensual terms of interpersonal relationships as well as the contractual terms of economic exchange!” The same way a string of words recontextulaizes and object or a situation into magic, another string of words lends something pedestrian an air of respectability and intellectualism. But a duck is still duck, even if we call it Anas platyrhynchos. ‘Abracadabra’ can be a special word to children, but to adults it’s most likely to be associated with the Steve Miller Band.

I would say that because the act of sex is embedded in our genes, we are not programmed to find it or the acts that accompany it boring. Experience shows that there is a predictable payoff of pleasure, and this pop in our minds is that which creates those actions to begin with. We are not engaged in the same thing with a theoretical discourse. We are not driven to say and do things because we know intuitively that there’s a bubble of pleasure at the end, the argument won, the cigarette reached for, the slow squinting sigh. This is true for me at least, but I’ll grant there are probably people out there who get off on intellectualism. Won arguments might be orgasmic for some, but I find it so much fluff, words lost on the wind, no more memorable than any other walk by the pier with a conservative girl.

So, my conclusion is this. Theory is predictably used to recontextualize the banal – including sex acts – to make them seem far more significant than they are. It is written by folk who have no interest in addressing real human beings who have real experiences from which to draw and analyze situations. It assumes an audience ignorant of real life, and thus tries to tell us something we already know in an alternative language, which in the end simply insults our intelligence. But like Magic, where a string of nonsensical gibberish is playfully used to transform something – most often the surrounding context – artspeak attempts to transform the banal into something deserving of intellectual consideration; but fails since, as I said, it appeals only to the intellects of non-human life forms, or, as is the case, those among us willing to suspend that part of our knowledge that comes from the real world. However, I’ll grant that the persistence of this might mean that like a sex act, the limited repertoire of ideas and motions have an intrinsic value which account for the lack of innovation therein, and why enough people are willing to suspend their real-world knowledge to engage in a ‘discourse’ at this level.