Gloss it. 3 she wrote, without patience, meaning both disguise it (for why should anyone care?) and embellish it; make it shine through a layer of varnish, turn it into art. The ‘you’ of her text is a husband who is as beautiful as he is cruel. In fact, his cruelty seems somehow linked to his beauty, to his tears. Indulging in sentimentality – that is, to embellish it – can be just as cruel as its evasive alternative. Because to disguise and to embellish are not opposed, just as in the writing of Søren Kierkegaard recollection is not opposed to forgetting but part and parcel. I’ve written elsewhere about Spichtig’s work that you only wear sunglasses inside if you’re high or crying. ‘So, which one is it, Tobias?’ I asked. Come to think of it, an older work of his, which just says ‘WEINEN’ (crying) in big letters, provides something of an answer. But the fact that the question remains is crucial. People do not present themselves to us clearly, Proust wrote, ‘like a garden viewed through railing with all its flowerbeds on display’, but as a ‘shadow we can never penetrate’, only imagine, alternatively and with equal justification, ‘as masking the burning flame of hatred and love.’4 I’ve since started to feel that there is something dishonest to the clarity with which Goldin’s work presents itself, as if in denial of the inevitable shadow, claiming sincere emotion, real intimacy. For do Butch’s tears not also have a certain gloss? And has this scene not, through Goldin’s lens, been enshrined, made mythical and distant? Then why does it seem to me like flowerbeds on display; like memory, pure and clean? Of course, Goldin fought against the deluge of the AIDS epidemic and a conservative political backlash that threatened to erase the people and the city that she knew. Her honourable task was to salvage what she could. But our context in Berlin and in other big cities today is one that threatens to devour rather than erase; to transform any smear of difference or subculture into capital and real estate, which we ultimately will not be able to buy back. This is a context in which sincerity like Goldin’s can no longer have the same impact. Still, when I was in art school in London, post-Olympics, pre-Brexit, we’d follow in her footsteps, not to document, it seems, looking back, but to mythologise. In pseudo-spontaneous photoshoots at parties, video collages from hungover trips to the supermarket, or a single polaroid in an empty room, the world shone with an authenticity and nostalgia completely incongruent with our actually awkward and insufficiently iconic lives, so pale against the richly textured backdrop of elsewhen. The effect was alienating – made me feel left out. As if that rope let down from heaven to draw me up out of not-being had not been attached at the other end. At my first meeting with Goldin’s work I took a picture with my digital camera and regretted that too much of my own reflection in the glass made it difficult to see the couple in Tin Pan Alley. I wanted to lose myself in their lives, but my reflection revealed the frame, betrayed my distance, spoiled the picture. I was not them. In Spichtig’s work a similar push and pull between attachment and repellence produces a certain form of iconicity, but one that does not ask for devotion. You recognise something about the pictures, and want to be in proximity to this something, congratulate yourself on how it resonates, bask in the cool, grunge speed of it. But the familiarity at play here stems not from likeness – to you, or your life – but from strangeness. Like in Genius , what you recognise is not the content but the outline; if an experience, then one of absence. We don’t know if those women mask a flame of hatred or of love. It was actually Spichtig who told me what Marlene Dietrich said of how to keep an audience hooked: who is the one person everyone knows? The one who is not there. ‘Sing to them,’ she said. Dietrich and Spichtig practice seduction without betrayal. It is also iconicity without idealism, or even ideology. Let me try another one: recollection without memory? 22
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