A specially commissioned art essay by art mediator and curator Nora Sternfeld for TextWork TextWork is an online platform of Foundation Ricard that publishes monographic texts by international authors on artists from the French scene.
“A convivial society should be designed to allow all its members the
most autonomous action by means of tools least controlled by others”1.
– Ivan Illich
Ivan Illich imagines another world based on “conviviality” – on the ability to
relate to each other and to things, to build the world with tools and to work
together. Yet we do not live in a convivial society, but in a neoliberal world
that promises fantastic infrastructures, while creating new conditions of
exploitation based on algorithms. In this world we find ourselves increasingly
alone in our increasingly unsafe lives. How can we imagine an alternative
future in this world? Might it help to look at irrepressible relationships – the
relationships we entertain with our tools and with each other in spite of
everything?
Without naivety or false promises but with persistence, two exhibitions by
Emmanuelle Lainé tackled this question in summer 2017. Where the Rubber
of Ourselves Meets the Road of the Wider World at Palais de Tokyo was a
three-dimensional trompe l’oeil photograph that created a space within the
space by expanding into a walk-in diorama. At first sight, it depicted a
machine – a machine that produces tools. At the same time, Lainé presented
Incremental Self : les corps transparents at Bétonsalon, on the other side of
Paris, a cinematic installation that documents her encounters with three artists
living in a retirement home and a specialised worker – people who entertain a
strong relationship with the tools with which they work. Lainé used two
different artistic approaches to look at our relationship to tools from two
different angles. On the backdrop of the uncanny scenario that characterise
the present world, she revealed to us relationships despite their becoming
impossible in this world: in one case as an encounter with tools, and in the
other as an encounter with those who work in a close relationship with them.
impossible in this world: in one case as an encounter with tools, and in the
other as an encounter with those who work in a close relationship with them.
The work at Palais de Tokyo took the form of a stage inviting
exhibition-goers to step onto it. Those who accepted the enticing invitation to
step into the world of the machine encountered a motley collection of
seemingly abandoned objects, almost ghostly and mute. What could the
empty office furniture, the silent machine, the loose computer cable, the
device for mobile warehouse logistics, the generic image of a seascape and a
rubber hamburger have in common? They formed an abandoned scenario of
everyday activity, instruments, tools and utensils – traces of work. And so,
despite their differences, if not incompatibility, they seemed to point to
something that may yet have to be invented. This is precisely what I want to
address in this essay, which looks for connections by sneaking into the
diorama space at Palais de Tokyo, reading the interviews from the filmic
installation at Bétonsalon, listening to the protagonists and connecting them
to other people, but also inventing things. While most of the protagonists in
this text exist, others are invented, yet they could be real. They are allegories
only in Walter Benjamin’s sense2, in that they maintain a tension between the
personal and the general, the self and the world – a characteristic they share
with the machine and the objects in Lainé’s installation.
So here we are, standing in the middle of a machine – no, in the middle of a
three-dimensional photograph of a machine. The setting simultaneously
reveals and obscures, the materiality of production is at once concrete and generic, specific and universal.
exhibition-goers to step onto it. Those who accepted the enticing invitation to
step into the world of the machine encountered a motley collection of
seemingly abandoned objects, almost ghostly and mute. What could the
empty office furniture, the silent machine, the loose computer cable, the
device for mobile warehouse logistics, the generic image of a seascape and a
rubber hamburger have in common? They formed an abandoned scenario of
everyday activity, instruments, tools and utensils – traces of work. And so,
despite their differences, if not incompatibility, they seemed to point to
something that may yet have to be invented. This is precisely what I want to
address in this essay, which looks for connections by sneaking into the
diorama space at Palais de Tokyo, reading the interviews from the filmic
installation at Bétonsalon, listening to the protagonists and connecting them
to other people, but also inventing things. While most of the protagonists in
this text exist, others are invented, yet they could be real. They are allegories
only in Walter Benjamin’s sense2, in that they maintain a tension between the
personal and the general, the self and the world – a characteristic they share
with the machine and the objects in Lainé’s installation.
So here we are, standing in the middle of a machine – no, in the middle of a
three-dimensional photograph of a machine. The setting simultaneously
reveals and obscures, the materiality of production is at once concrete and generic, specific and universal.
For the history of labour is also the history of
every individual production, a history of exploitation, but also of knowledge
and know-how. With this in mind, let us listen to Thierry Gabrielli, a worker
at Scop-TI, a cooperative factory that produces teas and herbal teas. Lainé
interviewed him near Gémenos, France, in January-February 2017. Here is an
excerpt from the conversation:
every individual production, a history of exploitation, but also of knowledge
and know-how. With this in mind, let us listen to Thierry Gabrielli, a worker
at Scop-TI, a cooperative factory that produces teas and herbal teas. Lainé
interviewed him near Gémenos, France, in January-February 2017. Here is an
excerpt from the conversation:
‘Well, I’m a mechanic by training. We’ve always been told that it took
at least five to eight years to be good at what we do. That’s the time it
takes to get to know these machines. They’re called Teepacks, they’re
German machines – I had to adapt the tools, adapt the machines. […]
We managed to crank up the Teepacks to 186 and even 190 strokes per
minute for the herbal teas. I’m telling you this because in ’89, yes, ’89,
we went on strike in Marseille. When we learned that we would be
relocated, we went on strike. They took our herbal tea bags and sent
them to all the other factories that produced herbal teas, to be packaged
there. This is how they tried to quash the strike. But they didn’t
succeed. These people only made tea! They couldn’t deal with herbal
tea! So some time later, they gave up. Some of our demands were met.
Not all. Transportation allowance and some other things3 . . .’
We thus learn about the specialist skills of Thierry Gabrielli, about his
experience and competence in getting the machine to do something for which
it had not been designed. His work enabled the machine to transcend and
expand its primary function. This had long been useful to the company, and
when the threat of relocation loomed large, it was also useful to the workers
on strike in their negotiations with the management.
experience and competence in getting the machine to do something for which
it had not been designed. His work enabled the machine to transcend and
expand its primary function. This had long been useful to the company, and
when the threat of relocation loomed large, it was also useful to the workers
on strike in their negotiations with the management.
generic, specific and universal. For the history of labour is also the history of
every individual production, a history of exploitation, but also of knowledge
and know-how. With this in mind, let us listen to Thierry Gabrielli, a worker
at Scop-TI, a cooperative factory that produces teas and herbal teas. Lainé
interviewed him near Gémenos, France, in January-February 2017. Here is an
excerpt from the conversation:
‘Well, I’m a mechanic by training. We’ve always been told that it took
at least five to eight years to be good at what we do. That’s the time it
takes to get to know these machines. They’re called Teepacks, they’re
German machines – I had to adapt the tools, adapt the machines. […]
We managed to crank up the Teepacks to 186 and even 190 strokes per
minute for the herbal teas. I’m telling you this because in ’89, yes, ’89,
we went on strike in Marseille. When we learned that we would be
relocated, we went on strike. They took our herbal tea bags and sent
them to all the other factories that produced herbal teas, to be packaged
there. This is how they tried to quash the strike. But they didn’t
succeed. These people only made tea! They couldn’t deal with herbal
tea! So some time later, they gave up. Some of our demands were met.
Not all. Transportation allowance and some other things3 . . .’
We thus learn about the specialist skills of Thierry Gabrielli, about his
experience and competence in getting the machine to do something for which
it had not been designed. His work enabled the machine to transcend and
expand its primary function. This had long been useful to the company, and
when the threat of relocation loomed large, it was also useful to the workers
on strike in their negotiations with the management.
every individual production, a history of exploitation, but also of knowledge
and know-how. With this in mind, let us listen to Thierry Gabrielli, a worker
at Scop-TI, a cooperative factory that produces teas and herbal teas. Lainé
interviewed him near Gémenos, France, in January-February 2017. Here is an
excerpt from the conversation:
‘Well, I’m a mechanic by training. We’ve always been told that it took
at least five to eight years to be good at what we do. That’s the time it
takes to get to know these machines. They’re called Teepacks, they’re
German machines – I had to adapt the tools, adapt the machines. […]
We managed to crank up the Teepacks to 186 and even 190 strokes per
minute for the herbal teas. I’m telling you this because in ’89, yes, ’89,
we went on strike in Marseille. When we learned that we would be
relocated, we went on strike. They took our herbal tea bags and sent
them to all the other factories that produced herbal teas, to be packaged
there. This is how they tried to quash the strike. But they didn’t
succeed. These people only made tea! They couldn’t deal with herbal
tea! So some time later, they gave up. Some of our demands were met.
Not all. Transportation allowance and some other things3 . . .’
We thus learn about the specialist skills of Thierry Gabrielli, about his
experience and competence in getting the machine to do something for which
it had not been designed. His work enabled the machine to transcend and
expand its primary function. This had long been useful to the company, and
when the threat of relocation loomed large, it was also useful to the workers
on strike in their negotiations with the management.
‘We all started new in this warehouse, they call it a “fulfilment centre”.
Only a few people were shifted over from the Leipzig warehouse to get
things running; they had more experience. They trained us. The first
impression was: this place is huge! Having worked on construction
sites before, I thought that this is more like a nursery, in the sense that
they emphasise safety a lot: you have to wear safety boots, high-vis,
use the handrails, don’t take personal belongings down to the
shop-floor and so on. You are supposed to walk on the designated
footpath. They call it “standard work”; everyone is supposed to work in
a similar fashion. It is quite militaristic, in a sense. They actually look
for ex-army men when hiring supervisory staff. Markings on the floor
tell you where to go. For me the easiest way to remember were the
black signs to the smoking area . . . Initially the pressure was not that
high, because the whole warehouse operation had just started and the
majority of people had to get used to things. But after four weeks or so
– I worked in Outbound at the time – it became clear that it’s about
targets, about achieving numbers. More and more people were hired
and I was supposed to train them. That was rather weird for me. They
just called us to Room 175 or something, and when we arrived there
they said: “Oh, great that you have volunteered to become a
‘co-worker’ [trainer]”, though actually we had been informed about
fuck all. Basically they said: “Keep on doing your job, keep smiling
and show the new ones how to work.” Then rumours started to spread:
“Why have these guys been chosen to become ‘co-workers’? Does that
mean they will get a permanent contract?” In this way the first division
amongst the first batch of workers was created. Actually they didn’t
give permanent contracts to all the “co-workers”. I guess I only got one
because I hadn’t taken any sick leave and sometimes came in for extra
shifts5.’
Only a few people were shifted over from the Leipzig warehouse to get
things running; they had more experience. They trained us. The first
impression was: this place is huge! Having worked on construction
sites before, I thought that this is more like a nursery, in the sense that
they emphasise safety a lot: you have to wear safety boots, high-vis,
use the handrails, don’t take personal belongings down to the
shop-floor and so on. You are supposed to walk on the designated
footpath. They call it “standard work”; everyone is supposed to work in
a similar fashion. It is quite militaristic, in a sense. They actually look
for ex-army men when hiring supervisory staff. Markings on the floor
tell you where to go. For me the easiest way to remember were the
black signs to the smoking area . . . Initially the pressure was not that
high, because the whole warehouse operation had just started and the
majority of people had to get used to things. But after four weeks or so
– I worked in Outbound at the time – it became clear that it’s about
targets, about achieving numbers. More and more people were hired
and I was supposed to train them. That was rather weird for me. They
just called us to Room 175 or something, and when we arrived there
they said: “Oh, great that you have volunteered to become a
‘co-worker’ [trainer]”, though actually we had been informed about
fuck all. Basically they said: “Keep on doing your job, keep smiling
and show the new ones how to work.” Then rumours started to spread:
“Why have these guys been chosen to become ‘co-workers’? Does that
mean they will get a permanent contract?” In this way the first division
amongst the first batch of workers was created. Actually they didn’t
give permanent contracts to all the “co-workers”. I guess I only got one
because I hadn’t taken any sick leave and sometimes came in for extra
shifts5.’
Vanda T. could have been anyone. It could have been a mechanic from the
so-called ‘Dock’ who had previously worked in a metal factory at Amazon in
Pozna?, for example. Their experiences would have been similar, as he also
spoke of the permanent feeling of insecurity and of the support among
colleagues that kept him going after all:
so-called ‘Dock’ who had previously worked in a metal factory at Amazon in
Pozna?, for example. Their experiences would have been similar, as he also
spoke of the permanent feeling of insecurity and of the support among
colleagues that kept him going after all:
“During the last few months I realised how insecure the future is –
people came and left again, no one knew who would stay and why. We
are always facing up to this fear – we don’t get any messages saying
that we do a good job and that our job is secure. Despite working hard
they can say “Thank you, there is the door” at any time. And the chaos
concerning payments and bonuses! What do I like here? Most of all,
the good colleagues in the “Dock”6!’
Arlette Chapius, on the other hand, is a retired artist who lives in the Maison
Nationale des Artistes, a French retirement home for artists. When Lainé
interviewed her, she spoke of her relationship to tools:
Nationale des Artistes, a French retirement home for artists. When Lainé
interviewed her, she spoke of her relationship to tools:
‘Tools? Which tools I prefer, you mean? The brushes? Yes. Are there
some brushes that I like more than others? Yes. Well, there are some
right here. This big brush, for example, it’s a beautiful brush, it’s made
of marten fur, it’s worth a fortune now. And I like it very much. It has
been used a lot, it has worked a lot, it’s been . . . I respect it, I really do.
The other ones too, but this one has its very own character. It’s crazy.
Not just physically, but it speaks to me, you see. That’s just how it is.
It’s a pretty extraordinary being, really. Interesting, curious about
everything, I was never bored with it even for a second. I was never
bored. There was always something lively, something new. We don’t
talk to say nothing. On the contrary. And so I liked it very much7.’
some brushes that I like more than others? Yes. Well, there are some
right here. This big brush, for example, it’s a beautiful brush, it’s made
of marten fur, it’s worth a fortune now. And I like it very much. It has
been used a lot, it has worked a lot, it’s been . . . I respect it, I really do.
The other ones too, but this one has its very own character. It’s crazy.
Not just physically, but it speaks to me, you see. That’s just how it is.
It’s a pretty extraordinary being, really. Interesting, curious about
everything, I was never bored with it even for a second. I was never
bored. There was always something lively, something new. We don’t
talk to say nothing. On the contrary. And so I liked it very much7.’
Emmanuelle Lainé, Incremantal Self: Les corps transparents, 2017, exhibition view, Bétonsalon, Paris.
Maybe it is precisely because of the strange feeling of emptiness
characterising Lainé’s installation at Palais de Tokyo with its generic work
furniture that our affective relation to tools, the love and tenderness we
experience for the objects that we manipulate to produce something, can
shine through. What dreams has this office chair been privy to? What
meetings were held at this table, how many trainees’ tears had to be dried
here? Maybe the furniture belongs to an art institution, with its precarious
working conditions. Maybe an unpaid trainee sat here, a young art historian
with ambitious goals and full of shame after being once again humiliated by
the director, who can never remember their name. And what about the rubber
hamburger? What is it doing here? The protagonist that I imagine when I
look at it reckons that housework is not actual work. And yet, as she spends
her time looking after her kids, tidying up the house, trying to get the next
job, building a new website, storing away the rubber hamburger and fishing
characterising Lainé’s installation at Palais de Tokyo with its generic work
furniture that our affective relation to tools, the love and tenderness we
experience for the objects that we manipulate to produce something, can
shine through. What dreams has this office chair been privy to? What
meetings were held at this table, how many trainees’ tears had to be dried
here? Maybe the furniture belongs to an art institution, with its precarious
working conditions. Maybe an unpaid trainee sat here, a young art historian
with ambitious goals and full of shame after being once again humiliated by
the director, who can never remember their name. And what about the rubber
hamburger? What is it doing here? The protagonist that I imagine when I
look at it reckons that housework is not actual work. And yet, as she spends
her time looking after her kids, tidying up the house, trying to get the next
job, building a new website, storing away the rubber hamburger and fishing
her mobile phone out of the loo, she says to herself:
‘This is my work. This is
how I spend my days.’
how I spend my days.’
Lainé’s installations confront us with orphaned objects. Her objects are not
symbols; they bear the traces of real work. Yet in her installations, they are
eerily quiet. Far from the ‘agency’ of things described by Bruno Latour8, they
are hardly compelling and active. Rather, their muteness throws us back onto
our knowledge, the science with which we get them to run, or onto our
experience, with which we can order and store them away in the background.
But if they are not symbols, what are they? Maybe allegories in the
Benjaminian sense – fragments, contemporary ruins that have been removed
from the all-encompassing context of life? Maybe as allegories they stand as
much for themselves as for anything else? Lainé’s installation is not about
work in a post-Fordist age – it is about nothing. It draws us into a space of
silent objects, into an encounter with deceptively perfect settings, with
broken and fragmented tools, in which we might recognise our own
experiences with neoliberal illusions, our own sapience and affects in
post-Fordism – our specific knowledge, our concrete relationships to and
with objects. Because it avoids the totalising reference of the symbol,
allegory partly subverts representation, in the sense of a meaningful
visualisation. The allegorical thinker ‘accepts things as damaged as they are’,
writes Andreas Greiert on Benjamin’s allegorical perspective9. Allegory,
therefore, challenges our thinking – the thinking of a world that is by no
means in order, yet a thinking that is also affective and opens up a possible
other future. Lainé’s installation seems to translate this Benjaminian allegory
of the fragment into the present of post-Fordist or logistics-capitalistic
infrastructures. Maybe the concrete rubber hamburger refers to a counterpart
in our lives; maybe when looking at the simultaneously concrete and generic
– but in any case cheaply framed – images of a horizon over the sea, we
remember exciting moments or the banal emptiness of a waiting room or a
conference hotel.
symbols; they bear the traces of real work. Yet in her installations, they are
eerily quiet. Far from the ‘agency’ of things described by Bruno Latour8, they
are hardly compelling and active. Rather, their muteness throws us back onto
our knowledge, the science with which we get them to run, or onto our
experience, with which we can order and store them away in the background.
But if they are not symbols, what are they? Maybe allegories in the
Benjaminian sense – fragments, contemporary ruins that have been removed
from the all-encompassing context of life? Maybe as allegories they stand as
much for themselves as for anything else? Lainé’s installation is not about
work in a post-Fordist age – it is about nothing. It draws us into a space of
silent objects, into an encounter with deceptively perfect settings, with
broken and fragmented tools, in which we might recognise our own
experiences with neoliberal illusions, our own sapience and affects in
post-Fordism – our specific knowledge, our concrete relationships to and
with objects. Because it avoids the totalising reference of the symbol,
allegory partly subverts representation, in the sense of a meaningful
visualisation. The allegorical thinker ‘accepts things as damaged as they are’,
writes Andreas Greiert on Benjamin’s allegorical perspective9. Allegory,
therefore, challenges our thinking – the thinking of a world that is by no
means in order, yet a thinking that is also affective and opens up a possible
other future. Lainé’s installation seems to translate this Benjaminian allegory
of the fragment into the present of post-Fordist or logistics-capitalistic
infrastructures. Maybe the concrete rubber hamburger refers to a counterpart
in our lives; maybe when looking at the simultaneously concrete and generic
– but in any case cheaply framed – images of a horizon over the sea, we
remember exciting moments or the banal emptiness of a waiting room or a
conference hotel.
Emmanuelle Lainé, Where the Rubber of ourselves Meets the Road of the Wider World, 2017, Palais de Tokyo, Paris.
Maybe we recognise the care of a mother, the attachment of a worker to her colleagues,
colleagues, against whom she is being played off, maybe we know something
about the finesse of machines, about the ability to find our own feelings in
the ghostly world of generic images and to stand by them, to survive, to
produce, to defend ourselves and to continue. These specific relationships to
tools, to things and between humans – which Illich has summed up under the
term ‘conviviality’ – are mostly present in Lainé’s work through their
absence. Lainé’s aesthetics are not relational – or if they are, then only to the
extent that they reveal these relationships. For we may find that her human
diorama of meaningless things refers to ourselves. We encounter the objects
we work with, the means of production that we have long grown used to
investing in ourselves, the loose computer cables, which call upon our
knowledge, our ability to do something else with them than what they were
intended for or what they do to us. Our encounter with objects and tools and
their stories is at once personal and universal. As in Benjamin’s allegory, the
rubber of ourselves meets the road of the wider world.
about the finesse of machines, about the ability to find our own feelings in
the ghostly world of generic images and to stand by them, to survive, to
produce, to defend ourselves and to continue. These specific relationships to
tools, to things and between humans – which Illich has summed up under the
term ‘conviviality’ – are mostly present in Lainé’s work through their
absence. Lainé’s aesthetics are not relational – or if they are, then only to the
extent that they reveal these relationships. For we may find that her human
diorama of meaningless things refers to ourselves. We encounter the objects
we work with, the means of production that we have long grown used to
investing in ourselves, the loose computer cables, which call upon our
knowledge, our ability to do something else with them than what they were
intended for or what they do to us. Our encounter with objects and tools and
their stories is at once personal and universal. As in Benjamin’s allegory, the
rubber of ourselves meets the road of the wider world.
Translated from German by Boris Kremer.
Published in November 2017.
Published in November 2017.
#1 Ivan Illich, Tools for Conviviality (London: Fontana/Collins, 1975), 33.
#2 Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama [1928], trans. John Osborne, (London – Verso, 2009)
#3 Quoted in Emmanuelle Lainé, Incremental Self (2017), 3-channel video installation, HD video, colour, sound, 20 min.
#4 See ‘Welcome to the Jungle: Working and Struggling in Amazon Warehouses’, AngryWorkersWorld, 20 December
2015, https://angryworkersworld.wordpress.com/2015/12/20/welcome-to-the-jungle-working-and-struggling-in-amazon-warehouses/.
#5 Ibid.
#6 Ibid. For an extensive record of the labour dispute at Amazon in Pozna? in 2015, see Ralf Ruckus, ‘Confronting
Amazon’, Jacobin, 31 March 2016, https://www.jacobinmag.com/2016/03/amazon-poland-poznan-strikes-workers.‘
#7 Quoted in: Emmanuelle Lainé, Incremental Self (2017) 20 Min, 3 channels installation , H.D. colour and sound video.
#8 See Bruno Latour, ‘The Berlin Key or How to Do Things with Words’, in Matter, Materiality and Modern Culture, ed. P.
M. Graves-Brown (London – Routledge, 2000), 10–21.
#9 Andreas Greiert, Erlösung der Geschichte vom Darstellenden. Grundlagen des Geschichtsdenkens bei Walter Benjamin
1915–1925 (Paderborn – Wilhelm Fink, 2011), 241.
#1de Ivan Illich, Selbstbegrenzung: Eine politisch Kritik der Technik, übers. v. Ylva Eriksson-Kuchenbuch, C. H. Beck,
München 1998, S. 28
#2de Vgl. Walter Benjamin, „Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels“, in: Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. I-1, Suhrkamp,
Frankfurt am Main 1987, S. 337-409.
#3de Zit. in: Emmanuelle Lainé, Incremental Self (2017), Drei-Kanal-Videoinstallation, HD-Video, Farbe, Ton, 20 Min.
#4de Siehe „Welcome to the Jungle: Working and Struggling in Amazon Warehouses“, AngryWorkersWorld, 20.12.2015, https://angryworkersworld
#2 Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama [1928], trans. John Osborne, (London – Verso, 2009)
#3 Quoted in Emmanuelle Lainé, Incremental Self (2017), 3-channel video installation, HD video, colour, sound, 20 min.
#4 See ‘Welcome to the Jungle: Working and Struggling in Amazon Warehouses’, AngryWorkersWorld, 20 December
2015, https://angryworkersworld.wordpress.com/2015/12/20/welcome-to-the-jungle-working-and-struggling-in-amazon-warehouses/.
#5 Ibid.
#6 Ibid. For an extensive record of the labour dispute at Amazon in Pozna? in 2015, see Ralf Ruckus, ‘Confronting
Amazon’, Jacobin, 31 March 2016, https://www.jacobinmag.com/2016/03/amazon-poland-poznan-strikes-workers.‘
#7 Quoted in: Emmanuelle Lainé, Incremental Self (2017) 20 Min, 3 channels installation , H.D. colour and sound video.
#8 See Bruno Latour, ‘The Berlin Key or How to Do Things with Words’, in Matter, Materiality and Modern Culture, ed. P.
M. Graves-Brown (London – Routledge, 2000), 10–21.
#9 Andreas Greiert, Erlösung der Geschichte vom Darstellenden. Grundlagen des Geschichtsdenkens bei Walter Benjamin
1915–1925 (Paderborn – Wilhelm Fink, 2011), 241.
#1de Ivan Illich, Selbstbegrenzung: Eine politisch Kritik der Technik, übers. v. Ylva Eriksson-Kuchenbuch, C. H. Beck,
München 1998, S. 28
#2de Vgl. Walter Benjamin, „Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels“, in: Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. I-1, Suhrkamp,
Frankfurt am Main 1987, S. 337-409.
#3de Zit. in: Emmanuelle Lainé, Incremental Self (2017), Drei-Kanal-Videoinstallation, HD-Video, Farbe, Ton, 20 Min.
#4de Siehe „Welcome to the Jungle: Working and Struggling in Amazon Warehouses“, AngryWorkersWorld, 20.12.2015, https://angryworkersworld
Nora Sternfeld is an art mediator and curator. She is professor for art education at the HFBK Hamburg. In addition, she is co-director of the /ecm - Master Course for Exhibition Theory and Practice at the University of Applied Arts Vienna, in the core team of schnittpunkt. austellungstheorie & praxis, co-founder and partner of trafo.K, Office for Education, Art and Critical Knowledge Production (Vienna) and since 2011 part of freethought, Platform for Research, Education and Production (London). In this context she was also one of the artistic directors* of the Bergen Assembly 2016 and is 2020 BAK Fellow, basis voor actuele kunst (Utrecht). She publishes on contemporary art, educational theory, exhibitions, historical politics and anti-racism.