Holding a Moment : Ways of Seeing in King: A Street Story. Ellen Kokontis

Transcription

1 Holding a Moment : Ways of Seeing in King: A Street Story Ellen Kokontis Ways of Seeing, since it first aired on the BBC in 1972, has become an extremely influential doctrine to art historians and literary critics alike. The main argument of the series is that oil paintings were not objects bought for purely aesthetic reasons, but objects that reflect other objects the patron already owns for the purpose of glorifying his status. In portraits, a person s clothes reflect his social class, landscapes idealize his property, and still lifes reproduce what he already owns and makes it available for overt display. The culture that facilitated oil paintings has died out, and today we are left with advertisements as our link to that world. Advertisements refer to oil paintings in their poses, gestures, depiction of pleasure, their symbols of prestige, and in countless other ways (Ways of Seeing). My discussion of this program in relation to King: A Street Story will start with one small moment but eventually will shed light on the novel s function in a capitalistic society. The novel is not interested in capitalism, but it is obsessed with it. It is this obsession that transforms King from status symbol to art object to transcend the limits of either category. In the fourth installment of Ways of Seeing, John Berger reveals the disturbing juxtaposition of a photojournalism essay on Pakistani refugees against the accompanying advertisements on the facing pages. A half-pint of Pimm s, a mixed cocktail, stands out against a stark white background that reads: The song is ended, but the melody lingers on. A Pakistani woman clutches a small boy to her breast and looks out of the frame in terror. A group of aged, bearded men huddle together in front of the camera. A young

2 2 woman enjoys the last flavorful drop from a red and shining can of Coca-Cola. Berger concludes from this strange pairing of images that The words and pictures on these pages all appear to be real and all belong to the same language the text, the photographs taken in Pakistan, the photographs taken for the publicity, the editing of the paper, the layout, the printing. All are elements of the same culture our culture. Yet between each page there is such a fissure, such a disconnection, such incoherence, that once can only say this culture is mad. On pages like these, reality itself becomes unrecognizable. (Ways of Seeing) Faced with the conflict of these images, any sort of truth conveyed by either is voided. We can neither take the plight of the Pakistani refugees to be a cause worth fighting for, nor can we believe in the deliciousness of the can of Coca-Cola. Because they both use the same method of communication words and pictures one loses one s faith in that system. Berger s King of 1999 is removed from Ways of Seeing by more than 20 years, but many of these same ideas of madness, visual noise and disjunction spring up in the later novel. As Vico waits for Vica in the doorway of a shoe repair shop, King observes a scene out of place with the world with which he is familiar the world scavenging and shanty towns. A motorcycle messenger has stopped to buy an Orangina at the Pizza Hut. Helmet off, sitting astride the bike, he pours the juice down his throat and washes away the dirt, and its coldness puts a sweet hand on his fatigue. Orangina (94). The description of the refreshment is the literary equivalent of the color photograph of the 1970 s or the oil painting of the 16 th -19 th centuries; they are depictions of objects in all their tactility that glorify not the objects themselves, but their owners (or potential owners in the case of the advertisement). Here is a rugged man, covered in the grit of the city, looking to revive himself. He chooses an Orangina for its magical restorative powers; it

3 3 is an elixir akin to that of the Fountain of Youth. The repetition of the brand name, the colors in our head already the unnatural speedy red of the Pizza Hut, the unmentioned but unmistakable chrome of the motorcycle combine with the eponymous orange of the beverage to transport one away from this street for a moment to a sublime place. King, the dog, gets caught up in the diversion as well, and forgets his conversation with Vico. They have been talking about a blind dog, but when Vico interrupts to ask what it was King just said, the Orangina stays with him. I said, Orangina for the messenger (94). Vico replies, You re wandering, King, wandering out of your mind (94). Vico ignores the Orangina man, or pretends not to notice him. King, however, tries to hold on to that image, and is thus drawn into the madness of the collision of the two worlds. The two moments exist at the same time in the novel, but there is no communication between them, only an odd stumbling of sorts from one to the other. The absurdity of the seductive Orangina episode (or commercial, if you will) is underscored by what surrounds it. Berger asserts, What surrounds the publicity image is us as we are. Our cities are papered with pictures of what we might buy; papered with dreams, which invite us to enter them. But they exclude us as we now are. Behind the paper are hidden our needs (Ways of Seeing). Surrounding the Orangina episode is the discussion of a master s compassion for his blind dog; he leaves trails of newspaper so the dog can find its food while he s away. Vico does not need an Orangina to wipe away the years of humiliation, hunger and nagging memory. He does not even need a hot meal or better accommodations, which are all he is ever offered (155). Looking from the messenger on the motorcycle to Vico and King is like turning the page from a Sunday brunch banquet to the decaying face of a dead man.

4 4 The purpose of the Orangina advertisement, however, is not typical product placement that one sees in movies and on television. Instead it proves Vico s absolute disconnection with the world of capitalism, which has forced him into his current state. King is unique, because the very strong emphasis the book places on capitalism is so buried that it is almost imperceptible. Rather, it is outwardly interested in its characters that find themselves in their situation because of (or perhaps in spite of) capitalism. Vica and Vico s purpose is basic they find food and maintain their shelter. They sell different sorts of products of the earth radishes, chestnuts, corn, daffodils but the money they make does not interest them. It doesn t go toward anything, and they don t bother saving any of it with plans of social elevation for the future. All of their possessions of value they have found, not bought, and this doesn t bother them. This is not to say that Vico doesn t hourly contemplate suicide or that Vica never weeps in frustration or desperation. But they do not actively seek a way out of their situation; thus they do not criticize the system. Instead they have stories. Of these stories, King says, Stories repeated over and over again become like pieces of furniture, and people have little furniture here so they repeat their stories (34). Their possessions are the words on the page, and they cling to these words as symbols to others and perhaps themselves most of all of who they are, what has become of them and where they belong. If oil paintings are proof of the patron s place, then adamant possession of stories places the inhabitants of St. Valéry. Yet if stories are the only thing that Vico and Vica can call theirs, the owner of this book must contend with the idea that he or she has essentially paid for the only thing that they have. Like an oil painting, a book is a status symbol. It is something to buy for

5 5 entertainment purposes, but also to show one s education. A full bookshelf signifies intelligence. Owning a book about homelessness signifies empathy, cultural understanding and awareness. A book s tangibility allows its owner to say who he is without words. And yet it is Vico and Vica s words that fill this book and turn it into an object that can be bought and sold in the marketplace. But it is too reductive to point out this contradiction in King, because the same could be said of all novels. Instead, a look back at Ways of Seeing will unearth evidence of how this book is exempt from the capitalist tradition in which it finds itself. Amongst the clutter of paintings that exist to prove a man s wealth and prestige are a simple few that exist as they are quiet moments that absorb the viewer entirely, even if just briefly. Berger shows a picture of Vermeer s Woman Holding a Balance on the screen and says: The light falls on her face, on her fingers, on the scales, on the pearls. The moment has been preserved. And as we realize that the way it has been preserved we realize that the moment, like every moment, was unrepeatable. It is as though she is holding the moment between her forefinger and thumb on the scales of the past and the future. Despite its apparent celebration of property, this painting is about the mystery of light and time as we look up at the stars. (Ways of Seeing). The discussion of this painting opens up possibilities for King. Vermeer s patron would have had to participate in the very real Dutch capitalist system in which he painted. Yet the painting is not necessarily a status symbol, but the form of one with a deeper significance. Therefore to buy King, read it, and put it back on one s bookshelf is not to contradict its meaning, but to exist in a capitalistic world without being of that world. The reader becomes like Vico, who does not concern himself with the man drinking Orangina, and is thus elevated beyond the disparity of the two worlds. Vico does not

6 6 hope for the empty promises of advertising, but goes on collecting King s story about the blind dog. Like the Vermeer, then, the novel is the necessary linkage that alleviates the sheer madness promised by Berger in his juxtaposition of the Pakistani refugees and its surrounding advertisements. King is the bridge between the worlds of art and commerce. Works Cited Berger, John. King: A Street Story. New York: Random House, Ways of Seeing. Prod. Mike Dibb. Written John Berger. British Broadcasting Corporation, 1972.