This piece is a collaboration between Venice-based photographer, Katarina
Rothfjell, and Turin-based sociologist, Luigi Russi, both of whom experienced
the onset of quarantine in Italy, in March 2020, in order to contain the spread
of the Covid-19 disease.
An abrupt rupture in the conduct of everyday life punctures an atmosphere of safe
expectations and reveals unsettling new proximities. First and foremost: the
SARS-CoV-2 virus, which is ubiquitous but also invisible. Alongside it: the
prehensile vapours where speech begins, and the erratic soundscapes that keep
vibrating bodies together across open windows.
By charting these proximities, the piece strives to make visible the
‘continuum’ of bodies—human and nonhuman—as they
‘take place’ simultaneously, and affords a glimpse into how the
possibility of agency might be imagined in a posthuman horizon, beyond the
comforting human-centeredness of the Anthropocene.
Covid-19quarantineposthumanagencyAnthropocene
Greetings from the lazaretto1—it’s okay to feel lost. It’s from that yawning gap of sudden
loss that Katarina, a photographer based in Venice, and I, a sociologist based in Turin,
venture for glimpses of articulation in image and word. ‘This is happening to me,
yet I feel like a spectator’—Katarina’s words echo within me like a
bitter truth. The feeling of being dropped into the void is the elephant in the room,
like that other ‘stone guest’2 you
can’t see—Covid-19.
The fall. A rip in the reassuring atmosphere—of knowing what life is meant to look
like day after day. When I think of the Anthropocene, I imagine a thin veneer of
civility etching geological trails on the Earth’s flesh—there’s
something reassuring in the image, a comforting sense of agency in digging cement
foundations into solid ground. Corona brings it floating back. It evokes a continuum
where bodies keep shuffling together and about. Here, it’s less a question of
finding one’s footing, than growing sea-legs to move with the currents (Buckingham 2019), to become sensitive to position
(Grear 2017) and hone different organs of
perception (Bortoft 1996) to respond to the calls
of our surroundings, for another first time (Shotter
2000).
From the fall to a resurrected sense of position/agency—quarantine enfolds it all.
It intensifies the confused multiplicity out of which worlds surge for a time, and into
which they collapse again. This is the turbulent place where colourless green ideas
sleep furiously.
On Monday, 9 March 2020, the Italian government brought into force a Law Decree
establishing a country-wide quarantine in Italy, in response to the alarming spread of
Covid-19. You’ve heard about the virus already? I bet. Everyone knows Corona.
I’m still figuring my way into what seems a city-wide game of make-believe. These
are the rules, as I understand them:
You occupy a sphere with a radius of at least one metre.
Don’t let others in your sphere, or Corona might get you.
No touching allowed. Don’t hug or kiss other participants, or Corona might
get you.
It’s not a game.
It’s not a game, no. But neither does it feel real to move around like a sphere.
I’m a swift stream, and keep coming up against slow-floating bodies digging their
feet into the pavement.
I was floating by
where I wanna be
Floated by, 20193
I can hear birds. And postprandial sirens. The silence. I hear that, too.
Crisp as cessation—you know when urban cacophony drops its hum. I
wasn’t meant to be here—with a plane ticket for Thursday (12
March) and my life in a box, I had a safe ride to the outside.
An old man drags his weight across the sidewalk. I want to overtake him,
but we’d get too close—what if he coughs? So I slow down to his
pace, keeping a distance behind him. At the first opportunity, I step down
to the street and pass him on the other side of a row of parked cars. A
little further along, a woman in a face mask moves out of the way so our
paths don’t cross.
‘It’s not a game’—I repeat to myself, as Carlo resists Skyping
and defiantly proclaims he’d brave the police to see me in person. People are
being asked not to leave their homes unless for strict necessities (like going to work
or shopping for groceries), and must produce a sworn declaration of the purpose of their
outing if questioned by a police officer. I hesitate momentarily before Carlo’s
bravado.
Still, catch-me-if-you-can with the police is not it.
Parks are shut to prevent informal gatherings of people exercising in the
open.
It isn’t a holiday, either.
There’s something raw and unadorned about it.
I’m not sure what it is, actually. I don’t think I’ve visited this
place before, have I?
It’s like the thin veneer of civility has been scraped away; I have trouble
recognising my own kind.
Bodies aloof and adrift, in no particular order.
This description comes close:
During the initial phases of schizophrenia, it is frequent for a whole set of
transformations to emerge: transformations of experience and transformations of the
usual perception of the world, of one’s self, and/or of one’s own body.
These transformations often begin as subtle and diffuse modifications, which do not
stem from delusional content strictly speaking, but rather from the impression of a
change in the general ambience that surrounds the subject (Troubé 2013).
In a word: Wahnstimmung. Ercolani (2010:
12) defines Wahnstimmung as the
‘‘‘emotional storm” giving rise to a zone of turbulent
ambivalence’. I feel this comes close to how I experience the abrupt onset of
quarantine: a sudden volatility, like having the world slip from view behind the moving
blades of a fan. F. F. F. F. F. The world disappears from view long enough to doubt
it’s really there, but not enough to notice the blades that tear at it.
There’s just something in the air.
Wahnstimmung evokes the raw flesh that shows, like an unknown geological
layer, after the veneer of meaning and civility has suffered a rip. I believe this is
the place Chomsky (1957: 15) might have
inadvertently had in mind when he came up with ‘colourless green ideas sleep
furiously.’ For Chomsky, this sentence approximates nonsense—if read
literally. That’s not far from how quarantine can feel, when it is also taken
literally as a space of pure negativity—of simple denial of any possibility for
action.
Literality is a square enclosed on all sides. A perimeter that opens
nowhere.
An already-finished world.
This space of pure negativity conjures an absence: of ‘normality,’ of work as
usual, of a sealed panic room to keep yourself from hyperventilating. As a radical
measure, quarantine is the remedy of last resort that announces a wound, that proclaims
the absence of a reassuring normality (Bashford
2020).
Yet, to take quarantine literally, as only an absence, is tantamount to
speaking from the perspective of the floating skip below, a place where work seems to go
on undisturbed, untouched by the outside. Life in the skip assumes we can always stand
above the current, without touching it. This is nostalgia for the hug of a secluded
atmosphere (Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos 2016). As
if mending the rip that transpires through the quarantine could push the raw layers
forever out of sight, and bring one back to a world that is forever unperturbed from the
outside.4
To find one’s bearings in quarantine is not a matter of searching for solid ground
to stand on—maybe that was always just an illusion. Instead, it is a question of
learning to float on strange currents. From this view, quarantine might be likened to
Esquirol’s asylum, a place where the ubiquitous paradoxes of normality are simply
visible more clearly: ‘in such a house the traits are more vivid, the colours more
alive, the affects bear more contrast, because man shows himself in all its nudity, does
not dissimulate his thought, does not hide his defects’ (Esquirol 1982, cited in
Ercolani 2010: 17). On the back of this
association, quarantine might then be approached as more than just an absence—more
than just the negative of atmosphere. Like Esquirol’s asylum, quarantine folds
everything that already is, making more visible the nimble work involved in staying
afloat—a work that takes place all the time.
Hanging above water isn’t floating.
Following Shotter (2004), the work of
‘making oneself at home’ amidst changing currents is always already
occurring, as bodies dwell alongside other bodies. Temporary islands of coordination
emerge out of the confused entanglement of bodies with one another:
the pulsating flow of spontaneously unfolding, reciprocally responsive
inter-corporeal, inter-activity, between us and our surroundings – a whole
background flow of activity that happens to us, and in the context
of which, what we choose to do takes place and has its significance (2004: 444).5
This means that there is always ‘something’ going on, as bodies respond
spontaneously to other bodies. It brings back into view the already ongoing currents of
pre-linguistic activity in which we find ourselves immersed. Pure negativity, the
absence of atmosphere, is just a trompe l’oeil. Tuning back into
life as a tangle of binding and corresponding lines (Ingold 2008) demands one to take a poetic—not a
literal—approach. This shift makes it possible to imagine that the oily,
colourless green of Venetian waters might stand for our tumultuous pre-verbal
entanglements: stuff that sleeps furiously—and occasionally shimmers in the light.
When this maelstrom comes into view, the bearers of mankind’s original poetic
wisdom are awakened in us, they who ‘expressed their very violent passions by
shouting and grumbling’ (Vico 1984: 116). I
imagine they, too, must have slept furiously over murky intuitions of bodily leanings
and attachments to the others and othernesses calling out to them.
Floating. That instant when the bow lifts elegantly, as currents lap at
the hull.
Dwelling in quarantine, regarded as more than a purely negative void, means beginning to
name ‘real presences’ in our midst that we previously had no names for.
It’s beginning to engage in the work of getting to know them, and getting to know
ourselves yet again, shuffled into different configurations by new entrants.
One of these presences is, in fact, Corona. The Cartesian virus, which demands
disembodying the prehensile, vaporous beginnings of speech into fully-formed words
spoken behind screens (so they don’t get you wet). I never realised that speech
bursts forth in a cloud of spittle—that it is originally vapour and humidity. That
is the space Corona reveals to me, at the same time as it quarantines me to face-to-face
Zoom calls where the gasps, the uhm’s, the sighs from which speech originates are
harder to notice. I never before experienced how the beginnings of speech are less to be
listened to for meaning, and more to be intuited through bodily proximity. Corona
separates out the messiness of relating in a nebulous proximity
that we inhabit nebeneinander (side by side), into terminals located at
opposite ends of a phone line or a screen. My body wails at the loss.
The ‘stone guest’ you can’t miss/can’t see. Its
unexpected appearance–Cartesianism personified in a viral
affect–mops up the suffused vapours of speech into strings of words
transmitted telematically.
Corona quarantines you to Zoom calls in the house of ‘little b’ being, while
stopping speleological explorations in the folds of ‘Big B’6 Being (Shotter,
2016)—its lunar caverns locked under little-visited layers of embodied
experience. There is surely more to communication than transmitting already worked out
messages from opposite ends of a line. Instead, speaking and listening
occur—together—inside a nebulous continuum where speech surges from a
vibrating field of vague pre-verbal sensings (Lipari
2014). The memory of ‘live’ speech (of the pre-Covid-19 sort) now
tastes like a mysterious hum from which extraordinary forms would sometimes rise. I
compare it to a cavern. Caverns, so I’ve heard, often house awe-inspiring rock
formations generated by primordial gases, not of this atmosphere, that have stayed
locked in the depths. Quarantine makes me yearn to catch another glimpse of the
stirring, otherworldly, cavern-like formations that arise ephemerally in
‘live’ speech. I feel as though I were lying in wait inside a
cave—like the biblical Elijah—in the hope of meeting again the whispering
trail of silence before words, before the Anthropocene.
Speech/spittle. To listen is to get your feet wet in a lapping tide. And
to pick up the shells it brings ashore, with the awe of a new
creation—life is passing, providential form pressed into the thirsty
palms of waiting shores.
(Bethsaida. A blind man once had spittle pressed into his eyes, and was
no longer blind).
To remain. Mary Magdalene remained before an empty tomb, until she heard a calling
from behind, just when her sight was impaired by
tears—Rabboni! (Rambo
2010). Resurrections happen by dwelling awhile in abandoned places. New
organs of perception grow and sharpen, till unseen presences finally catch our
attention—obliquely. There are many nuances to nothingness (Souffrant 2017).
All I see, as I examine the picture from my desk in Turin, is the empty
bench. Till Katarina draws my attention to the windows of the
vaporetto (the Venetian bus), with its cargo of spectral absences.
Hollows don’t reveal themselves to an untrained eye—it takes
patient work to grow a new discriminative sense, to find names for the
features of our surroundings that spontaneously ‘activate’ our
attention.
As eyes adjust and ears tune in, rivulets surface through the cracks. We begin to notice
those next to whom our life might go on. Proximity with other bodies
continues—that, truly uninterrupted—even in quarantine.
Adjacent presences keep whispering in the background. They carry a memory
that our work hasn’t stopped. Something
remains—always.
This is orienting to the calls in our surroundings ‘for another first
time.’
I hear clapping. An elderly lady is clapping at her dog on her balcony. A
young couple surge from behind a flag—he claps. I clap in response.
White heads venture out of the blinds opposite. They clap. A bald lady is
brought out onto a terrace by her carer. Chemotherapy. Clap. Something
stirs. Clap. A mother opens the window for restlessly curious eyes. They,
too, clap. All these faces live here. Clap-clap-clap. This is what
‘orienting to the calls in our surroundings for another first time’
means. Clap. I come back to my desk—tears
stay with the event that just flowed, as it slowly ebbs away.
New vapours exude like stardust, this time through open windows. Quarantine begins to
draw one into new entanglements, into an awareness of position that slowly dawns. It
entails learning to name that which we discover ourselves to be already moving within, a
soundscape of strange waves that began visiting our shores before we even had ears to
hear.
‘Si stat’ … ‘o primm’ ammore … o primm’
e ll’ùrdemo sarraje pe’ mme’ blasts from an open
window. Forza Napoli! The unmistakable pitch is Massimo
Ranieri: my father’s favourite. Meridionali where
you’d least expect them. The chorus surges in my diaphragm, I want to
belt it out, but I’m self-conscious. ‘O surdato
‘nnamurato (1972), my late
grandmother’s signature song, woke her out of dementia—in a
different sort of quarantine—during one of our last real moments
together. Something opens. Exhilaration bubbles in me, like a quickening.
Maybe, within a couple of weeks, this street will not look too different
from a vascio in the Spanish Quarter of
Napoli.7
A crowd of private lives entangling fearlessly, and furiously, as they
correspond through open windows.
There is no outside, only currents to float with past the bend.
Breathe.
Maybe I was always there
—Floated by, 2019
Life in and out of quarantine is being constantly re-folded on a shifting vibrational
continuum of riffs and hums that—like music from a neighbour—pass through
porous walls. There is no outside in this continuum:
Whether you are a quark, an amoeba or a person, you undergo this continual process of
sorting through these three inputs: what you inherit from the world, what’s
possible in your context, and what you do about it. This is the cause of our
freedom. We are not bound by the past. It is not a deterministic system. We can do
something new (Coleman 2008: 51).
Yes, bodies together are always onto something new—and that’s the cause of
our freedom.
A gaping wound in the sand, quarantine reveals jarring sights of
inordinate folds. Moments of spaciousness and floating fold back into dried
up craters.
Coda
It’s been two weeks since the expansiveness of that last breath. Two weeks I
have spent in a small flat, with little natural light, its floor bearing the marks
of heavy pacing—like ‘Il Consorzio’ beach below,
once the commotion has faded and only crumpled traces remain in its wake. I’ve
tried leaving the quarantine once more. Yet again, my flight has been cancelled. As
I go over the reviewers’ feedback to the first draft of this piece, I feel I
have lost touch with the silver lining that gifted me a sigh of relief a page ago.
Today, I’m speechless again. So much so, that I don’t know how to
respond to this comment, by one of the reviewers, because it opens a breach I am
unable/unwilling to close:
Having had to find our own bearings in ‘lockdown’ conditions, the
account given by the piece now has to compare with our own [the readers’]
experience; and it may not (does not) resonate. … confinement may not be
experienced as a void; rather, it may be all too concrete and familiar,
oppressive rather than empty (italics added).
The ‘metaphors used in the text are often infelicitous,’ especially since
‘word and image do not yet build on each other’s missives sufficiently
to create a convincing dialogue.’8 I
don’t know how to un-crumple that which cleaves too closely without leaving
any space. This contraction of speech that at once packs in too much and says too
little: how might that bear a trace of the experience of quarantine? What if the
reviewer’s dissatisfaction could help amplify the cacophonous quality of
quarantine, in which ‘sentences [do!] begin to read like ‘colourless
green ideas sleep furiously”’?
‘Colourless green ideas sleep furiously’ is a grammatically correct
sentence, which ostensibly means nothing—this is Chomsky’s claim. Read
in quarantine, I argue it gestures to a perturbed continuum of spontaneous bodily
responses that suddenly make it to the surface—all at once—and remind me
of the oily Venetian waters lapping, half menacingly, at gondolas. In colourless
green waters, an omen sleepy and furious at the same time, floating on currents
might move one past the bend for a while, before leading one back to the quicksand
of encountering irreducible otherness—of being stared at silently, as if by
the mouth of the canal below. A position is possible, but it does not grow into a
stable footing—it falls away quickly in the breath of just a page.
‘Yes, bodies together are always onto something new and
that’s the cause of our freedom—and our
confinement’.9
This piece came to be by allowing Katarina’s images to unsettle me. Photos drew
speech out. Like a clam, however, my speech remains encrusted with all sorts of
seaweed, so it is not always easy to open. This, I think, is what the aforementioned
reviewer has picked up. It’s a strange, cacophonous sort of utterance.
Bringing this process back to memory, however, helps me better articulate the
experience from/of which this piece speaks. The sites of Venice portrayed in
Katarina’s photos have not spoken to me as sights of Venice
(I have only visited Venice once, years ago). Rather, as I let myself be unsettled
by them, they intensified certain feelings that quickened violently and mutely as I
shivered with the rapidity of quarantine. Quarantine eventually spoke to me through
the walls and canals and waters and boats of Venice—it was like being
simultaneously poured outwards yet deeper inwards, folded in a Moebius strip.
Composing this piece has allowed me to experience more closely the contrast offered
by materiality in its unspeaking thickness, staring at me from the
back of Katarina’s photographs. This endeavour has alerted me to a possible
way of working, as a body alongside other bodies, with ‘objects that
object’ and stir and unsettle me. Other bodies intensify what’s already
bodying forth somewhere in my senses, they draw forth resonances by which I might
sound that out—just as I lean on a veined brick, on disturbed sand, on ruffled
streams.
What is intensified in me, then, as I lean on/away from SARS-CoV-2? The
unpredictable, bat-like presence of a virus of which the best-known attribute might
be its elusiveness and ubiquity. I have found dealing with it a test of sanity.
Speaking of sanity, Ercolani (2010) gets close
to the precarity of any grip one might have on it:
Madness means to experience without interruption the condition of being
‘eradicated’ from the world. Becoming an artist is to manage this
condition, only just, to experience it not as prophecy, command, revealed truth,
but as a repository of images, sounds, compositions—inexhaustible source
of a thousand truths yet to be revealed.
This piece is in a way a meditation on how finding agency in the Virocene might be
inextricable from an experience of becoming de-centred,10 of unclasping one’s grip on sanity, of speaking inarticulately
when confronted by material presences that stun and perturb. Standing is not
afforded, here, by solid Anthropocen-tring ground, but by the craft
or artistry of growing sea-legs that sometimes move with the
currents, and just as often get one bogged down in quicksand.
I have chosen to end the piece with ‘graffiti’ conveying a
reviewer’s voice that’s not my own, a voice I found both disturbing and
revealing, because it creates a fracture. It fractures the tapestry I had carefully
woven, as I tried to find my own footing in quarantine. As I end this piece, the
sense of knowing where I stand is gone again. This, however, brings into question
the distinction between having a centre and finding a position. The Anthropocene, by
positing mankind as prime mover, ‘takes centre’. In the wake of slipping
from that centre, one might only find a position, and then experience it falling
away again. Being able to track the rising and falling of our bearings, without
trying to consolidate centrality—this is the ethical crossing that SARS-CoV-2
seems to invite. It evokes work of a difficult sort: that of attuning to bodies that
draw forth our response, at the same time as they rupture it.
An isolation hospital for people with infectious diseases
‘Stone guest’ is an expression adapted from the title of one of Tirso
de Molina’s plays, namely The Trickster of Seville and the Stone
Guest (Edwards 1986). The
play revolves around the encounter between Don Juan, the protagonist, and the
statue of the deceased Don Gonzalo, whom Juan has murdered. The statue of Don
Gonzalo constitutes a mute and menacing presence, which—through being
taken too lightly by Don Juan—ends up causing the latter’s demise.
The term ‘convitato di pietra’ (stone guest) has
become an Italian idiom for just such an eerie presence that might be at work in
a situation, albeit without it being possible to see exactly how it operates. It
is an apt metaphor for the agency of the SARS-CoV-2 virus, the presence of which
is palpable, though hard to witness.
Peter Cat Recording Co (2019). I’m
indebted to Anna Lena Hahn for suggesting ‘Floated by’ as an added
layer, to listen for the mood sketched by the text and images. There’s
something sleepy and furious about world-weary trumpet riffs.
Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos (2016) uses
the word ‘atmosphere’ to describe an arrangement where the outside
is recreated in domesticated form, thereby reinforcing a desire to remain
enclosed within. I have elsewhere (Russi
2016) compared this to M. Night Shyamalan’s The
Village, where Amish villagers never want to leave their dwelling
for fear of monsters inhabiting the woodland that separates them from the wider
world—which monsters turn out to be some of the villager elders
themselves, dressed in a costume. The picture of a suspended skip reproduced in
the text also provokes some thoughts on the ‘vaccination’ to
come(?). Inoculation with a weakened version of the virus, a simulacrum of
SARS-CoV-2, will likely make it possible for life to go on again, unperturbed.
This is an example of how, despite everything, atmospheres make a version of
life possible, even though this is achieved by confining otherness to manageable
harbours, in such a way that the delicate and hazardous work of floating on open
waters—the work of withdrawal—recedes in the background, and takes
on the status of something to be avoided at all costs. Perhaps,
Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos’ (2020)
suggestion that the Covid-19 pandemic ushers in an ‘ethics of
withdrawal’ points to exactly this: to a world where the work of
withdrawal needs to be met again. It’s precarious, risky work. The fact
that it is precarious and risky gives it away as precisely a work of
withdrawal—that is, laced with the painful rupture of
a lingering desire for sameness and predictability.
Shotter uses the term ‘inter-activity’ here, as if to suggest
entities separate from each other. He later took up Barad’s (2007) suggestion to use
‘intra-activity’ to emphasise co-emerging sites of activity in the
folds of a continuum (Shotter, 2014).
Shotter (2016) articulates a tension
between ‘little b’ being and ‘big B’ Being, as a way to
distinguish between experience that’s been domesticated and thematised
into language (‘little b’ being), and the background, pre-linguistic
sensing activity with which language has to reckon, but can never fully express
(‘big B’ Being). His use of this terminology—and particularly
‘big B’ Being—is drawn from Heidegger (1977).
A vascio is a type of ground floor dwelling overlooking the
narrow alleyways of the Spanish Quarter of Napoli (Celotto 2012). The atmosphere of the vasci
is characterised by an uncommon display of private lives through open
windows.
I am reproducing comments from an anonymous reviewer of this piece.
This is a verbatim quotation from the response to this piece by an anonymous
reviewer. It is not my conclusion, and I do not wish to pass it for mine. Still,
I’d like to own it: it dissipates the illusion of position—it only
lasted a breath after all.
The sense of de-centering evoked by the relinquishment of human centrality in
favor of situatedness on a continuum with other bodies is conveyed powerfully by
Graziano Panfili’s photographic collection ‘CORONAVIRUS:
Postcards from Italian webcams’ (Panfili, 2020). Panfili’s ‘postcards’,
captured from the unusual angles policed by webcams, offer equally unusual takes
on popular tourist sites, conveying a sense of dislocation, of slippage, of an
unstable frame.
Competing Interests
The authors have no competing interests to declare.
Author Contributions
While the final project has been approved by both authors, the text was drafted by
Luigi Russi, while the photographs were supplied by Katarina Rothfjell.
Author Information
Luigi Russi is a Turin-based sociologist, and co-convenor of the Research-in-Action
Community, Schumacher Society.
Katarina Rothfjell is a photographer based in Venice, Italy.
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