In Search of the Infinite
A Conversation on art and philosophy between Dr. Gindi and Ben Ware
The Fugue State by Dr. Gindi
courtesy of Braschler Fischer
Dr. Gindi is a German contemporary sculptor, whose work has been exhibited globally. She uses various mediums to depict human nature in all of its complex forms. Here she speaks to philosopher, social theorist and CPA co-director Ben Ware about the intersections between art and the history of ideas.
BW: I was interested to hear that you had originally trained as a medical doctor. It prompted me to think about that tradition of artists and writers with medical backgrounds — from Van Gogh to Anton Chekhov. Picking up from here, what, in your opinion, does the artist’s eye have in common with the physician’s eye?
DG: Yes, I trained as a physician, and that trains the eye as much as the hand and the mind. You’re trained in visual diagnosis, which helps me in my sculptural process and gives me an appreciation for the body, its fragility and fugacity. When I was younger, I read Gottfried Benn, the German physician and poet. I remember his poem ‘Man and Woman Go Through the Cancer Ward’:
The Fugue State by Dr. Gindi
Come, quietly lift up this coverlet.
Look, this great mass of fat and ugly humours
was once some man's delight,
was ecstasy and home.
Those lines stayed with me. Is there not an empathic gaze for the patients’ dying carcasses? Compare it to a story called ‘A Doctor’s Visit’, by another artist-physician, Anton Chekhov. He describes the doctor’s first rather cold and contemptuous look at the material body of his patient. But then his doctor looks deeper, under the skin, into the soul of the patient. That is similar to what I try to do in my work – look at the human body with sympathy, see beneath the skin, catch a glimpse of the eternal within the transient.
On the other side of the ‘medical gaze’ was Vincent Van Gogh. He stayed with Dr. S. Gachet after he left the asylum at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, and the two developed a patient-doctor friendship. Vincent painted one of his greatest portraits of the doctor, six weeks before he tragically shot himself. What I think Van Gogh, Benn and Chekhov share is the humane ability to see beyond flesh and beyond hierarchical roles, to the psyche or soul within. Can I relate with sympathy and humanity, can I see beneath the skin?
BW: What motivated your move from medicine to art, and specifically to sculpture?
Similar to Gottfried Benn I spent time in the cancer ward, and also in the pathology lab. I learned that we are living matter - our morphology might turn us to be convivial with our sweeping nature as we are growing, connecting, living. I searched further on, trying to approach and understand the ultimate urge of our bare human lump, dissecting what is keeping us together, the feverish secret of life …. which is more than cushions of worn-out flesh. There is desire, there is beauty, there is soul. Well, when dissecting tissues into fine lobes, I subtly aspired - obviously in a figurative sense - to assemble matter into new layers of being. The relative autonomy of this process permitted me to ponder on every reasoning as long as I wanted. And I innately moved on from being a physician to being a sculptor.
BW: Talking about reasoning: another aspect that gives your work its unique depth is its preoccupation with philosophical ideas. At what point, specifically, did philosophy enter your life? And how does this process of bringing philosophy and art together work in terms of your own artistic practice?
DG: The act of creation is, for me, a profoundly philosophical venture, and it evokes the wisdom of Plotinus – whom I started to read as a young adult - and his concept of the One. I do not embark upon my artistic journey armed with neatly packaged philosophical notions, nor do I obediently tread predetermined paths. Instead, what transpires is a dialectical fusion, a dialectical movement, reminiscent of the interplay between the One and the Many in Plotinus' metaphysical musings.
Picture this: It's akin to the Freudian uncanny, where the familiar becomes strangely intertwined with the strange. I commence with a particular artistic impulse, a material, an image, or a form, which is like a manifestation emerging from the realm of the One. But in the very act of creation, as I form the raw clay of existence, philosophical ideas occasionally surface, often like repressed thoughts longing to break free, much like Plotinus' procession from the One to the Many.
In this process, the One, in all its metaphysical purity, finds its dialectical counterpart in the Many, as my art takes form. It's as though I'm delving into the layers of reality, peeling back the surface of the skin to reveal the hidden contradictions, much like Plotinus' journey towards unity and multiplicity. Each move is a Plotinian moment, a revelation of the emanations and their return to the source.
BW: I find your reference to the Freudian uncanny very suggestive here. Of course Freud’s 1919 essay ‘The Uncanny’ is one of the rare moments in his work when he delves into aesthetics. At one point in the text, Freud argues that we moderns energetically create ‘doubles’ (especially in the realm of art) as a defence against our own extinction. But these ‘doubles’ inevitably return as uncanny ‘harbingers of death’, as ghosts or spirits of the dead. How does your own work negotiate this relation between life and death, or better still between finitude and immortality?
DG: I love Freud’s views of the uncanny. And I think the figure of the doppelganger is very interesting for our own times, when the internet’s hall of mirrors is multiplying our personae and they are escaping out of our control (see, for example, Naomi Klein’s latest book).
In my own work, yes, art can be seen as a straining towards the infinite and the eternal, and yes there is a danger of this becoming an illusion, a fetishization, a superstitious attempt to ward off death through art – like a pharaoh mummifying their body, or Dorian Gray staying young through his cursed painting. For myself, I see my art as pointing to the eternal rather than somehow trying to capture and preserve it, a doomed effort which would lead to the ‘revenge of the mummy’ – a very Freudian idea!
BW: Very Freudian indeed! You seem to have had a very rich and varied life, and you have lived in many countries around the world. But then, at a certain point, you become an ‘artist’: with this signifier you confirm your singularity, but also express a very specific desire. But as psychoanalysis teaches us, what we desire doesn’t come from ourselves, but always from the other: ‘desire is always the desire of the Other’, as Jacques Lacan remarks. So who else’s desires — those of other artists, writers, and philosophers, for example — do you see at play in your own work? Who do you find yourself in dialogue with? Who are the ghosts hovering around your studio?
DG: The concept of other artists, writers, or philosophers projecting their desires onto my work is indeed a captivating notion. But let me be unequivocal in my stance: I am not haunted by the lingering spectres of great minds, nor do I dance as a mere disciple of any dogma or school of thought. I am a sculptor whose realm is that of unbridled creation, unburdened by the haunting echoes of the past.
There exists no rigid lineage or intellectual tradition that prescribes the course of my journey. I do not partake in a perpetual dialogue with the ethereal shades of departed masters, nor do I endeavour to tether my work to the confines of any -ism. I resolutely defy these constraining classifications, these intellectual straitjackets that seek to subdue the vivacity of the creative spirit.
You see, in the act of creation, there are moments when you simply allow the currents of existence to flow, to surge as they inherently are. Therein lies an infinite freedom, where the material, the form, and the raw essence of craftsmanship rise to the forefront. There's no need for the invocation of the shadows of bygone philosophers or artists to legitimize my artistic endeavours.
It's about the unsullied, untarnished act of creation, where the very materials themselves become vocal, and the sculpture assumes a life independent of its creator. It is not about succumbing to the chains of a particular lineage. It is about embracing the nebulous, the capricious, and granting the work the autonomy to emerge organically, devoid of the shadow of historical influence.
In this intricate process, there is a conduit through which the Lacanian Other, the nascent, and the unorthodox cascade forth. I simply create, and within the crucible of creation, I unearth a singular expression of the present.
The Fugue State by Dr. Gindi
BW: On the relation between art and philosophy, the German philosopher Walter Benjamin makes what I take to be an important intervention. In one of his early essays, ‘The Concept of Criticism’, he says that every work of art is ‘incomplete in relation to its own absolute idea’ and thus requires philosophy in order to complete it, to unfold its truth. We might, however, also turn this around and say that philosophy, too, requires art in order to discover the truth about itself. This idea of the spirit of art and the spirit of philosophy existing in constant and necessary dialogue is, I think, an attractive and compelling one. In what ways do you see your own work as being invested in this dialogue?
DG: Well, perhaps Walter Benjamin wanted to be an artist! I think the philosopher-critic has their role and the artist has theirs. Artists who try to be critics can lead to the desiccation of the artistic impulse under the weight of critical theorizing. But a dialogue, a dance between equals – yes, that I welcome. Like the dialogue between Wagner and Nietzsche, sometimes mutually inspiring, sometimes fighting. As for philosophy completing art, or art completing philosophy, perhaps complement is a better word than complete. What is ever complete? Benjamin himself spent 13 years on The Arcades Project and never completed it, sadly. There is always something open, mysterious, unfinished, even in the most polished work of art.
BW: In a recent essay for Philosophical Salon, you speak a lot, in relation to one of your recent sculptures, about optimism. Do you think that art’s aim is to make the spectator more optimistic about life? What other kinds of affects or dispositions do you think that art can, or should, aim to generate? I am reminded, at this point, of Francis Bacon’s refrain that the sole aim of his painting is simply to make an impact upon the spectator’s ‘nervous system’. But you seem to be proposing something much more specific, something, I would say, much more ethical. Would you agree?
DG: The question of whether and how art can be moralistic is a profound one, a dilemma that reveals the inherent contradictions of our contemporary culture. You see, in the realm of art, as in life itself, there is a delicate balance to be struck between ethical imperatives and the freedom of expression.
Yet, it is precisely when art becomes overly moralistic that it becomes a tool of ideological manipulation. When art is reduced to a mere instrument of didactic moral lessons, it loses its subversive potential, its ability to disrupt the established order and challenge the dominant ideology.
In this paradoxical twist, the more art tries to be moralistic, the less it achieves its intended moral impact. It is as if the excess of morality turns art into a caricature of itself, rendering it impotent in the face of the complexities of our world. The moralistic art becomes a spectacle, a hollow gesture, devoid of the raw, powerful energy that should characterize genuine artistic expression.
So, the lesson here for me is clear: Art should engage with the moral, but it should do so dialectically, in a way that acknowledges the contradictions, the ambiguities, and the radical potential of human existence. Excessive moralism is a trap that turns art into a mere reflection of our conscious ideals, when it should be a mirror reflecting the unconscious desires, the repressed truths, and the profound uncertainties of our age, touching the nervous system in a very Baconian sense.
An artist may have their own ethical framework and intent, but how a work affects any particular person is always unpredictable. They may bring entirely new experiences to a sculpture. I like that indeterminacy, it’s what keeps art alive through the years and centuries.
BW: We currently find ourselves in a moment where various crises – environmental, economic, geo-political – appear to be converging. How, in such a moment, should art respond? Does art, in periods of crisis, have a duty to become more socially and politically committed? Or (taking up Theodor Adorno’s point) does art, in fact, have an ethical duty to avoid becoming overtly political? For Adorno, the great gesture that art can make, especially in dark times, is simply to keep going on: to keep ideas of non-identity, freedom, and non-instrumental thinking alive. Is this a position you would agree with?
DG: In the interplay of existence's intricate tapestry, one finds oneself standing at the crossroads of crises and contemplation, where the boundaries of art's purpose seem to blur like the outlines of an ever-shifting sculpture. In times when the world's tempestuous elements converge, the question emerges: How should art respond? Does it bear the weighty mantle of social and political commitment, or should it, like Theodor Adorno's enigmatic muse, evade overt political entanglements?
Adorno's cryptic whisper suggests that in the shadows of crisis, art's truest voice may not be one of militant conviction, but rather, the audacious audibility of existence itself. The role of art, akin to Plotinus' ascent towards the One, could be to keep the embers of beauty, freedom, and non-instrumental thinking flickering, preserving the sacred trinity of the human soul.
Yet, in this sculptor's hall of paradox, the question sojourns: Can art remain inert in the face of calamity? Is there not a Sisyphean urgency for it to roll the boulder of change up the mountain of societal predicaments? Adorno's counsel, though sublime, wrestles with the realities of human suffering. One might argue that art, in the theatre of human experience, must not shy away from the stage of political discourse. As Heraclitus pondered, one cannot step into the same river twice. In this ever-flowing river of crises, the duty of art may be to cast its ripples in the quest for change.
Art's dialectical dance unfolds with vagueness, leaving us to ponder whether its ethical compass points to the shores of unadulterated aesthetic contemplation or the turbulent seas of political engagement. It is a dance that echoes the eternal murmur of Plotinus, inviting us to explore our potentialities as sculptors of our own destinies, modelling the infinity of existence with each stroke.
BW: So perhaps there is something about art’s essential ambiguity, then, that might help to guide our thought and action during the present moment?
DG: Yes, I would agree. The paradoxical confluence of art, crises, and ethics invites us to embrace the ambiguity, to tread the delicate balance between Adorno's call for art's pure existence and the exigency for it to engage with the political maelstrom. The sculpture of human potentialities stands, awaiting the artist's touch to shape the destiny of a world in constant flux.