Articles
Is Nostalgia a Resistance to Change?
This exploration of nostalgia and its role in the shaping of our self-identity, adult relationships, and as a coping mechanism emerged from an intrapersonal conflict about my own longing for the past and the constant fear of thinking that nothing will ever be able to replicate the passion of experiencing things for the first time in one’s youth.
Something is unsettling about the idea that we may have already lived our most vivid moments. That the first love, the first city, the first independence, the first rupture remains unmatched simply because they were first.
Johannes Hofer originally coined the word "nostalgia" itself in 1688, and, contrary to popular belief, it actually originated from the medical field, not philosophy or psychology. Drawing on Svetlana Boym’s The Future of Nostalgia (2001), what was once considered a psychological disorder, or in other words an “epidemic”, initially thought only to affect displaced soldiers and sailors, is now regarded as a normal human emotion with potential advantages. Boym describes nostalgia as an emotion that moves sideways rather than moving linearly backward or forward. Nostalgia’s focus is on memory and expectation, allowing us not only to inhabit the past but also to explore the potentialities of the future and the present. It is, in a way, a refuge but also a cage.
Nostalgia can be explored not only in relation to memory and romantic relationships, but also as a condition that coincides with exile. As Edward Said explains, “Exile originated in the age-old practice of banishment. Once banished, the exile lives an anomalous and miserable life, with the stigma of being an outsider. Refugees, on the other hand, are a creation of the twentieth-century state. The word ‘refugee’ has become a political one, suggesting large herds of innocent and bewildered people requiring urgent international assistance, whereas ‘exile’ carries with it a touch of solitude and spirituality.” He, like Nietzsche, argues that it is part of morality not to be at home in one’s home.
The term “migrant,” on the other hand, implies the voluntary estrangement from one’s home, framing the migrant as a choice, leaving little room for nostalgia, and experiencing it as an obstacle to growth.
Exile may position the subject in a permanent state of rupture between self and homeland, and repeated returns to “what once was” shape memory, narration, and self-perception, potentially making the subjects of nostalgia in question unreliable narrators of their own stories.
Why does nostalgia arise as a coping mechanism? Does it help us make peace with the past without the need to suppress it? Or does it emerge as an emotional reflex as we are faced with change? How does such a nostalgic attachment hinder adaptation and emotional growth?
Nostalgia operates differently across different types of immigration, ranging from deliberate erasure of one’s culture, complete and utter assimilation to a new culture, or a newfound idealized attachment to one’s homeland. While some immigrants suppress nostalgia to assimilate, others may cling even more to idealized narratives of their homes as a means of preserving the identity they believe they have. These varying reactions reveal nostalgia as a flexible emotion; at times, enabling adaptation while functioning as a form of resistance at others.
Building on Lauren Berlant’s Cruel Optimism (2011), nostalgia emerges as a potentially “cruel” attachment. Berlant argues that optimism is not inherently cruel; however, it becomes so when the object of desire actively interferes with the satisfaction it promises; in Berlant’s words, “draws your attachment actively impeding the initial aim that brought you to it”. Therefore, nostalgia can be seen as cruelly optimistic, sustaining but greedy, bittersweet.
Perhaps the reasoning behind my interest in this topic is the fear that I will always be looking back, stuck in a constant comparison between the present and the past, consciously resisting the change that comes along with growth.
Nostalgia shapes our perspective of the world while being fed by the very longing it creates. It exists between refuge and rupture, between preservation and distortion, between comfort and stagnation.
The Real Prisoner: The Photographer
An analysis of the “Pluto’s Cave” chapter by Susan Sontag.
I want to start this article with the quote,
“When we are afraid, we shoot. But when we are nostalgic, we take pictures” by Susan Sontag.
Today, everyone has a phone with a proper camera or at least one digital camera; some even have a Polaroid and an analog camera to go along with it. We take pictures every day, multiple times a day. In my opinion, this stems from our extreme fear of losing moments forever.
Fear of understanding that a moment was important later on, not having a physical or digital copy of it, and eventually forgetting how that moment felt or looked.
Especially in times like these, where trends are changing at lightning speed, our attention spans consist of 30 seconds of TikTok videos, and everyone has suddenly tuned into their creative endeavors, it feels utterly important for us to document every minute of our lives, almost to have “proof” that we exist and have a piece of us live on after.
We have a need to be remembered; however, being remembered means sacrificing our own memories and experiences only to replace them with a digital commemoration, almost too scared to just live without the protection of the camera between us and the world.
“A way of certifying experience, but also a way of refusing it”
And although we take a lot of photographs of our everyday lives, we are still unstable narrators of our own stories.
When a simple crop of a photograph can imply different meanings, no one can understand our life through photographs, but they only have implications on what it may have been like. Photography has turned into an almost perverted prison for people, objects, or memories, making them passive, and we are merely addicted consumers.
The camera intrudes and trespasses from a distance; when the photographer is taking a picture, they actively choose to eternize a slice of time with no place for consent.
However, the question that I ponder over is whether the photographers are the real prisoners being trapped by their own need to capture (“shoot”), slowly turning into nothing more than voyeurs looking from the outside in on life only through a Fujifilm camera lens.
Coming back to the quote I mentioned at the start, I think now, when we are afraid of being nostalgic, we take pictures, therefore we shoot.
The Borders Of Art
An analysis of Daniel Albright's "Panaesthetics" introduction.
Some may consider everyone to be an artist, like the German artist Joseph Beuys, who quotes, “TU ES AUS LIEBE,” which means “DO IT WITH LOVE.” In his poem explaining “How to Be an Artist,”
However, I would like to start this essay by asking the question we must ask at the start: What is the meaning of art?
The word “art” comes from the Greek word Artis, which means “acquired skill.” However, can we call all acquired skills art? And what defines the borders of each art form, differentiating one from another?
In Charles Baudelaire’s poem Echoes, he writes,
“The scents and colors respond to each other.”
which, to me, is the basis of art and our topic today: combining the senses.
In Daniel Albright’s book, he explains how the Romantics liked to believe that there is a single Art that refracts itself into separate arts, like light through a prism. In this particular context, I think our senses may be this so-called art prism; the way we see colors, shapes, and forms understand paintings, our ears understand music through the harmonies in our soul, and our tongue understands the play in words turning into poetry. This brings me to Merleau Ponty Maurıce’s Cézanne’s Doubt article.
Cezanne always made it a point to learn from the nature around him; he didn’t just want to paint what he saw but what he felt. He painted in new tones and colors, abandoning outlines just in hopes of fully capturing what his senses were experiencing when looking at nature; he wanted to make nature and art the same; in this way, he connected all art to the body, like a light through a prism.
Some have tried to diversify the arts, almost turning them against each other; however, what makes poetry different from song? If the only difference we can see is the harmony, then I wouldn’t call this a particular difference but a transformation, like mixing the colors red and yellow to make orange.
However, I agree with Daniel Albright’s view: “The arts themselves have no power to aggregate or to separate, they are neither one nor many but will gladly assume the poses of unity or diversity according to the desire of the thinker.” I think the only true separation in the arts can be done with our intention.
Is it the artist’s intent to write poetry or lyrics, music or song? The intention of the artist or thinker is what can make a difference.
The thing that can separate the arts is our (the viewer’s) intentions and perception.
We can observe poems, paintings, sonnets, and sculptures all about the same topic, but perceive them very differently due to our past experiences and knowledge about the topic, maybe even deriving completely different meanings from the same works.
The first of the four theses Albright discusses in his introduction is: “Anything is an artwork to the extent that it looks made.”
He writes that the Matterhorn (the mountain of the Alps) is as much an artwork as the Mona Lisa. This leaves me with a fairly juxtaposed opinion on the matter; if you believe in a God or a creator of the universe, then yes, the Matterhorn and the whole universe, in fact, can be seen as a piece of art, just like the Mona Lisa. However, even if you don’t believe in a creator, our whole life, memories, and the way we experience the world shape what we perceive as art or aesthetically pleasing. Albright also quotes from Nietzsche:
“Meaning is generated from the interaction of our minds with the intention that we imagine to have created the object we scrutinize.”
To put it simply, we create meaning (meaning is generated) based on what we believe the artist’s intention was (with the intention that we imagine to have created the object). Therefore, this all ties back to what I have mentioned previously: even if we are just guessing, our understanding of a certain piece of art all leads back to us.
Before moving on to the next thesis, I would like to briefly talk about Robert Rauschenberg, who is mentioned in Albright’s introduction.
Rauschenberg was an American Artist who revolutionized the “collage” as an art form, breaking the borders of the 2D world and introducing the collage as a work of art that can also be part of the 3D world. He combined painting, sculpture, and real-life objects, turning them into art. For example, his work “Monogram,” in my opinion, was ahead of his time; he made people (and me) question what we consider art and challenged what was considered museum-worthy.
The second thesis Albright mentioned, Art is a Voodoo Doll, talks about how artwork exercises influence on the mind. He writes that art is neither expressive nor non-expressive, an opinion with which I fully agree. A specific work of art is only special to me if I find something in it of myself. When an artwork makes me recall a forgotten memory, ignites passion or inspiration in me, or reminds me of myself or the me that I envision becoming, that is when I am drawn in. When we see pieces of ourselves in an artwork that transcends its form and almost becomes human, we see the life and blood rushing through.
“You must let it change your life.”
For example, Rainer Maria Rilke, being inspired by Apollo’s sculpture, turned it into a poem (an artwork) of his own. We must let the artwork transform us and arouse certain emotions, even ones we have tried desperately to block off.
The third thesis mentioned is: Art is about art, art history, and history.
I believe that no artwork is utterly original. I think that as humans, it is in our nature to be inspired, take, change, and alter everything around us. Therefore, the search for originality is pointless from where I see it. No artwork is of less value because it is a transformation of what has come before.
For example, Nuri Bilge Ceylan, one of the most famous directors in Turkey, references and takes inspiration from Dostoyevsky. Nuri Bilge likes to create alienated, lonely, and emotionally distant lead male characters who take a lot of inspiration from Dostoyevsky’s novels. His films also deal with inner conflict and guilt; most of his films have a sort of fight to the truth theme, which is reminiscent of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Therefore, Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s films are no less valuable just because they are inspired by Dostoyevsky.
“There is no painting, however abstract or random, that does not gesture toward the Lascaux caves and toward the creation of the universe,” Albright sees this as a tragic occurrence, the fact that every artwork presupposes its own destruction, however, in my opinion, this so-called gesturing to the past makes the past live longer, making us forever looking and finding pieces of the world in everything that comes our way.
Lastly, we have come to the fourth thesis: Art is both a language and a not-language. This notion ties in with the previous mentions of art. It is only our understanding of it, but what this last discussion adds is the language factor. Language is what ultimately intertwines all art media together.
“Every artwork can be located in the domain of language, where everything is so relatable to everything else.”
Humans are collected by language, not speech, which is an important factor to differentiate. Speech does not stay up in the air for long, but language is not speech; it is the tool through which humans have communicated and been able to understand each other for centuries. We compare and analyze all arts through language, our language, however, as Albright says, there has to be another space where these artworks have no meaning, where meaning has no meaning.
He says, “Every artistic medium is a language, but I can say this only because language understands everything as language.” We have a habit of saying that art forms are a language, music is a language, dance speaks, and film has a certain grammar. However, we can only call art a language because we are using language. We can only look and talk about things through the lens of language.
I’d like to end this essay with this quote from Cezanne:
“They created pictures; we are attempting a piece of nature.”
So maybe, just for a moment, we can look at nature as art, natura naturans.