FANTASTIC VOYEUR
BY FRED VERMOREL
Lurking on the Dark Side of Biography
Village Voice Literary Supplement, November 2001
Like everything else today, biography is about celebrity.
Creating it, celebrating it, knocking it. We have little time or taste anymore
for that forgotten genre of modest reckoning, where "nonentities"
could find publishers and publics for nothing more or less than life lived—a
few lessons learned. For example, M. Vivian Hughes's A London Family, 1870-1900
is so reserved, so populated by the humdrum and homely, that when the one big
event happens—the death of her father—we are as devastated as she means us to
be. Today, you need a line to fame or power to make you sexy: J. Edgar Hoover's
lieutenant or Diana's ex-bodyguard or ex-boyfriend.
Two things intervened to change the face of biography: the
celebrity industry and popularized psychoanalysis. Both are offshoots of the
Romantic movement, which, as one American scholar put it, is the big bang of
modern culture.
The Romantics invented modern celebrity. Byron and Napoleon
were exemplary Romantics with a flair for news value and "human
interest" stories: revolutionary, volcanic, excessive, restless, sexually
voracious with "unusual" tastes, hovering between lunacy and
inspiration—the emperor riding to battle with Young Werther in his saddlebag;
the poet dead in a quest to liberate Greece (decked out in Michael Jackson
generalissimo camp). Byron was a showman and self-publicist who knew how to
blend his biography with his art into a seductive mystique in which—and this is
crucial to Romanticism and to contemporary celebrity—deeds become synonymous
with the "work," the personality inextricable from the individual,
the individual rooted in the legend.
The foundational Romantic text was Jean-Jacques Rousseau's
Confessions. Rousseau began with the assertion that here, for the first time
ever, was an autobiography that gave it all away, told it all. The killer
ingredient, which sold the book for over two centuries on a whisper and a nod,
was Rousseau's confession of sexual masochism and his recollection of the
childhood spankings that provoked it. Aside from this, Confessions is 600 or so
pages of dissimulation, self-contradiction, treachery, special pleading,
innuendo, raving, revenge, and lies. But what gushes out is the overwhelming
"presence" of Rousseau himself: the paranoiac, the plaintiff, the
pervert. The scandalous incoherence of precisely this person, no better, after
all, than he should be, behaving badly, just like us in fact: real, really
here.
It wasn't long before behavior itself became considered an
artwork—think of Arthur Rimbaud, Oscar Wilde, the Beats, Kurt Cobain, and
innumerable rock stars, or most modern artists since Duchamp. Think of the way
van Gogh's slashed ear has become as much an artifact of his oeuvre as
Sunflowers. Such genius-type behavior was a script to follow to whatever
bittersweet closure: despairing suicide, or sudden death in pursuit of the
ineffable. There's some debate about which of these INXS singer Michael
Hutchence achieved, but, discovered dangling from a hotel door with a stiffie,
he was an instructive illustration of that key Romantic invention, the
full-time genius, who, as Sartre quipped, is a genius all the time, even in the
morning while cracking open a boiled egg.
Cue Freud. Psychoanalysis is an intensely Romantic
psychology, especially in its crowning fable, the unconscious—code for yet
another Romantic sublime that can only, with caution, great delicacy, and $X an
hour, be approached by trained and sanctioned specialists with access to
privileged knowledge. The record shows that psychoanalysis was eagerly seized
on from the start, and became fused with popular culture from around 1915.
Hidden motives, repression, fantasy, and catharsis were the hot topics from
Eugene O'Neill to Tennessee Williams to Rodgers & Hammerstein, which then
transferred to Hollywood and screens worldwide.
Psychoanalysis equally became the paradigm for biography,
which began to seek out the youthful traumas that haunt adult destinies,
courted childhood, dwelt on the novelties of sexual repression and frustration,
and narrated itself increasingly as the peeling away of layers of
self-deception all the way down to an "inner" truth or self—down to
those unconscious desires and dirty secrets even saints entertain. It was
Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians which in 1918 started that now ubiquitous
trend of dishing the dirt on the great and the good, trashing Florence
Nightingale among others, with "a sudden revealing searchlight into
obscure recesses, hitherto undivined." Lytton's brother, James, was the
British translator and editor of Freud.
This practice is nowadays de rigueur. Witness Albert Goldman's
Elvis, a nerd's revenge, or a biography of the sculptor Eric Gill a few years
back that "exposed" him as an incestuous sexual monster and drew
calls for his works to be removed from public places, or recent biographical
revelations of Michel Foucault's gay sadomasochism, which certainly put a new
twist on Discipline and Punish.
From Rousseau's buttocks to Freud's couch to the tumbling
chairs of Jerry Springer . . .
After the war, the explosive growth of mass media
accelerated and amplified celebrity, improving on Romantic devices in a number
of ways. Take spontaneity, which dissimulates the distance between an artwork
and the experiences it provokes. A Romantic artwork is really only there as
provocation and ruse to catapult our "selves" out of humdrum states
and reach greater heights, or depths, or whatever else seems weird, dizzying,
and naughty. Equally with those Romantic artworks we call celebrities: We
annihilate distances—geographic, cultural, pecuniary—in a sleight that brings
these alien and inaccessible beings "into our lives." Hence the
production techniques (camera closeups, mikes, and F/X that capture every
breath and tongue tremor) that "produce" such audiovisual
hallucinations as Madonna or Michael Jackson and allow us to gaze into the very
eyes, to get right inside: up to the very eyelashes and pores, checking the
backs of their hands for sweating as a sign that they might be lying, assessing
their trembling buttock cheeks for beads of tumescence. This "persona
production" renders every inkling and breath of presence up front, here
and now, in your head, in your bed: Madonna's voice, throat, tits . . .
They are so real, these intimate strangers, so unbearably,
overwhelmingly familiar. We are inducted into their lives, lured into their houses,
enticed by their opinions; we meet their kids, learn all about their sex lives
and their ailments and favorite colors and favorite songs.
How does celebrity exert such fascination? If you jettison
the childish explanation of talent and the mystical one of charisma, and focus,
as I did with Judy Vermorel in our 1985 book, Starlust, on the other side of
the equation, if you talk in depth to the consumers of celebrity, if you
consider music fans, for example, as consumers in a consumer environment consuming
products that happen to be music stars, and map their desires in their own
terms, you realize that celebrities are blank screens onto which we all project
our fantasies.
This is what celebrities are really rewarded for. A
celebrity's "act" readily spills from "real life" to
"screen life" because there is no distinction to be made here between
private and public spheres. In fact, a celebrity's raison d'être is to erase
such distinction. Celebrities are made-up creatures, fictions from the very
start and to the very end. We own them.
Sometimes I pressed my
ear to the door and heard distant comings and goings. The gist of events and
conversations, uncertain threads and emissions of her and her brother's lives.
Explosions of hoohas, pounded stairs, slammed doors, flushing cisterns, music.
It was as if they were putting it on to fascinate and tease me. Listen here,
Fred! What is this noise here? And that one?
The most interesting bios weave the writer-as-obsessive into
the text until the biographer and the obsession become part of the story.
Sartre's psychobiographies took this over the top, from Tintoretto (the most
convincing and shortest) to St. Genet. Genet was apparently so stunned by
Sartre's biographical avalanche that he never wrote another word and was
ungrateful enough to call his biographer a con ("cunt").
Less flamboyant are Walter Kaufman's Hegel: A
Reinterpretation, which lovingly settles scores and guides us through a
labyrinth of receptions and misunderstandings to make Hegel's project comprehensible,
and Greil Marcus on Elvis Presley (Mystery Train and Dead Elvis), which
certainly tells us more about Greil than Elvis, but then the writer has more to
say than the singer.
The irruption of the author into the picture occurs equally
with biographical novelizations like In Cold Blood or Norman Mailer's Marilyn
(but Mailer is such an all-male schmuck he loses the plot whenever Monroe needs
to become "female" and can't even understand why, to his chagrin,
she'd prefer a Clark Kent like Arthur Miller to a Superman like Mailer), and,
more recently, Gary Indiana's book on Versace-killer Andrew Cunanan, Three
Month Fever. Such "factions" force us to confront the artifice of the
biographical project and the fragility of its "facts."
There is also a sensuous and flirtatious aspect to
biographical research: breaking seals and confidences, untying ribbons from
bundles of documents, raising the dust of strangers' lives, dealing and
unpacking other people's intimacies, deciphering their photos . . .
All games I played while researching The Secret History of
Kate Bush, an absurdist experiment to see how far the rock bio could be
stretched without snapping. I adopted the persona of a mad professor so
obsessed that he traces Kate Bush's genealogy back to the Vikings. And I also
stalked the woman, as a phenomenological acting out of that uneasy and twisted
boundary between fascination and obsession. Oddly (or perhaps not), the book
became the bestselling bio of that singer. But what most struck me was how
straight were the readings people made of this text. I still find discussions
on the Internet debating whether "I" was "really" obsessed
with Kate Bush, as well as allegations I not only had an affair with her, but
that while researching her life I ran over her cat.
Far from running over her cat, I seduced both her cats,
Zoodle and Pywacket. I'd watch her let them out the door at night and coo them
over to my hiding place, where I'd stroke their grumbling fur. Her cats were my
Trojan horses to carry the smell of the hand I caressed them with back into her
house, into her very lap.
Relevant here is the work of performance artists like Sophie
Calle. Calle is known for randomly following people in cities, examining the
sleeping habits of strangers she invites into her bed, or posing as a
chambermaid and scrutinizing the property and lives of hotel guests. Calle's
work is interesting, though it may be a cop-out that she protects her
intentions behind avant-garde rhetoric and trades in high art rather than
commercial discourses—which would be a more dangerous strategy. More
suggestive, because more troubling and tentative and unsupervised, are the
explorations of Oreet Ashery, a Jewish female performance artist who disguises
herself as Marcus Fisher, a male orthodox Jew, and penetrates Orthodox Jewish
communities and other milieus in that persona (www.sexmutant.com).
The cutting edge of such work today, the agenda that
biography needs to address, is the phenomenon of the stalker. This is where the
contradictions and fantasies of identity and desire are most tested and
exposed. The stalker refuses to be intimidated by the "celebritariat"
and its massive security apparatus, disrupting the celebrity economy by voicing
the unspeakable and demanding the impossible (the impossible which is, however,
promised over and over). There is an accelerating momentum here, from John
Lennon, who conspicuously threw every shred of his soul on the market and was
duly "consumed" by a fan, to the awesome global presence and mass-produced
intimacy of Madonna. Madonna, who had the effrontery to play the little-woman
card while having the stalker Bobby Hoskins jailed, and refused until forced by
threat of imprisonment to attend court because she would thereby fulfill
Hoskins's fantasy of contact with her. "We have made his fantasies come
true," she complained. "How? By sitting in front of him."
Madonna "felt incredibly violated": "That day I looked into his
eyes he became even more real to me." What a delicious subversion of
celebrity.
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