Immortal Art?
Canadian poet Christian Bök’s Xenotext project is an intriguing intellectual exercise, and the use of DNA as a medium makes for a nifty marketing gimmick. Bök describes the project as his
nine-year long attempt to create an example of “living poetry.” . . . to write a short verse about language and genetics, whereupon [he uses] a “chemical alphabet” to translate this poem into a sequence of DNA for subsequent implantation into the genome of a bacterium (in this case, a microbe called Deinococcus radiodurans—an extremophile, capable of surviving, without mutation, in even the most hostile milieus, including the vacuum of outer space). (Bök, The Xenotext Works)
Killian Fox, writing in The Observer, describes the Xenotext in terms of an attempt to achieve immortality through art:
Many artists seek to attain immortality through their art, but few would expect their work to outlast the human race and live on for billions of years. As Canadian poet Christian has realised, it all comes down to the durability of your materials. Bök has written a poem, “The Xenotext”, which he is inserting into the DNA of a particularly resilient form of bacteria, Deinococcus radiodurans. This extremophile bacterium can survive exposure to cold, dehydration, acid and vacuums, meaning it could live on in outer space should the Earth cease to exist. (Killian Fox, How does a poet ensure his work lives forever?, The Observer, 24 April 2011)
Bök speaks of “making something that’s intelligible and interesting and probably deserves to last for a few million years.” (Christian Bök: Experimental Poet, Utne Reader, November-December 2009).
There is something misguided about this kind of thinking. Mere duration of a work of art through an extended period of time is not what we have in mind when we speak of artistic immortality. The Iliad and Hamlet are immortal because they continue to be meaningful to us as living humans, to move and touch us in a profound sense, long after Homer and Shakespeare turned to dust. Survival of a work of art, in whatever material or virtual form, is trivial apart from a connection to a human consciousness.
Bök’s earlier work Eunoia (2001) pays tribute to a French tradition that can be traced back to Baudelaire and Rimbaud and runs through Alfred Jarry, Dada, Surrealism, and le nouveau roman, and is
directly inspired by the exploits of Oulipo (l’Ouvroir de Litterature Potentielle) — the avant-garde coterie renowned for its literary experimentation with extreme formalistic constraints. The text makes a Sisyphean spectacle of its labour, wilfully crippling its language in order to show that, even under such improbable conditions of duress, language can express an uncanny, if not sublime, thought. (Bök, Eunoia).
Each chapter consists of a brief prose poem that restricts itself to the use of a single vowel. For example, Chapter A begins “Awkward grammar appals a craftsman. A Dada bard as daft as Tzara damns stagnant art….” The composition is also governed by a number of subsidiary rules, spelled out by the author in a kind of postscript chapter titled “The New Ennui,” all of which makes for an entertaining exercise.
Readers of a certain bent may find Bök fascinating. At one time, when I was much taken with Surrealist automatic writing, the cut-ups of William S. Burroughs, and postmodern experimentalism generally, I might have greeted Eunoia and Xenotext with enthusiasm. Today I find this sort of thing moderately interesting but not compelling. The form is not the poem. Not that form is irrelevant. Form shapes and generates content, and a strong poem may be rendered trivial by paraphrase into prose; but form is a subsidiary aspect.
My initial response on first reading of Bök and his Xenotext project was to wonder whether he is immortalizing art or trivializing it. Perhaps the Xenotext is a great work of art, but if so, it is not because it is translated into bacteria DNA. It is the poem that matters. Is it moving, provocative, insightful, or any of the many other things a poem may be in a way that matters to us? The bacterium’s DNA is just a medium, albeit an exotic one. Is a mediocre poem translated into DNA of greater merit or interest than a collection of doggerel printed in an elaborate font on nice paper, attractively illustrated, with a beautiful binding? As a technical exercise, perhaps, yes; but as poem, work of art, no.
David :: Apr.30.2011 :: House Red: Literary and Intellectual :: No Comments »