Schlagwort-Archive: Daniel Gianfranceschi

Georges Bataille’s Transgression in Michael Haneke’s „The Piano Teacher“, 2024-2025 – Daniel Gianfranceschi

In the essay Geroges Bataille’s Trangression in Michael Haneke’s “The Piano Teacher”, Gianfranceschi examines the relationship between lust, desire and acts of transgressive sexual behaviour exhibited by the protagonist, Erika Kohut, in an effort to to decipher how the three might interlink or be heterogenous to each other.

Lust, in comparison to love, does not need to rely on respect, neither personal nor altruistic. It can, but it is not bound to it. In fact, the experience of lust can be built upon the active disregard for respect, giving in or submitting to an eventual urge that overtakes the notion of respect, morals, boundaries collectively understood as the edge between amorality, perversion and displays of sexuality societally understood as acceptable, within the confines of the infrastructure of a society or in the comfort of your own home, which, in this case, becomes the denial of formalities in favor for the submission to carnal delights. Naturally, as Georges Bataille suggests, carnal pleasures do not come about without the omission of a particular transgression, but what if, considering the portrait of Erika Kohut in Michael Haneke’s The Piano Teacher–a voyeuristic, semi sadomasochistic, you guessed it, piano teacher that enjoy sexual acts from a far rather than indulging in her own fantasies, the transgression does not even need to take place for the pleasure to be reached? 

Something that Bataille perhaps forgot to mention in his freakishly indulgent monologues about eroticism as a whole is the potential of said eroticism in the clear delineation of its own limitations, in as much as that pleasure might actually come from knowing about those very transgressions but not indulging in overstepping them. Kohut, in the movie as with in the book, is not seen as someone with no desires, who is not interested at all in any sexual activity, but she is neither seen in a position where the vicarious experience of sexual actions provides her with something akin to any satisfaction at all, upon which one could question the nature of the statement at hand, seeing as there is nothing reached and so, in true Bataille fashion, there also cannot be any “little death”, as in orgasm. This might be true to some extent, especially considering that when her fantasies are, finally, not shared and she is actually violated (something that, to some extent, she seemed to loosely allude to previously as actually enjoying, as in “physical pain” but not necessarily the actual abuse), she obviously does not enjoy it all, which begs the question if the fantasies portrayed beforehand are any less valid now. Furthermore, it should also be noted that visiting pornographic movie theatres, which Kohut also does in secret, could already be considered a transgression of a particular taboo, even if those institutions exist precisely so that the taboo might be, even if momentarily, broken and indulged in. What remains fascinating about the character-study Haneke/ Jelinek presented is the fact that, and this is speculation about something fictional so there might actually not even be a word describing this bumbo-jumbo but, if Kohut had not met Klemmer (her, well, person of erotic interest, let’s put it that way)–who, as we now know, does not share Kohut’s fantasizes of violence and bondage-related causalities–it might actually be possible that Kohut would be just as contempt in never living out her fantasies, for she might not have had the guts to tell somebody else her wishes. Haneke/ Jelinek make it pretty clear that, to some extent, Kohut does strive for a realization of her desires, but they also make it abundantly clear that the reality of said desire does not match Kohut’s fantasies, which in turn has to be put into question considering that high level of intellect the character of Kohut is inscribed with, making the audience wonder if it might’ve not been possible that Kohut was already aware of the fact that a fantasy is not to be matched with reality. 

Towards the end of the film, when Kohut express her wishes–which are not met with empathy–we see her distraught by this contrast in desire, with a facial expression that almost scream “I would’ve been better off in not having said anything”, almost regretting opening up about her deepest wishes. Klemmer even goes so far as to describe Kohut’s predilections for a mutilation and sadism a “sickness”, which not only makes Kohut visibly ashamed–something she should, under the right circumstances, not be–but also seems to impose a hierarchy of desire, where there is a normal desire and an abnormal one. This is not entirely false, considering that those interested in the sexual practices Kohut seems to be interested in are few and far between (in the general scope of things, of course), but it is only deemed as abnormal when somebody else does not reciprocate it. This revelation is not portrayed as a learning-moment for Kohut. Instead, in true Haneke-fashion, we are left in a haze of unanswered threads, with the only thing remaining a terribly tragic gut feeling, screaming that not everything happens for a reason. 

It is entirely possible that, in general, the desire is already the final act of the game we like to call eroticism. Unfortunately, the human brain has the tendency to want to indulge in the reality of something, so the transgression of action is always on the table, but it seems that Kohut (or someone with a predisposition like hers) is acutely aware of her desires, making its manifestation almost unnecessary because the desire is, presumably, so specific that the actual personification of its ramifications would be a tedious and difficult act. Additionally, we know how much we humans like to rely on commodities, so there might be a point in which the transgression does not need to actually happen because the transgression already happened in the ether of the mind. This, of course, is a rather solitary existence (and both the book and the film never shy away from presenting Kohut’s existence, even if in a revered position, as such). It seems that Kohut’s story works best when thought about in-between the dichotomy of action and non-action; Kohut as someone that does crave a very specific kind of intimacy, but also as someone that is highly self-indulgent, probably thinks very highly of herself and also presents herself as such, clearly indicating a certain higher/upper-class. Kohut is also constantly seen as wanting to be in control of a particular situation, whether that is in the way her relationship with her live-in mother is portrayed or the way in which she purposefully traumatizes her students, in order to get the “best results” out of them. Thus, it could be arguable that when someone like Kohut, who seems to thrive in control, is met with a predilection for giving up control in favor of sexual pleasure, the result is a conflicted one, and that is putting it lightly. In fact, even Kohut’s transgressions are completely controlled, solitary and, mostly, carefully planned (or at least presented as such). In the case of the underlying paraphilia of Kohut mixed with sado-masochistic tendencies, the one transgression one has to actually commit to if the desire is to be lived out within the confines of one’s own body and not with others is the verification of the flesh in the form of corporal punishment, which one would need to commit fully to in order to manifest the actual desire. Beyond this, one has to transgress not only the body but also the impulse to abuse the body, so a double transgression of sorts. This might be where the dichotomy between action and reaction persists, because to fulfill a desire for self-harm, one has to actually act on it, relinquishing control just enough to be satisfied with the final “result”. The desire itself might be enough for a while, perhaps for more than expected, but eventually the desire is bound to swallow up the person’s body entirely, commanding death of the ego in the form of consensual (or not, actually) violence against the self, perhaps even in the comfort of your own living room. You see, this might sound contradictory to what is stated above, in that in this case the desire is actually lived out, but it is only lived out with oneself, perhaps even actively choosing to restrain oneself from indulging in it with another being. In this case, the transgression is calculated, meaning that it can never fully be a transgression but rather an attempt to circumvent actuality. It could also be seen as a practice run, for the usual tendency in sexual practices is the togetherness of oneself and that of another person, indulging in respective desires. In this case, the desire is lived out alone, which begs the question if we can actually speak of “lived out” fully: we encounter Kohut as clearly, or, at least tangentially, sociopathic, no friends, no real intrapersonal relationships with her colleagues and even her repour with her mother is flawed at best and toxic at worst. Kohut never really makes a big deal about her obvious solitude, which might mean to imply a certain satisfaction with it. Her para-social behavior also begs the question as to whether or not her sociopathic tendencies dictate her sexual desire or vice versa. Naturally, her solitude only exasperates her desire which, in true De-Sadeian fashion, if never acted upon can only, some would say, bring about great pain and present a clear disconnect between idealism and reality. Kohut is, in this sense, presented as a complete hypocrite, enjoying sexual acts only from a far but, without acting upon this desire; desperately wishing to be corporally punished. Still, we as the audience do feel pity for her when Klemmer, well, basically kink-shames her, because this scene–in which Kohut presents Klemmer with a plethora of gadget and sex-toys hidden in her room–is the first time Kohut is presented as being vulnerable. She also lays out her desires in a relatively, for a sociopath, empathetic way, so that the audience almost wants her to finally get what she craves. Haneke (and Jelinek) derails this proposition in a way only he knows how. Equally as interesting is the question of why Kohut doesn’t just pay for the service she desires and, instead, seems to, dare one say, almost fall in a sort of proto-love with Klemmer. It then would appear that the sociopathic shell is merely a defense mechanism and that she does, indeed, crave not only hurt but also affection and as much as eventual “love”? Haneke shows us that, for Kohut, to love would equal to inflict or receive corporal pain, whereas for Klemmer, love and pain are not mutually exclusive. It would then appear that, the Batailleian transgression suddenly becomes a subjective one, where desire suddenly becomes categorized between a “sickness” and a wish for something to occur. 

What The Piano Teacher masterfully tries to hint at is the possibility of absolution through desire and the required dedication to it, even if it leads to a rather miserable and solitary life. Perhaps, and just perhaps, there is no desire without suffering and just as Buddhism teaches that all earthly hurt is caused by a desire to want, maybe, just maybe the inverse can also be the truest deliverance of all; a desire that is so all consuming, it does not need to be acted upon, growing evermore in every loin full of splendor, a desire that is self-aware enough to realize its own fallacy but be resolute in as much as it is satiated through its own sheer manifestation. Perhaps the only real transgression that is still possible is the neglection of one’s own being in favor for the apparition of desire to be able to take shape. In fact, don’t we talk about “losing ourselves to love” and doing anything and everything for it? Perhaps the latent pseudo-sado-masochistic element of love–that, in turn, seems to stem at least partly from desire–is all that we are allowed to be, lost in the proclamation of a union that never completely satisfies desire, for otherwise that very intrapersonal relationship would stop being desired at all. This desire, perhaps, needs to annihilate us in order so that we keep on losing ourselves to the love we claim to feel; it needs to smother us from the inside out because without it, there’d be nothing to strive towards, even if we fully know that the pinnacle of ultimate pleasure, resulting from the congruence between our wished upon desire and that that is actually manifested, cannot coexist and need to disparate to each other. The body needs to become accustomed to a certain tolerance for a lack of manifested desire in order keep striving towards it. Those that do not uphold this tolerance and go beyond it–like murderers, dictators and so on–are shunned by society; a society that knows that, in action, there have to be boundaries. In the mind, desire is allowed to grow into itself evermore, so why not indulge in just that? Those that often do certainly know the difference between desire and fantasy: the ladder sort of manifests itself through the former, but those under the spell of desire are completely aware of the fantasy that is being created, thus even in an illogical realm of dreams and desires, the idiosyncrasy of the lived out and the desired is completely apparent and not in need of hiding. Kohut’s existence, is caught between the two extremes, wishing to be equally as much as to not, so that by the end, after her wishes and desires are not meant, one might wonder what this means for her, as the kids say, “character development”. Perhaps nothing at all, as Haneke finishes the story before a resolution for the character can ever take place. 

Quellen

Haneke, Michael (Director): The Piano Teacher (after Elfriede Jelinek eponymous book), 131 min., 2001.

Bataille, Georges: Eroticism, Penguin Modern Classics, UK, 2012.

Biografie

DANIEL GIANFRANCESCHI (*1999) is a multidisciplinary artist working within the realms of painting, writing and sound. Gianfranceschi is currently studying at the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich under Prof. Florian Pumhösl. In 2023, he founded the online-blog „Subject Change“, hosting interviews with the likes of Boris Bidjan Saberi, Meo Fusciuni, Stephanie Stein, Zimoun, Stephanie Stein any many more.

You Want It Darker, 2024 – Daniel Gianfranceschi

Daniel Gianfranceschi untersucht in seinem Text You Want it Darker die Bedeutung der Verwendung von schwarzer Farbe in künstlerischen Werken und bei Designobjekten. Entgegen der weitverbreiteten Annahme, dass dunkle Farbtöne allein symbolisch für Gefühle des Düsteren stehen, plädiert er dafür, diese ebenfalls als Ausdruck von Eleganz, Klarheit und Ruhe zu betrachten. Seine feinfühlige Werkbetrachtung einzelner Arbeiten führt die Bedeutungsvielfalt einer dunklen Farbpalette vor Augen und zeigt, welche Schaffenskraft aus ihr erwachsen kann. 

Reading time: 9 minutes

In a recent conversation with fashion designer Boris Bidjan Saberi, he briefly mentioned the societal dichotomy between the color black as something dark and tenebrous and the fact that, for him and many alike (one needs only to think of fashion designers such as Rick Owens or Ann Demeulemeester), a darker color palette can mean elegance, clarity, and tranquility. In western society especially, black is often equated to the counterpart to all other colors, standing alone, like a monolithic presence. In turn, one cannot help but to view the color black (and with it, a darker color palette) as the negation of all other shades and tones. Instead, one should perhaps be more akin to recognize black and the darker pigments as integral to the whole. 

Even more so, one should refrain from attributing a peculiar sense of dread, sadness or, colloquially speaking, darkness to the darker pigments, for more often than not they are less of a representation of a personal state of being and more an aesthetic/ philosophical choice, in favor against many others. As you can see, in terms of clothing, a darker palette in one’s wardrobe might be, first and for most, the result of one of either two things: a particular kind of boredom, nurtured through many years of senseless consumption against the backdrop of multicolored clothing articles that do not match each other or, going hand in hand with boredom, a laziness that is not to be misunderstood as negative. Relying on multiple shades of black will always be a saver option than, for the sake of argument, on differing shades of green. By choosing to forego color and embrace something that absorbs light rather than reflecting it, one is actively trying to get out of the way, spiritually, and focus on the day to day, just as a carpenter might rely on functional clothing.1 Of course, as sociologist Georg Simmel would say, everything that was once a trend will be one again, even things and objects that indirectly go against the very act of being trendy.2 In recent years, we have seen an upstream of monochrome colorists, spectacularly ruining the color black by making its very inception a pseudo-intellectual act of rebellion, against whom or what is yet to be seen. Wearing black is not an economical choice anymore, it has become an aesthetic. 

That being said, there are times where the darkness of the black pigment – whether it be charcoal, sumi-ink made out of sooth or oil painting – is actually required for a specific artistic purpose. One would be very quick to think of Kasimir Malevich, requesting that nothing might be more important than the essence of color itself.3 Beyond this, one could mention Richard Serra’s paper-based oeuvre, clearly defined by a special kind of oil stick (made exclusively for him) which is then applied to paper in, often, geometrical patterns coincidentally resembling the artists monumental sculptures. In Serra’s case, the darkness of the pigment is reinforced by the molecular and sculptural quality of the oil stick, acting as something between painting and sculpture, creating densely layered landscapes of color. Here, the work is as much about what it is actually made of as it is about what is being depicted on the paper. Color eventually becomes material and mass simultaneously.4 Even Pierre Soulages, someone who gave his life to the color black, did not do so for a spiritual reasoning, relating black pigment to darkness of the mind but rather because the interplay between light and shadows, edges and curves, matt and gloss that he was working on could truly only be achieved with a pigment as dark as black.5 For a more contemporary approach, one could look at the way Helmut Lang employs black as a homogenizing entity within each sculptural work, highlighting not only each material singularly but also the result of the combination of multiple discordant parts, ultimately making up the whole.6 We thus slowly begin to see that, contrary to societal depiction, an increasingly darker color palette, often inevitably leading to the monochrome, does not necessarily recall an upsetting, gloomy state of being but that darkness of color-pigments is, very often, a formal decision, drawing on questions of space, line, composition and the possible finality of abstract painting. To better demonstrate this phenomenon, we shall look at the ever so popular Yves Klein blue-pigment, a pigment popularized so well by the artist, it received its own designated name.7 One could argue that Klein’s blue monochromes are, in fact, so effective and popular precisely because of the chosen color, lending specificity to the work. If we apply this logic to the many artists that have worked with a, by chance or choice, darker color palette, we will soon come to find that most black monochrome works that have stood the test of time and have been deemed, critically, important ask questions of a visual and formal nature, which in turn must be executed in precisely this way in order to work. Ellsworth Kelly’s many monochrome warped canvases, often including the color black in their compositions, work exactly because of what they are: abstract depictions of a particular moment in time, irreplicable by anything else that is not what it ends up being.8

The assumption that a darker color palette equals a withering state of mind is, perhaps, to give benefit to doubt, sometimes partially true, yet the final result is not mutually exclusive. Mark Rothko choose to pursue a drastically darker kind of color-field painting, consisting primarily of blacks, whites and grays towards the untimely end of his life.9 Francisco de Goya and his rather infamous black paintings, originally drawn directly onto the walls of his then abode, are the clear result of a man losing his sense of sanity. What is remarkable is that, while deaf as can be and, presumably suffering greatly, the painterly quality of the works remains immaculate.10 In Rothko’s case, we ought to remember that the artist, while sticking to trying to portray the whole universe in his blacks and grays, also endeavored into acrylic drawings which, in contrast, featured bright yellows, light-blues and pastel pinks.11 The correlation between color and state of mind might be as evident as one being the reflection of the other but we cannot rely on this rule, as we see highlighted by the many examples, indefinitely. The clearest example that underlines this might be that of the grand-Dutch, Van Gogh himself.12 Plagued by what we now could (and should) consider a severe case of a poor mental health, Van Gogh was notorious for always finding joy and resistance against the ills that indulge the mind in the vast landscapes of nature, flowers, and greenery. Naturally, Van Gogh, consuming great quantities of absinth regularly, did not combat his suffering in the slightest, nor was he equipped to do so, and we shall refrain from any judgement or false diagnosis. What is interesting is that nobody would suspect that somebody harboring great discomfort would be drawn to paint the same sunflowers in a multitude of variations, just to name one example of the radiosity of Van Gogh’s process. Instead of bright field of blossoming flowers and night skies of infinite splendor, one would, knowing of Van Gogh’s various conditions, imply a more subdued, gloomy, and perhaps somber undertone to his oeuvre. 13

Of course, there are times where the darkness of the pigment is inherently a cultural and historical phenomenon. If we think of Asian calligraphy art, dating back to the Shang dynasty (circa 1600 – 1100 B.C.), we are quick to find that the overarching color is black sumi ink. In this case, form follows function: the ink needs to be black to assure the highest possible contrast between ink and paper, making for a more readable final result.14 It also needs to be acknowledged that artists like Soulages, Kline, Ücker, Fontana and many others where deeply aware of Asian traditions and all had a deep fondness for Asian calligraphy.15 In hindsight, it is abundantly clear of how Asian traditions partially lead to modernism and the rise of the monochrome. Yet the incongruence between a western way of viewing the dark(ness) and an eastern does not end there. In western housing and street planning, the common tendency is to neglect shadows or darker, perhaps worse lit parts of any building. This is done by adding lighting systems, cutting down precious nature such as foliage and trees, preferring the sunrise/ sunset view over the worse lit one, and so on. In eastern philosophy, the shadow is not something to neglect but a part of the whole, something to integrate and with which one can cause an interplay between light and darkness, sunshine, and shadows.16

We must not fear the darkness but embrace it. In this case, one needs to assume that there are indeed times wherein the artist has suffered and gone through dark times for their art, yet the two are not mutually exclusive to one another. One could think of figures such as Käthe Kollwitz, Alberto Burri or Zoran Music – people that endured horribly dark times filled with tremendous atrocities like war, concentration camps and deep poverty – and directly connect their life experiences to what they chose to explore in their art. Kollwitz gave a voice to the voiceless by immortalizing them on paper, for us to never forget.17 Music would process his time in the hellscape of German concentration camps by painting the horror he witnessed firsthand and would eventually find some kind of solace (if one can call it that) in this relentless act of self-documentation of a life stolen and then, partially, regained.18 Burri, employed in the second World War, serving as a medic and being captured by third parties, would go on to a reshaped notion of painting in the twentieth century with the use of his signature materials such as burlap, metal, wood, plastic, and using combustion as a literal painting tool. One could argue that Burri’s experiences in the war and the indelible scars those horrid memories must have left in his psyche would go to inform his painting and perhaps even be the incipit of it. The artist, in his lifetime, always denied this but the connection is evident as day.19 Logically, painting will reflect, in its composition and color-choices, the spiritual state of the maker, just like the densely dark color palette of some of the last works by Francisco de Goya are, in fact, indicative of a decline in mental and physical health.20 The proclivity to want to see parts of oneself in the work one is doing is in all of us, yet we must try to understand darkness as a part of the deal without dwelling on it. This, of course, is easier said than done if one happens to be afflicted by any kind of mental or physical illness, yet it is imperative that one tries to understand that worthwhile art does not foresee suffering as a requirement for its existence. In fact, in periods where darkness would be quick to swallows us whole, creation is never at the forefront and if it is its results are sub-par to say the least. Instead, centering oneself to a journey of betterment should be taken seriously. To create is a joy, one that surely can be led on by troublesome times, yet the creative act itself is a blossoming flower, rejoicing in the fact that there is a common ground to be had. To quote the late Leonard Cohen, whose final album marked the impetus for this discourse about darkness: “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in”.21

Biografie

DANIEL GIANFRANCESCHI ist multidisziplinärer Künstler, Autor und Interviewer. Im Anschluss an sein Studium des Mode-Managements studiert er aktuell an der AdbK in München bei Prof. Florian Pumhösl und Prof. Florian Hecker. In seiner künstlerischen Praxis konzentriert sich Gianfranceschi auf Begriffe der Malerei und des Klangs und versucht zu erfassen, was Stille und Nichts bedeuten können. Seine intuitive Herangehensweise spürt dabei der Unwiederholbarkeit von Momenten nach und durch die Minimierung der visuellen Sprache geht er symbiotische Beziehung mit den Kräften außerhalb seiner selbst ein. In seiner schriftbasierten Praxis versucht Gianfranceschi, Themen wie Kunstkritik, Kunstgeschichte und popkulturelle Phänomene auf essayistische Weise zu behandeln. Das Schreiben dient ihm dabei als düsterer und direkter Ausdruck seines Gesamtwerks und setzt sich kritisch mit der conditio humana auseinander. Gianfranceschi ist außerdem Gründer des Online-Blogs „Subject Change“, auf dem sich seine eigenen Texte aber auch immer wieder Interviews mit bekannten und aufstrebenden Stimmen aus der Kreativszene, wie Modedesigner Boris Bidjan Saberi, Keith Boadwee, Kristof Hahn (Swans), Stephanie Stein, Meo Fusciuni u.v.m, finden.