But for the present age, which prefers the sign to the thing signified, the copy to the original, representation to reality, appearance to essence . . . truth is considered profane, and only illusion is sacred
When the real world is transformed into mere images, mere images become real beings
In an earlier post I referred to a ‘vaguely Celtic looking monument’ in Dublin, near to Trinity College. It is in fact a simulacrum of a Viking standing stone, put there, as I mentioned last time, by the authorities in the late 80’s. I walked past it again, as it happens, whilst in Dublin this weekend – someone was posing for a photo with it, clinging onto what was in any case arranged only for their gaze, an eyeball to eyeball encounter with Ancient Ireland as staged by the Office for Tourism.
Now the next day I bumped into an old friend, Old Troy let’s call him, showing some students around the courtyard of Dublin castle. Anyways, this American fella comes up to us, with an anxious and disappointed look, and hearing Troy sounding all knowledgeable weighs in with “Isn’t there a bit that’s a bit more castle-y?” How do you mean? “Well, I was hoping for something a bit more like a castle, y’know, with turrets an all.” This man, drawn there by the vague odour of ‘history’, was interested only in ‘castle-icity’, to use a neologism as rebarbative as the mentality seeking it out, something already part of his icon repertoire. I asked whether he was familiar with the history of Dublin castle (which might help explain its appearance). He was not, but thought he might get some nice pictures.
Both people – the one in front of the ‘Viking’ stone and the Castle man - knew neither what they were standing in front of, nor its significance; they nonetheless wanted its image; they were content to skim the meaningless surface off the thing and consign it to their digital store.
The image of the thing, shorn of being and meaning, slides effortlessly into the subject’s dream world. Reality is measured in terms of its quota of iconicity. What cannot be so measured induces only boredom, confronting the subject with the unattractive prospect of the labour of understanding