On the Topic of Subjectivity

by Mandira Pattnaik

Yves Alarie

Among the many variables in writer life (and one that was cause of much confusion and debate amongst a group of new creatives I recently instructed) happens to be the choice between being conformist and rebellious. What am I? Well, artistic freedom requires an acceptance of openness or pluralism to regenerate — therefore, the notion of disruption, and inventiveness. Being conformist has its own rewards too, and has its appeal among a large section of people. Again, what am I?

In “Critique of Judgement,” Immanuel Kant pointed out that aesthetic judgements (which include literary judgements: Form rejection vs Personal rejection vs Acceptance), transcend pure subjectivity, and carry an implicit claim to universality. I may try convincing you that my rebellion might be your conformism, and vice versa, but it wouldn’t help because these are subjective judgements.

Whatever your choice, there’s no absoluteness to it, meaning, in my opinion, you can switch preferences. Plus, of course, there lies a middle path too. Readers might recall Norbert Kohl’s “Oscar Wilde: The Works of a Conformist Rebel.” Kohl argues Wilde’s identity is a result of conflicts between individual artistic freedom (portrayal of alienation, and his formal experiments with language) and convention (use of Romantic and Victorian images and motifs).

My last column, for example, was both conformist in the way it painted a data-based doomsday picture of impending global recession, citing articles and reports (which was numbing to many, by the way) and rebellious (served dollops of possible DIY hope, while advocating resisting the surrender to general chaos and institutionalized anarchy).

Sadly, it may be a luxury even to be offered the choice between conforming and rebelling. Many aren’t. Writing, then, is simply a reflex response to the state of uneasiness and flux, discomposure and rejection.

Certainly, hope is a luxury too: for people abandoned by the framework that took decades to build and countless sacrifices. The case in point is that of neighboring Sri Lanka. Andrew Fidel Fernando, an award-winning author and journalist, based in Sri Lanka, writes: “The government continually fails to deliver what little it’s promised, relatives and neighbours call to ask for money you don’t have to spare, the police and military bear down on what little hope remains, and through all this you’re still grateful, because many around you have it so much worse. Last week, a mother threw herself and her two children into a river. Every day, a fresh heartbreak.”

Many Sri Lankans are reportedly fleeing, though the numbers aren’t, apparently, large enough to warrant alarm. The tragedy of forced displacement seems too close. Migrations leave an indelible mark on generations to come. The two-halves never quite meet, resonant in poet Nishat Ahmed’s “Chimera” : my heart, half Atlantic/half Indian, slow/draining into tributaries,/my hands wanting so badly/to bridge home/and home-tongue.

From multiple accounts, it somehow feels the world is increasingly becoming unresponsive in the face of tectonic shifts in values. Not any lesser by political unrests, extreme poverty and injustices. If you feel overwhelmed, remember every piece you write now will be part of the history we’re creating. And, this phase we’re living through, will be remembered significantly.

As always, I’ll leave you with something to do yet, an outline of actionable plan. Even if you are a writer, try your hand at a photo essay. Choose the off-day when the words don’t flow. Why not capture the emptiness of your city, daily life dragging its feet as it copes with rising fuel prices and low pay? How about perhaps a theme that you feel strongly about? Try your hand at creating a comic strip, or an animated character that’s weird. It’s a lot of fun. Why not give it your authentic voice, and hear it speak — loud, bold, clear? If you’ve been writing fiction, experiment with memoir. Gladly examine the prospect of nonfiction from your unique perspective. Or maybe personal narratives, that are small but powerful tools to chronicle the changing times. Even journaling can be therapeutic: what are your fears, pride, angst, joys about? Keeping these journals are known to be very useful when excavating for possible writing material in the future.

I hope you find ‘subjective relevance’ and question the particularly painful, or the strange, or the ironical, or the comical, in this present of ours to write about, or make other art about — irrespective of whether categorized rebellious or conformist.