Fandom (and art) as sites of worthless knowledge
Instead, what if we embrace fandom and art practice as a site of “worthless knowledge” (Jenkins), which is when art and fanfiction stops operating under conditions of “immaterial labour” or as “a service” and becomes something else: let’s call it an “affective knowledge”; a textural knowledge felt and sensed by individuals and communities over knowledge inscribed by institutions of power.
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Fans have spent decades harbouring shame over their exploits because “[f]ans are seen as devoting too much time to obtaining useless knowledge and place too much importance on ‘devalued cultural material.’ ” Spending excessive amounts of time reading or writing fanfictions about boy-on-boy romance, fans are not at work doing something more productive like contributing to capitalism’s productive regime. Just as when female fans are fantasising about boy-on-boy romance, they are not participating in heterosexuality’s reproductive regime. ( . . . ) As Tonya Anderson points out in her article “Still Kissing the Poster Goodnight”: “dominant cultural politics characterise such female fan behaviour in adulthood as pathological.” In such instances fans are operating in “excess” and at best – in counter-to-knowledge.
From here, art and fandom might be better understood as affective communities that form around a shared feeling, that might not only be defined by our social or biological identities or by knowledge, but by an unproductive pleasure that undermines our productive desires, or to put it simply: by “being in love with their love” (Karukara).
PARRY, OWEN G. (2019) ‘“SHIPPING” (AS) FANDOM AND ART PRACTICE’. FANDOM AS METHODOLOGY. LONDON: GOLDSMITHS PRESS.
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I saw this whole long thread of people hand-wringing about "anti-intellectuals" on tiktok and how scary it is that they're believing sourceless claims other people on tiktok tell them, because they claim they have the same chance of being correct as anything that "science says."
and said hand-wringers were waxing poetic about the scientific method and replicability and how everything that's published in an academic journal is guaranteed to be true and correct because of a little thing called peer review whereby scientists (naturally a petty and pedantic people) are encouraged to tear each other's conclusions apart.
and I just have to say. if you believe (in the midst of a major replicability crisis amongst scientific journals, no less) that everything published in a scientific journal is de facto factual or trustworthy, and if you believe that peer review of all things is a process that is guaranteed to prevent papers with anything from flaws in experimental design to full-blown fraud from going to print (as if publishers don't have a literal profit motive to publish studies that yield novel, startling conclusions),
then you are 100% as "anti-intellectual," foolish, & averse to thinking for yourself as the tiktokers you're making fun of. actually I think I like you less. at least their ideas might be bizarre enough to be interesting
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Okay, time to get pretentious and REALLY talk about this shot.
So put on your over-analysis goggles, and let’s talk about the Imperial Cog, Renaissance-era military forts, 18th century prison architecture, the military-industrial complex, the surveillance state, and why this single shot of Mon Mothma standing in a doorway in “Nobody’s Listening!” (the 9th episode of Andor season one) is making me so feral I want to kiss Luke Hull and his entire production design team right on the mouth.
For those of you not in the know - the shape on the screen behind Major Partagaz is the crest of the Galactic Empire - often called the Imperial Cog. It appears throughout Star Wars media on flags, tie fighter helmets, uniforms and as a glowing hologram outside ISB HQ.
In canon it was adapted from the crest of the Galactic Republic.
irl it was created by original trilogy costume designer John Mollo. Mollo has stated that the symbol was inspired by the shape of historical fortifications.
Bastion forts (aka star forts) first appear during the Renaissance with the advent of the cannon. Their shape eliminated blind spots, allowing for a 360 degree field of fire.
An apt metaphor for the Empire. Powerful, imposing and leaving you with nowhere to hide.
The Imperial crest also strongly resembles a gear or cog - hence the common “Imperial Cog” nickname.
Given how inextricably linked military and industry are, it’s also an apt metaphor. Both alluding to the Empire’s massive industrial power, and how it treats all of its citizens with a startling lack of humanity, valuing them only for what they are able to produce for the Empire.
The idea of the cog is repeated in the shape of whatever it is that they’re producing in the prison. They’re literally cogs in the Imperial machine making more cogs for the machine... while inside a larger cog.
This shape, in relation to a prison, also references something else which was almost certainly intentional on the production team’s part.
In the 1791 British philosopher and social theorist Jeremy Bentham proposed a design for a prison he referred to as the “panopticon” - the name derived from the Greek word for “all seeing”.
The basic design for the panopticon was a large circular rotunda of cells with a single watchtower in the center. The plan would allow a single guard to theoretically observe every cell in the prison, but more importantly cause the prisoners to believe they are under surevillance at all times, while never being certain.
Later philosophers (notably Michel Foucault) used the panopticon as a metaphor for social control under totalitarian regimes or surveillance states. The perceived constant surveillance of a panopticon causes prisoners to self-police due to the belief they are always being watched, even if they don’t know for certain that is true. They live in constant fear even if nobody is actually watching them, even if “Nobody’s Listening!”
The idea of the metaphorical panopticon has in more recent years been adapted to many other examples of social control: CCTV, social media and business management...
Like the concept of cubicles in an open floor plan office.
So that all being established - let’s finally talk about Mon Mothma’s apartment.
The cog shape is everywhere. There’s hardly a shot where at least one cog isn’t visible. Every room is connected by cog-shaped doorways.
The shape serves as a backdrop to most scenes, often centered and featured prominently.
(Side Note: The cog also appears as a repeated pattern on room dividers with the interesting added detail of intersecting lines that make them resemble spider webs.
The fact that Mon is often filmed directly through these web-like screens (particularly when conducting rebellion business) leads me to believe that this was a very intentional choice.
Even in the very heart of the Empire the nascent Rebellion is starting to build a web of networks and intelligence.)
I had originally presumed that the repeated appearance of the cog was just Luke Hull and his production team adding some brilliant visual storytelling to their already amazing sets. But the following line from episode ten leads me to believe they intended for these details to have an in-story explanation as well.
When speaking to Tay and Davo Skuldon about the apartment Mon states that “It’s state property. The rules are strict on decor. Our choices for change are limited.”
While it’s unclear whether the “state” in this instance is Mon’s home planet of Chandrila or the Empire itself - that second option makes the decor even more insidious.
If Mon’s apartment is Empire property that means the shape of the doors is intentional in-world, not just for the sake of visual storytelling. It means that this was a conscious decision by the Empire. A reminder to even the richest and most powerful of its citizens that they are always watching - whether you can see them or not.
Which brings us back to our original shot.
My favorite thing about this shot isn’t just that is shows how very alone Mon Mothma is.
It isn’t just that she’s in the heart of the Empire, surrounded and dwarfed - just another cog in their machine.
It isn’t just that’s she trapped in her own metaphorical prison, worrying her self sick about who may be watching, not safe even in her own home.
What makes this shot truly extraordinary to me, is that right in the midst of the Empire you can see a new symbol forming.
Forming with Mon Mothma right at the center.
It’s a bit blocky, still constrained by the the harsh lines of the Empire, but giving how intentional every design decision on this show has been I find it pretty hard to believe it’s there by accident.
A symbol that will one day adorn the helmet of a boy from Tatooine.
One that will come to represent what all rebellions are built on...
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Fannish proximity across time and space
Sedgwick wrote on the transformative potential of queer reading practices in ways that, to me, also describe fannish modes of attachment:
"I think that for many of us in childhood the ability to attach intently to a few cultural objects, objects of high or popular culture or both, objects whose meaning seemed mysterious, excessive, or oblique in relation to the codes most readily available to us, became a prime resource for survival. We needed for there to be sites where the meanings didn’t line up tidily with each other, and we learned to invest those sites with fascination and with love."
In the same passage, she writes of “a visceral near-identification with the writing I cared for”: not with one or more of the characters, but with the writing; “on the level of sentence structure, metrical pattern, rhyme.” This fannish merging with the text – with its aesthetic form – was “one way of trying to appropriate what seemed the numinous and resistant power of the chosen objects.”
Meanwhile, Carolyn Dinshaw, a medieval scholar and one of the founding co-editors of the journal GLQ, was writing about the “queer ... touch across time”: the intense affective attachments, including identification, which produce queer – that is, oblique, resistant and desiring – relationships to the medieval past, which exceed and refuse normative trajectories and linear histories, and find in medieval pasts and texts that “numinous and resistant power” that makes certain art objects, for their fans, potent “resources for survival.” Finding in the distant past another way of organising sexuality, selfhood and experience, which we somehow recognise, which we somehow need – the “defiant and confused” feeling of knowing, without knowing how we know, that this book, this person, this artwork, is “one of ours,” as Alison Hennegan describes in “On Becoming a Lesbian Reader.” The queer touch across time retrieves though this is too passionless a word – it rescues artworks and archives from the dustbin of history, resonating with Taylor J. Acosta’s characterisation of fandom as “a historiographic approach in the Benjamanian tradition, not as an explicit critique of history, with its pretences to critical distance, total understanding, and specificity, but rather as an alternative practice in which an art produced of love and affect can function historically.” The queer or fannish touch across time produces “worthless knowledge”: knowledge that has no value that can be registered by neoliberal-capitalist metrics and that is for that reason invaluable.
(It strikes me that my desire to quote from these texts, to show them to you, is itself fannish. Look! Look at this thing that I love! It says something to me that cannot be said in any other form. Does it speak to you too? What does it say?)
WILLIS, I. ‘AFTERWORD: FAN THEORY/THEORY FAN OR I LOVE THIS BOOK’. FANDOM AS METHODOLOGY. LONDON: GOLDSMITHS PRESS.
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