Excavation, Exhumation, Autopsy
The Symphony Orchestra as Site
For a contemporary composer, writing for the symphony orchestra is not unlike arriving very late at a party. Even though the host greets you heartily, the dance floor is emptying and people slump around, content to their hearts desire by what they’ve already consumed. Some have split into groups, engaged in discussions started earlier in the evening, impossible to comprehend at this point. If you’re lucky you might be able to spark a light or two by a well-placed remark, but basically the best you can do is just try to blend in, to go with the flow. Maybe there will be a nachspiel, maybe not, the party peaked long before you entered and everything is in a tangible state of After.
This condition of being After is not exclusive to orchestral composer. It would be nice, for melancholy reasons, but present day culture is, for all its now-ness, in many ways acted out on the same terms. Hal Foster writes about the current condition of the After in art and theory and asks what comes after – or in lieu of – the alleged “end of art”. He coins a terminology of “living-on” in his essay “This Funeral is for the Wrong Corpse”, one I’d like to pair with my own notion of “coming-after”. Although Foster speculates if the living-on might make do with the what-comes-after, this after-ness is obviously a widespread notion. And it is difficult to imagine any art form where the feeling is so tangible as in the modern-day symphony orchestra. One can argue that the orchestra has been in a state of afterlife since the outbreak of World War I, just at a point where composers were challenging the then one hundred year old tradition of romantic symphonic writing, working from within the tradition, expanding and radicalizing its own tendencies and currencies. (Contemporary energies from the outside, like the historical avant-garde’s challenge to the institution and autonomy of art, had, with a few exceptions, very little impact on the orchestra.)
Needless to say, there has been substantial developments in the field of orchestral music throughout the 20th century. But after, say, the innovations of Gerard Grisey and the spectral school in the seventies, very little has been going on in terms of actual renewal in a broader sense. And this in a time where the world of art has expanded and changed in profound ways. Yes, there is orchestral music being written today, some if it good, even great music. However, the opening up of the field of art has had weak resonance in the concert halls. The inherited structures and practices prevail, basically unchanged the last hundred years. What Hal Foster calls the labour of disarticulation, the redefinition of cultural terms and recapturing of political positions, has not had any obvious impact on the orchestral institution. And very few composers work with the orchestra as a situated practice. The structures and (im)possibilities are taken for given, and where much of the art world work in an expanded field of context and situation, the composers and conductors keep their gaze fixed firmly on the score.
It is also obvious that the orchestral institution by and large has steered clear of the curatorial turn in the arts the last twenty years and thus neglected the opportunity to open itself to new ideas and methods. The curator-as-artist has been criticized (not least by artists), but there is little question that this development has contributed to renewal in the institutions of art. And there is no question that the orchestral institution has failed to seize this moment. The artistic leadership of these institutions seems to have given away a lot of the power of programming to the superstar soloists and conductors. Instead of truly curated programs, the symphonic concerts tend to display the music that these power-players have on their repertoire any given season.
It seems more difficult than ever to re-negotiate the terms of the orchestra. Especially from the position of the composer. This may, ironically, bring the attention to new ways of looking at the situation. The petrified nature of the orchestral structure may well serve as an opportunity to examine it as a basically historical object. A petrified redwood-pine is a giant, but there is no organic growth in it. Or, to switch to my main metaphor for this essay: The orchestra has dug itself in so thoroughly over so many years that it ought to be a tempting site for the musico-archaeologist. In this text I will try to map out methods of excavating some of the energies and objects to be located in this place, and to see if this work can be helpful in an attempt to situate the orchestra within a historical and social context.
One might argue that style has been a somewhat under-communicated topos within the arts for the last couple of decades. Not much talked about, but non-the less important, as art historian Ina Blom discusses in her book On the Style Site. She writes about style as a social site in which the relations between appearance and social identity are negotiated, and that it is insufficient to approach style just as an art historical tool or method of explanation. This view might be useful in dealing with the issue at hand: It is not musical style that constitute differences between divergent strands of contemporary music; orchestral music is in itself a style. The Symphony Orchestra (embedded in the shrine of the Concert Hall) is first and foremost a place, a site, and the situated powers and constituting energies of this site are primordial to aesthetic or ideological distinctions at work. The orchestra is in a curious position with regard to the ephemeral temporal quality of ‘classical’ site-specific work like those of Robert Smithson. The orchestral work takes place in buildings that are of our cultures most enduring kind. At the same time, the orchestral performance is transient, and the new work, premiéred, documented and often never to be heard again, is of a highly impermanent nature in spite of its ‘eternal’ qualities as score. In the same way as the operatic voice tends to define opera for many listeners, the sound-place of the orchestra itself has such a strong iconic power that it tends to overrule the distinctions we normally define as musical style. If we twist the perspective a little, we can regard the orchestra as a topos. As the word is applied by Erkki Huhtamo in his essay on media archaeology as topos study, we see a vessel derived from the memory banks of tradition. And it becomes evident that the cultural meaning of the object – the work and its interpretation – to a large degree is moulded by its topos – the orchestra.
So, in choosing to work on this site, the composer has to relate to an orchestral tradition more or less regardless of the aesthetic and ideological choices at work in the sounding music. Many composers will object to this, and even maintain that their music has nothing to do with either past or present musical ‘styles’. They might go to considerable lengths to counter the centripetal force of the orchestra, in order to create something infinitely peculiar and different. But, ironically, the energies spent on these efforts tend to radiate back to the origins, to the friction of rubbing oneself against the orchestra. This tends to happen no matter how much one tries to cover the traces of the process. And indeed, like the surrealist frottage, a warped image of the original object is always traceable.
This could be said about many of the musical practices contemporary composers partake in. But I argue that the orchestra constitutes a certain agglomeration of power and historical significance that highlights its situatedness in a much larger degree than any other instrumental genre. One example on how the orchestral site transforms particular identities into its own image is Phillip Glass’ orchestrations of David Bowie-songs. In this transferral the orchestration tend to soften the angularities and normalize the singularity that is present in the original recordings. The particularites of sound and phrasing in Bowies studio-recordings are lost when the melodies and harmonies are re-situated in the orchestra. The morphology of the music, so important in signifying the musical identity, is replaced with the morphology of traditional orchestration. This approach might be regarded as an attempt to renew the orchestral site. But by failing to transfer any of the qualities of difference that sets Bowies music apart from other musics, Glass only manages to confirm the orchestra as museal site, that radiates more or less the same values regardless of the music emanating from it.
In many respects, the orchestra is an aural museum, primarily engaged with exhibiting historical pieces of art. I do not contend the legitimacy of this; it might even be the main raison d’être of the modern orchestra. When an artist is invited to work within the framework of a museum, the task of working within this historical situatedness would normally have great impact on the working process. But with composers, this is rarely the case. Most of us tend to treat the orchestra as if it was a blank canvas for us to display our profound abstractions on. And the concert hall is treated like a neutral white cube, as if the whole apparatus of the concert spectacle were of no importance to the work of art.
But of course it is. The limitations imposed upon the contemporary composer in dealing with the orchestra are legion and undeniable. The regulations are strict, and I am not talking about regulations of aesthetical expression, but the rules of production. To borrow a military term, we might call them rules of engagement, with respect to the rigid structure in working schedules, rehearsal time, the power of the travelling menagerie of conductors and soloists, the increasing focus on the box office, the fears and desires of the international brotherhood of concert hall-executives, impresarios etc. etc.
In this light, almost any new work of orchestral music could be considered ‘site-specific’, in that it is written for a particular place, a particular body of production and, often, for a specific occasion. Very few professional composers write ‘ideal’ scores for their drawers, but have to merge their artistic fantasies with the reality given by possibilities of performance and commissioning agreements. This is not necessarily all wrong; constraints have proven to be a driving force in musical creativity. But it underlines the specificity of situation, the framing of the creative process when involved with the orchestra.
Walter Benjamin identifies the uniqueness of the work of art in its ‘Here and Now’. The uniqueness of its place of existence. What is the ‘Here and Now’ of the orchestral work? Is the performance of a classical piece a reproduction, or a repetition? Is it reification or a reanimation? Different answers to these questions imply different consequences.If one reads musical history the last hundred years as primarily a history of interpretation, the potential of reanimation becomes crucial in dealing with the work of music. From a critical point of view, however, the ever-prevailing narrow canon of ‘classical’ music points to a practice of reducing and reifying the outcome of complex forces (historical, economical and aesthetical) to a practical level of recognition and confirmation. And from the vantage point of the creator, it is not difficult to localize a great many repetitive features even in the first performance of a new piece for orchestra: There are repetitions of methods, of place, of the whole historical situation of the symphonic concert-event. In many cases it has a strong reproductive character, in the affirmations of traditions, structures and ideologies that are hidden behind the thin veil of autonomous art.
When it comes to the ‘Now’ of Benjamin’s expression, art music has long since lost the privilege of being contemporary. For the time being, too many heads are hidden in the sand, leaving much of this music in a weird limbo; on one hand, there is the bliss of ignorance in the pretence that it is possible to return to the safe haven of the structures and even the sound of ‘classical music’. On the other hand, there is the inherited rhetoric of ‘new music’, the idea of nie erhörte klänge and historical development still used as apologetics for clinging to the historical privilege of the composer.
The idea of treating the orchestra as site is a proposal for another way of dealing with this traumatic loss of the ‘Now’. It is embracing the position of the Coming-After. It is establishing a practice treating the orchestral medium and genre as somehow completed, but not resorting to post-historical manners of pastiche. On the contrary, this position demands a commitment to formal transformations and investigations, but within a wider contextual framework than the somewhat naïve idea of ‘the new’.
When entering the site of the orchestra, the first question many composers ask themselves is: What is possible to do in this place? How can I make this place sound? Another, perhaps less explored question might be: What is to be found on this site? This points to a distinction between creating musical space and investigating musical space. In my line of research, it follows that the latter is a viable approach to the modern-day orchestra. In other words: Having identified the orchestra as a site of excavation, it is time to start digging. Before I continue with this terminology borrowed from archaeology and forensics, I should state that I am not implying a discourse-archaeology in strict Focaultian terms, and no systematic descriptions of discourse-objects. This would be a much wider task, and a musicologist’s task, not a composer’s. My approach is rather in the everyday-sense of the word ‘archaeology’, digging into orchestral practices, not excavating whole ‘discursive formations’, but rather allowing for a phantasmagorical enthrallment with fragments of such objects found within orchestral culture, to see how they can reveal something of the structures they originate from and to spur the imagination to further work with these structures. I use the term ‘archaeology’ as an approach toward the orchestra, a mind-set, pointing to an alternative to unilinear history. And I take the liberty to point to two (admittedly Focaultian) perspectives on archaeology: In a definition from the field of media archaeology, archaeology is “speaking to the present and critiquing the present in examining historical objects.” And in the words of Hal Foster, “[t]he purpose of any ‘archaeology’ is to ascertain what one can of the difference of the present and the potential of the past.”
So, having said this, while spooning up the gravel from the social and historical strata of the orchestra, the composer tries to locate the timbral bodies to work with in the present. In the sedimentary layers of orchestral sound I might be able to find the one tiny bone that triggers something in me, emotionally, technically and intellectually, something that proliferates and becomes multiplied, setting off a whole process of speculation and creation. I like to think of this as an exhumation of the orchestral body. In reality, it is as much a question of exhuming the timbral ghosts from ones own memory, ones own body. It is about activating ones own mnemonic structures alongside the buried wishes and secret desires of the orchestral body itself.
To turn to the latter first, one might ask: What are the memories of a specific orchestra? If one imagines the orchestral body as a singular unity, with memories, traumatic as well as blissful, the composer has the possibility to work within the mnemosonic archive of the orchestra. When suggesting the orchestra as archive, let me refer to Thomas Flynn’s Focaultian definition of archives: “An Archive is the locus of the rules and prior practices forming the condition of inclusion or exclusion that enable certain practices and prevents others from being accepted as ‘scientific’ or ‘moral’, or whatever rubric may be in use at a particular epoch.” In a sense, I would intimate that the orchestral culture as such could be regarded as an intersection of archives, the two most prominent representing two opposing regimes of storage: The symbolic (the scores of orchestral music), and the real (the recordings of orchestral performance). In my orchestral piece Standing Stones I stage a collision between these two regimes in the meeting between fragments of scores, treated with the devices of written music, and the same fragments from historical recordings, treated as sound-samples. (The idea of the two regimes is defined by Friedrich Kittler in Gramophone, Film, Typewriter, following up on Lacan’s methodological distinction.) On a more specific level, one can consider an institution like the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra, one of the world’s oldest orchestral institutions, situated on the outskirts of Europe in a country that has followed a trajectory from utmost poverty to filthy rich over the last century. What might the memories of this two-hundred-and-fifty year old being be? Searching in archives, listening to recordings, interviewing musicians, all this could give the composer indications on the ‘subconscious’ life of the orchestra, to shift to a Freudian metaphor. And to follow up on the same terms: it could help understand the traumas of orchestral culture, its development through historical and present-day crises.
In its discursive complexity, I also like to consider the orchestral culture as an archive of emotion: An institution for documenting and preserving ways of portraying and expressing emotion through changing times. In orchestral music, many of the prevailing models of feeling (or ‘feeling’) relate to 19th century society and 19th century man. (Think, for instance of Beethoven’s piano sonata ‘Pathetique’: Once a noble feeling, now a contemptible cliché.) Adjacent to the ‘subconscious’ and emotional levels, there is the history of the changing social status of the orchestra, and how this is playing a role in the orchestral situation. And these are just some of many strata one could excavate in addition to the layers of timbral memory – all sorts of different objects are buried in the orchestral excavation-site: The social energies of one hundred musicians working together on a daily basis. The contradiction between being a workplace with all its mundane implications versus the expectations of yielding artistic results of the highest quality. The practical and commercial apparatus of the production of dozens of concerts each year. The political implications of generous state-sponsorship, or indeed the opposite: the political implications on relying on box-office and private donors. One way of working with this vast material is to work site-specifically in an intimate relation with the orchestra in question. This can be done through techniques of mapping historical relations, social relations, unearthing structures that can show the aesthetical (and ethical) values underlining the actual programming etc. etc. We have at our disposal a wide array of methods, from musico-anthropology to statistical data gathering and algorithmic procedures. The orchestra could also lend itself to practices where the composer engage with the complex social organism of the concert house, with all its different groups of employees and audiences as well as the performing artists.
Another way of working, as I touched upon above, might be more directly linked with the memories and the bodily notions in the composer. I am talking about the archival phantom-sounds that we carry around with us, memories that originate from the orchestra, and that live on inside us in more or less phantasmagorical states. In the canonical music of the orchestra, archives of personal past are vectored by archives of public pasts. And one might propose mechanisms of re-tracing these mnemosonic structures back to the original object, to invest them with markers of time and personal history, and to give them back to the orchestra in the form of art-objects. These objects could be anything, really: Textual instructions to performance. Traditional score. Electro-acoustic interventions in the orchestral sound. And the societal memory of public pasts can also be grafted onto the orchestra in this respect. One example from recent years is Lars Petter Hagens Norwegian Archives, where lost (or rather subdued) proto-fascist Norwegian music of the 30’s is written into an orchestral piece for performance at the German Donaueschingen-festival.
Personally, I have a predilection for certain moments in certain recordings of certain canonical works. I picture the canon as a ruin to pick through, to borrow a phrase from Foster. So we do not have to worry about the obligation to storm the barricades of canon, it is already dismantled and withered, it is present, but without the unifying power that it was so imperative to attack in a not-so-distant past. Sifting through this rubble, all sorts of fragmented items trigger my imaginations. I want to build whole architectural structures out of one chord in Mahler’s 5th symphony. I fantasize about never-ending ruptures of ascending sounds from one brass-phrase in Brahms’ Requiem. I stage private dance-parties in my nocturnal mind with the heavy rhythms of a Bruckner-scherzo. Speaking of scherzos, we could use an example from the modern canon, for is not Berio’s Sinfonia an example of archaeological mass-exhumation? The obvious instance is the well-known Mahler-scherzo overwritten with debris from the orchestral canon as well as Berio’s private fantasies. But the objects of this exhumation are also juxtaposed with contemporary objects of the time of composition (Lévi-Strauss’ The Raw and the Cooked), and recent past (Samuel Beckett’s The Unnameable) as well as urgent political questions (the assassination of Martin Luther King). Another example is Mathias Spahlinger’s Passage/Peysage, an immense orchestral fantasy springing from the opening chords of Beethoven’s 3rd symphony.
Working on the idea of tradition within the orchestra, we realize that it is not something given, but something constructed. One aspect of Berio’s Sinfonia is that it shows us this construction of tradition at work. In the process of exhumation we will find tradition in every square inch of gravel, but one thing to look out for is the multitude of constructive forces that shape and constitute this overwhelming sense of tradition. It might be liberating to admit the orchestra to the privilege of an outmoded genre, or a radicalized sense of the completed. This outmodedness resonates even in the artisanal restrictions and limitations connected with the orchestra: It is not accessible to the art-school student wanting to explore different media, because of the sheer skill needed to construct even one measure of orchestral music and to convey it to the orchestral institution. Its accessibility is regulated by strict rules of admission to the machinery of this very expensive art form. But these artisanal limitations might also be productive, if taken on in the sense that Foster proposes with regard to the Living-On after the alleged End of Art. One of the possibilities he sees in this field is what he calls the Non-synchronous forms of outmoded genres. As an example, he points to Stan Douglas’ film installation Overture (1986), where silent movie footage from the Edison Company from around 1900 is juxtaposed with extracts from Proust. He suggests that this synchronization of nonsynchronous forms give the possibility to make “a new medium out of the remnants of old forms, and to hold together the different temporal markers in a single visual space”. If we shift the emphasis to the aural space, it is not difficult to see how the symphony orchestra can constitute an arena for such exchanges. (There are some discrepancies between Fosters theory of outmoded practices and the framing of my own practice regarding the orchestra. I deal with some of them in “Brief note on repetition”. Let me state here that while Foster writes about critical recovery of past practice, I am trying to work out a critical examination of continued (past) practices. The orchestra is in a paradoxical state outmoded and continued; Residing at the Olympic heights of our cultural hierarchy, but at the same time becoming marginalized, seemingly oblivious of its own marginalisation, anyway being unable to do anything with it, going down in a blaze of glory.) The challenge is to open up the (re)constituted medium to social content, following the continuation of Fosters argument. It is obvious that historical memory is more difficult to work with in the orchestra when challenged by the questions of societal memory and social life, but the combination does undoubtedly hide some powerful possibilities. This is maybe where we find the potentials to situate the orchestra in a social context, a potential that I shall leave unexamined in this particular essay.
Let me once again return to my initial metaphor: When the exhumation is done, there is the matter of working with the unearthed objects. The time of laboratory-research, of diagnostics, of measurement. Of qualifying the forensic evidence, of autopsy. The etymological root of this word comes from Greek (self+seen), and denotes something eye-witnessed. Let me use the word ear-witness in this context, because this is the point where the composer needs to listen in on the exhumed body and to witness for himself, by ear, the true conditions of his material. This can be done intuitively, by ear alone, but there is a host of state-of-the-art technologies to be found in the autopsy room: Software for audio analysis, technologies for computer-aided-composition, for synthesis, for filtering and magnifying the most minute details of sound. And there is the wonderful, ancient technology of the score: A whole system of signs, the symbolic representation of sound, open to manipulations and analyses of a different kind, where musical representation is embedded in a cultural praxis as opposed to the cool, digital results on the steel-tray of numerological evidence. This opens up for engagement with taxonomy and systematic classifications, as well as for the erratic flight of the imagination. (All this with regard to timbral bodies; similar processes could be carried out on other unearthed structures, for instance societal, economical and political, to name but a few possibilities.)
However, the autopsy is not the end result. It is only the last stage in the process of unearthing and preparing the aural objects found on the orchestral site. And it is tempting to follow the metaphor to its logical extreme, describing the ritual display of the excavated, classified and prepared object. Isn’t the concert-performance the death of musical imagination? Once the musical work is out there in the air, sounding from instruments and loudspeakers, shared with the listening audience, it is no longer an elusive spirit caught and nourished inside the composer’s and performer’s bodies. It is out there in the open, up for grabs, and in that moment, the phantasmagorical intensities and the grandeur of imagined sound collide with reality in a way that more often than not evoke a bittersweet air of disappointment in its creators.
But this would be to indulge too overtly in a musical death wish. Let me instead revisit the image of the museum, which I touched upon earlier. It is a place of worship, of sensuous ecstasies, but it is also, in Adorno’s words, a place where the art of the past is put to death. Hal Foster elaborates on this dialectic by the help of Valéry and Proust, who represent these two vantage points in his essay “Archives of Modern Art”. The first point of view represents Proust as the viewer of art, the museum as a place for “fantastic reanimation, indeed of spiritual idealization”, whereas the second vantage point is from the artists’ studio, where the museum represents a threat of chaos and reification.  If it is true that the orchestra doubles as shrine and burial site, one does only need a slight transposition of imagery to adjust to the museal scheme of Adorno/Foster. And to a composer, this obvious dichotomy can turn out to produce contradictory energies; you find yourself torn between the urge to violently oppose the idea of the museum-as-mausoleum, but at the same time you cannot deny the symbolic power and pure mnemonic beauty contained in the orchestral shrine. In other words: The composer on the site of the orchestra has the freedom to superpose these vantage points in one singular vista. And in the dialectics between these positions there are energies to develop in musical terms, for the composer who looks for possibilities of touching upon a situatedness and contextual placement without losing the sensuous qualities of investigations in sound.
But Foster does not stop here. He ups the ante by tracing the dialectics of reification and reanimation back to Lukács. In his essay “Reification and Class Consciousness”, Lukács develops the idea that spiritual animation is an idealistic compensation for the capitalist reification, and that that this dichotomy constitutes one of the “antinomies of bourgeois thought”. This notion might lead us on to a question of the modern orchestra as part of the Society of the Spectacle, to follow Guy Debord’s term, or as an integral part of the Culture Industry that Horkheimer and Adorno described in their classic text on the subject. The question is if the criticism of Kulturindustrie, mainly aimed at the industry of popular culture, at this stage is equally befitting for the symphony orchestra. One might argue that the concert hall has become a marketplace for the spectacle economy. This is a discussion that will take us too far off the track of the line of thought I wanted to develop here, and I will leave it lingering for now. Because we have arrived at the point where the situated, excavated and autopsied body can manifest itself as a piece of art for the symphonic orchestra. To stick with Fosters terminology: The excavation site becomes a construction site – or rather, construction sites, taking into account the vast possibilities for artistic undertakings. It could be music, it could be something else. It could be embedded in a score, or a text, in different electronic media, or in different performative exchanges between composer, musicians and audience. This turn from excavation to construction also suggests a shift away from a melancholic view of history towards notions that are useful in the artistic acts of actually making something – maybe even something new.
 Hal Foster, Design and Crime and other Diatribes (London, NY: Verso, 2002) pp.123-143
 Foster, op. cit. p.129
 See for instance Gerard Grisey, Dérives (Milano: Casa Ricordi, 1974)
 Ina Blom, On the Style Site (Berlin, NY: Sternberg Press, 2007)
 Erkki Huhtamo, “Dismantling the Fairy Engine. Media Archaeology as Topos Study” in Huhtamo/Parikka (ed.): Media Archaeology (Berkley, LA, London: UC Press, 2011)
 Philip Glass, Low Symphony. From the music of david Bowie and Brian Eno (NY: Dunvagen Music Publishers, 1992)
 See David Bowie, Low (RCA, 1977)
 Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” in Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt (NY: Schocken books, 1969)
 Eric Kluitenberg, “On the Archaeology of Imaginary Media” in Media Archaeology p.51
 “An Archival Impulse” in October 110, 2004. p.20
 Thomas Flynn, “Focaults mapping of history” in Gutting (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Focault (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2003) p.31
 Eivind Buene, Standing Stones (Oslo: mic, 2010)
 Friedrich Kittler, Gramophone, Film, Typewriter (Stanford: Stanford Univ. Press, 1999 )
 Lars-Petter Hagen, Norwegian Archives (Oslo: Mic, 2005)
 Luciano Berio, Sinfonia (Wien: Universal edition, 1968)
 Mathias Spahlinger, Passage/Peysage (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1994)
 Hal Foster, Design and Crime pp.127-138
 Foster, op cit., p.137
 Th. W. Adorno, Prisms, trans. S. and S. Weber (Cambridge, Massachusets/London: MIT Press 1981) p.177
 Hal Foster, “Archives of Modern Art” in Design and Crime and other Diatribes p.71
 Foster, op. cit. p.72
 Guy Debord, The Society of the Spectacle, trans. Ken Knabb (Wellington: Rebel Press 2004 )
 Horkheimer and Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans. John Cumming (NY: Continuum, 1969 )