Assemblage Theory, or, the Future of an Illusion (part 2)

2/20/2019

by Ian Buchanan

Kevin Fletcher - ornamental low relief assemblage

II. ‘Returning’ to the Assemblage

Using some ‘real-world’ examples drawn from the work of the Australian policy ethnographer Tess Lea, I want to offer a different view of the assemblage, one that is drawn directly from the work of Deleuze and Guattari rather than secondary sources. Four key differences from Baker and McGuirk’s account of the assemblage will be apparent: ﬁrstly, the assemblage is not a thing in the world–it is assemblages that explain the existence of things in the world, not the other way round; secondly, assemblages are structured and structuring (not purely processual), that is one of their principal processes; thirdly, assemblages have a logic, an operational sense if you will, that can be mapped–one always knows what is possible and what is not possible within a given assemblage; and, lastly, assemblages always strive to persist in their being, to use a Spinozist turn of phrase–they are subject to forces of change, but ultimately they would always prefer not to change (this is why deterritorialisation is always immediately followed by reterritorialisation).

Infrastructure good and bad is the product of countless small decisions by many thousands of people over many decades. Those decisions, however well intentioned and well thought through, are not made in a vacuum. Of necessity, they are made in a context deﬁned by a set of constraints to do with cost, existing infrastructure, topography, trade agreements, and countless other factors too numerous to even at tempt to tabulate here, that ultimately blurs the line between the intended and the unintended, the fated and the accidental. The result is a curious state of affairs that is neither the product of deliberate, conscious design, nor the product of a sequence of random, ad hoc experiments, but somehow a combination of the two. It is, in this sense, a highly unstable object that requires a supple ontology to describe it. To begin with, and perhaps most importantly, we have to stop thinking of infrastructure and infrastructure policy in teleological terms because it has neither a clear-cut beginning nor a logical end point (Lea 2014:n.p.).This, in turn, challenges us to re-think the ontology of policy.

Rather than see policy as a blueprint, that is, as a static document or model which guides the construction of speciﬁc pieces of infrastructure, Lea argues that ‘policy is an organic–or as I prefer, a wild–force, a biota which thrives on the heralding of cataclysms and thus the cumulative need for policy beneﬁcence’ (Lea 2014: n.p.). I like this notion of wild policy, because of the impromptu, seat-of-the-pants, policy-on-the-ﬂy image it conjures up that goes well beyond the rather tame non-linear feedback loop model of ‘formulation–implementation–reformulation’ DeLanda suggests as a means of accommodating the widely acknowledged ‘gap’ between policy formulation and implementation. As he says, this model works–for his purposes–because it allows for ﬂuidity in the policy-implementation process but still retains the possibility of assessing outcomes (De Landa 2006: 85). Lea’s position is much more radical than this because she wants us to dispense with the fantasy (implicit in DeLanda’s formulation) that policy can be thought in systemic terms and evaluated by wiser critics after the fact, thus failing to think outside the logic of the system being critiqued. As Lea’s work demonstrates, the ‘formulation–implementation–reformulation’ model is intrinsic to policy’s own idea of itself (in Deleuzian terms, one could say it is policy’s ‘image of thought’ [Deleuze 1994: 131]). In its self-reﬂexive moments–such as so-called policy reviews–policy is sometimes willing to admit that things have not gone as planned, but even this is mere self-deception because the ‘idea of intentions gone awry pretends there was no foundational opacity within original policy forecasts’ (Lea 2014: n.p.).

However, as much as I like the image of ‘wild policy’ I want to set aside the organic model Lea uses to frame it because as several key critiques of organic models have amply demonstrated it returns us all too swiftly to the very thing we wanted to escape from in the ﬁrst place, that is, teleology. Instead I want to reimagine it in terms of ‘wild analysis’, which is Freud’s term for ‘apparently’ psychoanalytic diagnoses and treatments formulated by ‘untrained’ physicians. He is particularly wary of physicians who have a smattering of psychoanalytic knowledge, but have not mastered the subtleties of the actual practice of psychoanalysis itself, which despite its pretensions to scientiﬁcity was and remains an art form. In a way, though, the master himself was as much a practiser of ‘wild analysis’ as the lay practictioners he chastises because psychoanalysis itself is ‘wild’ as Nicholas Spice captures beautifully in this inspired description of the psychoanalytic‘scene’(i.e.the‘encounter’ between analyst and analysand):

Analyst and patient are two people who start to dance without knowing which dance it is that they are dancing or even if they share the same understanding of what a dance might be. But still they dance, and though in time they get used to each other’s steps they never do ﬁnd out which dance it is. So the patient has to give up his need to know what the analyst thinks about him, since there is no way he can ever ﬁnd this out, and the analyst must give up every ordinary human means to convince the patient that she really does have his best interests at heart. (Spice 2004: n.p.)

This, I think, better expresses the basic claim Lea wants to make about policy, namely that policy-making is (1) born in ignorance; (2) an adaption to circumstances rather than a rational solution to a speciﬁc problem; (3) subject to constant scepticism and suspicion; and (4) propped up by mutually agreed upon illusions of coherence. Wild analysis calls for the antidote of schizoanalysis (which is assemblage theory’s other name). Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of the assemblage answers to a number of the issues raised by Lea, but we must be careful to distinguish it from the kinds of distorted versions of it elaborated above, which are all too often imbued with precisely the kind of artiﬁcial coherence Lea wants us to escape. There is no point in exchanging wild analysis for wild schizoanalysis. If policy is to be understood as an assemblage, as I want to suggest it should be, then we have to ﬁrst of all grasp that the assemblage is not a thing and it does not consist of things. I would even go so far as to say the assemblage does not have any content, it is a purely formal arrangement or ordering that functions as a mechanism of inclusion and exclusion (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 45). It does not consist of relations; rather, it is a relation, but of a very particular type.

To conceive of policy as an assemblage means seeing it purely in terms of the kinds of arrangements and orderings it makes possible and even more importantly the set of expectations it entails. To see it this way we need to separate ‘policy’ as a conceptual entity from its myriad iterations as this or that policy–for example, infrastructure policy, health policy, transport policy, and so on–but also from all sense of outcomes and outputs. We also have to see so-called policy decisions as components of the policy assemblage and not as some kind of climactic moment in the life of a policy. Policy decisions are part of the form of the policy assemblage, not the content. By questioning the very idea of policy Lea has enabled us to see it in a new light. As Lea shows, policy-making is rhizomatic, it takes place ‘in the middle of things’, but always pretends otherwise because it is locked into an image of itself as a special type of agency (assemblage) that deﬁnes and measures ‘progress’. When policy looks at itself it only sees beginnings and endings, starting points that lack intentionality (a situation that stands in need of rectiﬁcation) and ﬁnishing points that are fully intended (a changed situation). In the middle is action, and though policy claims to function as a guide to what happens it eschews all responsibility.

III. Assemblages and Actants

In spite of the fact that the concept of the assemblage quite explicitly takes its structure from the work of the Danish linguist Louis Hjelmslev, the one Deleuze and Guattari describe as a ‘dark prince descended from Hamlet’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 43), assemblage theory consistently looks to science, particularly cybernetics, systems theory and complexity theory, as both the source of Deleuze and Guattari’s inspiration and the point of reference that gives the concept its meaning. For instance, in his two books devoted to assemblage theory (A New Philosophy of Society and Assemblage Theory) DeLanda does not mention Hjelmslev. Baker and McGuirk do not mention Hjelmslev either. Not only does this omission obscure the fact that Deleuze and Guattari drew upon a wide variety of non-scientiﬁc sources in their formulation of the concept of the assemblage, it also forgets that Deleuze and Guattari were quite explicit in saying that they were not interested in (re)producing science; they wanted their work to be thought of as nothing but philosophy. The concept, as Deleuze and Guattari would later write, has no referent (i.e. something in the ‘real’ world that it refers to and draws its meaning from), something else assemblage theorists of the ‘realist’ persuasion conveniently forget (Deleuze and Guattari 1994: 22).

Of these other sources the most important insofar as the assemblage is concerned was structuralist linguistics, including its dark precursor Russian Formalism. Guattari, particularly, was an avid reader of Mikhail Bakhtin and his putative alter ego Valentin Vološinov, a fact reﬂected in dozens of footnotes throughout his work. Deleuze, too, was clearly inspired by their work, as can be seen in his cinema books (the sensory-motor-scheme is clearly narratological in inspiration).Ironically, the one scholar to emphasise this connection was the one person who might have been expected to and perhaps even forgiven for seeing only the science side of Deleuze and Guattari’s work, and that is Bruno Latour. Latour explicitly links his conception of agency–and hence the concept of the assemblage which he takes from Deleuze and Guattari and adapts to his own purposes–to Greimas’s narratological concept of the actant (Latour 2005: 54). I want to suggest that Latour’s insight that agency can and should be thought in narratological terms is helpful in deepening our understanding of Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of the assemblage. Not the least because it returns us all the more surely to Hjelmslev, a key inspiration for Greimas in any case. Greimas helps to put Hjelmslev back in his proper light as a structuralist linguist, which is important because it cuts through the illusory veil of scientiﬁcity that has been wrapped around the concept of the assemblage by many of its erstwhile admirers. As I will brieﬂy illustrate, Greimas’s concept is perfectly consistent with Deleuze and Guattari’s famous instruction that we should ask not what something means, but only how it works, for this is exactly Greimas’s question too.

The degree to which the two concepts–actant and assemblage–are congruent becomes apparent the moment their respective deﬁnitions are read side by side. Firstly, the actant:

If we recall that functions, in the traditional syntax, are but roles played by words–the subject being ‘the one who performs the action’, ‘the one who suffers it’, etc.–then according to such a conception the proposition as a whole becomes a spectacle to which homo loquens treats himself. (Greimas, quoted in Jameson 1972: 124)

And as Jameson points out, for Greimas ‘it is this underlying “dramatic” structure which is common to all forms of discourse, philosophical or literary, expository or affective’ (Jameson 1972: 124). This will need more detailed explication, which I will provide in a moment, but before I do that I want to quickly juxtapose it with a brief quote from Deleuze and Guattari just to make apparent the degree to which their thinking is inspired by the same concern to distinguish between superﬁcial appearances and deep structures of action:

A formation of power is much more than a tool; a regime of signs is much more than a language. Rather, they act as determining and selective agents, as much in the constitution of languages and tools as in their usages and mutual or respective diffusions and communications.(Deleuze and Guattari 1987:63 my emphasis)

The essential insight of the concept of the actant is that the organising structure of a text (in the broadest possible sense of that word, which can of course encompass both policy and the built environment, our two concerns here) is at once that which allows for maximum variation and that which itself resists all variation (Jameson 1972: 123–9). It is in this precise sense a singularity at the heart of a multiplicity. It has both an internal limit and an external limit, that is, boundaries which cannot be crossed without becoming something different from what it was. The internal limit refers to the sum total of possible variationsit can accommodate; while the external limit refers to the restrictions history itself places on the number of possible variations. Analysis consists of bringing these limits to light. It is important to remember, too, that the actant is a narratological concept. So it always refers to a process of transformation rather than a static situation, or, to put it another way, it is generative not descriptive. Lea’s ethnography of the debate that went on behind closed doors in the implementation phase of Australia’s Strategic Indigenous Housing and Infrastructure Program (SIHIP) offers a real-world example of the actant as organising structure. Launched in 2009 with considerable fanfare and a seemingly bottomless well of money, SIHIP was supposed to ‘ﬁx’ once and for all (the echoes to be heard here of ‘ﬁnal solution’ are of course fully intended) the parlous state of indigenous housing in northern Australia. With a budget of almost $650 million, the programme was supposed to provide 750 new houses and refurbishment of a further 2,500 houses for Indigenous people in seventy-three communities across the Northern Territory. But almost from the beginning it ran into serious problems as cost overruns and blatant corruption on the part of ‘white’ building contractors turned the whole thing into a boondoggle of misused public funds. It was a public relations disaster, a virtual running sore that could not be remedied, because the constant rorting of the programme pushed up the unit cost of the individual houses being built to the point where ‘urban’ Australians (i.e. ‘white’ middle-class voting Australians) began to express resentment at the amount of money being spent on houses for ‘black’ people living in the ‘bush’. The build cost of houses in remote parts of Australia is so high that even modest homes are extremely expensive and by implication appear to be ‘luxurious’ and ‘undeserved’ to uneducated urban eyes.

I assume I need not comment here on the all too obvious undercurrent of racism fuelling the national outburst of ressentiment the SIHIP ﬁasco occasioned, but it should be clear–I hope–that not only is racism central to the political fall-out and response, but it also has a material dimension that, as Lea amply documents, ﬁnds its purest and most baleful expression in ontology. In order to bring costs down and get the whole mess out of the media spotlight, the politicians and senior bureaucrats charged with ‘ﬁxing’ things invited the building contractors who had hitherto ‘failed’ to deliver appropriately costed houses to reconsider the very meaning and actual substance of the concept of a house. Behind closed doors the builders were told ‘everything is on the table’:

With ... the invitation to ‘put it on the table,’ the discussion quickly turned to ways of building lower-cost houses at speed by lopping off such seemingly discretionary design features as louvered windows and sun hoods, internal ﬂashings for waterprooﬁng, or disabled access. In the ﬂurry of designing and then undoing the designs for appropriate housing, it was the sound of a built house falling apart in the non-speciﬁable future that could not compete with the noise of a threatened-and-defensive government in the here and now. (Lea 2014: n.p.)

As Lea argues, by putting ‘everything on the table’ the government effectively gave the builders a free hand to determine not only what constitutes the indigenous housing assemblage in the abstract or conceptual sense (thus redeﬁning its internal limits), but also what constitutes an appropriated welling for an Indigenous person in an actual material sense (thus redeﬁning its external limits). But, she asks, is a house still a house if–as was often the case with the houses built under the auspices of SIHIP–it is not connected to water? Is it still a house if it does not have adequate temperature control or any means of cooling it down in the year-round hot weather northern Australia experiences? Is it still a house if the sewage pipes are not connected to a sewage system? (Lea and Pholeros 2010: 187–190.) These are the internal limits of the housing assemblage, and under normal circumstances it would be impossible to ignore these limits and still call the result a house. But in this instance, with all the rules quite consciously suspended, a new assemblage was brought into being. But the more important assemblage-related question is: according to what criteria is it acceptable and legitimate to not only build houses of this materially substandard variety but also to expect the intended occupants to not only live in them but express gratitude for the ‘privilege’? This question cannot be answered unless we look further aﬁeld than the materials themselves. Lea uses the actual materiality of matter in the most literal and granular sense in a dialectical fashion to expose the fault lines in the expressive dimension. By examining in detail the properties of water, for example, and its implications for building houses in tropical locations, she exposes the critical shallowness of policy thinking which is more focused on ticking boxes in the expressive sphere than it is in creating enduring, live able houses in the material sphere. Material for Lea is akin to Jameson’s concept of the political unconscious, it points to an unthought dimension in policy formation; it also offers the occasion to write glorious sentences (which I willingly cite below). And in many ways these two operations–exposing an unthought, creating exciting new types of sentences–could be said to sum up (in a meta-commentary sense) the new materialist movement:

In monsoonal environments, walls suck in rainwater, forcing bricks and mortar to loosen their seemingly fast embrace, with each new striation forging a sweaty path for corrosion. Salt in mortar built with (substandard) building sand encourages water’s entry points. Water softens the muscularity of support beams; and when it dances on metal, shows itself to be an electrolyte, capable of strengthening its conductive properties by taking carbon dioxide from the air and creating carbonic acid, able to dissolve iron. Even better if the water is salt-loaded, be it from the liberation of salts in artesian waters as pastoralists and miners pull more and more liquid from the subterranean earth, or as spray from coastal waters. Salty water and acidiﬁed water are electrolytes on steroids, able to deconstruct the functionality of load-bearing steel frames at far greater speeds. (Lea 2015: 377)

As I have tried to indicate, there are two separate processes at work in this example: on the one hand, there is a set of questions about what constitutes a house in a material-semiotic sense, which corresponds to the internal limit of the actant; on the other hand, there is a set of questions about what constitutes an appropriate dwelling in an ethicopolitical sense, which corresponds to the external limit of the actant. By looking at the ‘house’ in this way, as an actant rather than an apparatus, our attention is directed in a very particular way: it asks us to reverse the usual way of seeing material–material is not, on this view of things, a condition of possibility, as it tends to be in most so-called new materialist accounts; rather, it is anything which can be interpolated and accommodated by the concept. As Deleuze and Guattari argue, drawing on Hjelmslev, material must always be produced; it does not simply exist (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 43–5). We have to resist the empiricist tendency to treat material as given and instead ask the more properly transcendental-empiricist question: how and under what conditions does matter become material?

In an Australian context, bricks, timber, pressed iron and ﬁbreboard all seem like ‘proper’ materials for house-building, whereas mud, straw, bark, plastic bottles and car bodies do not. But in fact there is no intrinsic reason why these ‘other’ materials should be excluded. Greimas’s question, then, which I want to suggest is also Deleuze and Guattari’s question, is: what are the limits to what can and cannot be counted as material for a particular actant and how are these limits decided?

Greimas’s implication is that one cannot look to the material itself to ﬁnd the answer; instead, one has to examine the actant–what are its requirements? What expectations does it create? This in turn leads us to the external limit and the role ‘history’ itself plays in shaping what can and cannot become the proper material of an actant. Now the issue is less what material is suitable for house-building and more what material is ‘ﬁtting’, where ‘ﬁtting’ is an ethico-political judgement about what kinds of houses people ‘ought’ to live in. These same two dimensions are to be found in Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of the assemblage and although they have different names their operation is almost exactly the same, but with one important twist: both the dimensions themselves and the relation between them are purely arbitrary (something else the new materialists and the realists neglect in their appropriation of Deleuze and Guattari). As Hjemslev puts it, the two dimensions ‘are deﬁned only by their mutual solidarity, and neither of them can be identiﬁed otherwise. They are deﬁned only oppositively and relatively, as mutually opposed functives of one and the same function’ (Hjelmslev, quoted in Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 45). The ﬁrst dimension (equivalent to the internal limit of the actant) is the form of content, but it is also known as the machinic assemblage of bodies; the second dimension is the form of expression, but it is also known as the collective assemblage of enunciation (88). At its most basic the assemblage combines ‘non-discursive multiplicities’ and ‘discursive multiplicities’–the combination is not total or exhaustive, one dimension does not map onto the other without remainder, something always escapes. This is because they are dimensions of an active, ongoing process, not a static entity. Deleuze and Guattari’s concepts are complex syntheses (meaning one can not trace back a pure line of derivation, there is always an inexplicable leap) of a range of ideas drawn from a wide variety of sources, so their names change as they evolve and take on board additional components. In this case the name change reﬂects the combination of Hjelmslev’s ideas (form/content) with that of the Stoics (bodies/attributes) and the work of Leroi-Gourhan (tools/signs) (63). These distinctions cannot be reduced to a simple opposition between things: ‘What should be opposed are distinct formalizations, in a state of unstable equilibrium or reciprocal presupposition’ (67).

Foucault’s analysis of prisons–itself inspired by Deleuze and Guattari’s work, as Foucault remarks in an admiring note in the preface to Discipline and Punish–is an exemplary illustration of how this works in practice according to Deleuze and Guattari:

Take a thing like the prison: the prison is a form, the ‘prison-form’; it is a form of content on a stratum and is related to other forms of content (school, barracks, hospital, factory). This thing does not refer back to the word ‘prison’ but to entirely different words and concepts, such as ‘delinquent’ and ‘delinquency’, which express a new way of classifying, stating, translating and even committing criminal acts. ‘Delinquency’ is the form of expression in reciprocal presupposition with the form of content ‘prison’. (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 66)

How should this model of thought be applied? The ‘preferred method’, Deleuze and Guattari write, ‘would be severely restrictive’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 67), by which they mean we should (1) seek to determine the speciﬁc conditions under which matter becomes material (i.e. how bricks, timber and steel are determined to be the proper material for housing as opposed to mud, straw and wrecked cars); and (2) seek to determine the speciﬁc conditions under which semiotic matter becomes expressive (i.e. how it is decided that a speciﬁc arrangement of materials is ‘ﬁtting’ for a person to live in and another arrangement is not). Here I must clarify that for Deleuze and Guattari, expression, or better yet ‘becoming expressive’, does not mean simply that something has acquired meaning(s) in the semiotic sense; rather, it refers to the fact it has acquired a performative function. In the example above, the label ‘delinquent’ is not merely symbolic, it frames a person as deserving the treatment he or she receives. It is clear that ‘indigenous’ functions in the same way–as Lea’s analyses make abundantly apparent, the assemblage ‘indigenous housing ’is very different in its formulation to what we might think of as ‘regular housing’ (a phrase I use purely for convenience without any wish to defend it).

That these two formalisations are arbitrary and mobile can be seen in the fact that both vary considerably from country to country and more especially from one class perspective to another. The modest suburban home is a mansion to the slum-dweller, and the slum-dweller’s shanty is a mansion to the rough-sleeping homeless person; by the same token, the suburban home is ‘ﬁtting’ for a middle-class ‘white’ person, just as the shanty is–in the eyes of that same middle-class ‘white’ person–‘ﬁtting’ for a poor person, particularly one living in a remote part of the country where he or she is literally out of sight and out of mind. Formalisation means there is a unity of composition, or, to put it another way, there is an underlying principle of inclusion and exclusion. But the principle of inclusion and exclusion for one dimension (content) can be and often is in conﬂict with the principle of inclusion and exclusion for the other dimension (expression). But what is of central importance–and the reason why the assemblage is such a powerful concept–is the issue of what it takes to yoke together these two dimensions in the ﬁrst place: this is what the assemblage does. We have to stop thinking of the concept of the assemblage as a way of describing a thing or situation and instead see it for what it was always intended to be: a way of analysing a thing or situation.

IV. Conclusion

As Deleuze and Guattari say:

thinkers who do not renew the image of thought are not philosophers but functionaries who, enjoying a ready-made thought, are not even conscious of the problem and are unaware even of the efforts of those they claim to take as their models. (Deleuze and Guattari 1994: 51)

Concepts should bring about a new way of seeing something and not simply ﬁx a label to something we think we already know about. For Deleuze and Guattari, the critical analytic question is always: given a speciﬁc situation, what kind of assemblage would be required to produce it? As I have tried to indicate in the foregoing discussion of Lea’s analyses of indigenous housing policy in Australia, this question should be understood as having two interrelated dimensions: on the one hand, it asks: what are the material elements–bodies in the broadest possible sense–that consitute this ‘thing’, how are they arranged, what relations do they entail, what new arrangements and relations might they facilitate? On the other hand, it also asks: how is this arrangement of things justiﬁed and more importantly legitimated, what makes it seem right and proper? In this way it points to different kinds of entities, non-discursive and discursive (or better yet, performative) that have been yoked together. However, it must be emphasised here that the assemblage is the yoke, not the product of the yoke. This is why the comparison with Greimas’s concept of the actant is valuable: it helps us to see that the assemblage is a virtual entity with actual effects.

Notes

1. A key side effect of this detachment, which I am unable to pursue here, is the isolation of the assemblage from the concepts of the body without organs and the abstract machine which are in fact inseparable in Deleuze and Guattari’s work. See Buchanan 2015.
2. I use this analogy in my critique of Jane Bennett’s use of the concept of the assemblage. See Buchanan 2016
3. For example, see my discussion of Deleuze and Guattari’s analysis of Little Hans in Buchanan 2013.
4. Although Deleuze was interested in the problem of genesis, it is not a central concern in his collaborative work with Guattari. The opposite is true. As their discussion of the Wolf Man makes clear, the problem they have with Freud is precisely that he insists on tracing all symptoms back to a point of origin rather than deal with them on their own terms (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 31).

References

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taken from:

Ian Buchanan

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