The problem with Slavoj Zizek is that despite, or more properly because of, his schizophrenia - his demonstration of a mind perpetually outrunning itself - he is completely inspiring. Ordinarily, I would spend the last hours of my day with some Freudian grand-father figure such as Robert McNamara, David Attenborough, Carl Sagan, or Gandalf, lulling me away from repetition with fantastical tales of the order of all things. Last night, though, I found myself wading through Uncle Slavoj’s untamed lands, transformed into a child inspired by the possibility of such overwhelming novelty.
Normally too, I would assume some abandonment of fidelity in the staging of Tunnel 228, the Kevin Spacey approved art installation tucked behind Waterloo station wherein an agglomeration of inauthentic hacks and hipsters have gathered to stage another empty, hype-ridden simulation.
Yet today in all my giddy nakedness, I see a clever staging of the game of cat and mouse - the organisers setting the parameters in a way that by the time the predators – the media, the guidebookteers, the Time Outs - arrive, the party has moved on.
Though with the passing of the day into the next, I will surely return to my fatalistic experience, a parasite to someone else’s ideological styles.
Authenticity today, lame performance art tomorrow.
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