The Disutility of Violence by Seamus Light (Animation BFA Department) received Third Place in Critical Essay category of the Humanities and Sciences Department’s First Annual Writing Program Contest.

The central moral position of most modern libertarians and anarchists is the axiom commonly referred to as the “Non-Aggression Principle.” This principle states that any act initiated by one person which serves to violently interfere with the life, liberty, or property of another is inherently immoral. The N.A.P naturally extends to government as well, and renders such involuntary practices as war, conscription, and taxation immoral, as they are merely legalized forms of murder, kidnapping, and theft respectively. This position, however, should not be confused with the philosophy of pacifism, as libertarians also tend to believe strongly in the right to self-defense, and do not preclude the use of violent action entirely. Since the focus is on non-aggression, as opposed to non-violence, one would be morally justified in disarming an attacker, even if it meant injuring or killing them in the process.

This is where many questions arise. What should be considered “aggression,” and is a forceful response appropriate? Most would agree that violently toppling a cruel dictatorship is justified; but what about the common supporters of that regime? It is through their support that the regime gains the illusion of legitimacy, and is able to survive. Without them, that government would cease to function, just as was seen in the former Soviet Union.  The collapse of the Soviet superpower did not occur so rapidly merely because it was inefficient or bankrupt. The USSR had always been inefficient and bankrupt. What changed was how the population began to lose its confidence and, eventually, fear of its rulers. So if a regime’s supporters are its lifeblood, then it can be argued that suppression of such people is morally justifiable.

Libertarian thinkers such as Ludwig von Mises and F.A. Hayek agreed with these statements, and showed support for regimes such as that of Augusto Pinochet in Chile. For several years prior to Pinochet’s 1973 coup d’état, Chile had been suffering a noticeable economic decline under the ruling socialists, led by then-president Salvador Allende. Allende’s authoritarian regime had been enacting policies of nationalization and collectivization of businesses, and the violent expropriation of private citizens’ property that entails. But in 1973, Pinochet and the Chilean military launched a successful coup, installed General Pinochet as dictator, and began peeling back decades of government control of the market. Under Pinochet’s economically liberal dictatorship, Chile would not only recover, but become one of South America’s most prosperous nations. But there was a price. The Pinochet regime, in order to prevent the resurgence of a new Marxist opposition, perhaps even greater than the already present left-wing insurgency, began the systematic suppression, imprisonment, and execution of thousands of political opponents. Pinochet’s government lasted until 1990, and many of his economic reforms remain in place today.

In the end, was this as close a victory free-market advocates could reasonably hope for? Should such techniques be advocated by groups which embrace liberty? Is it moral to prevent a man from supporting, and therefore empowering, an aggressive political ideology by slitting his throat? Is it reasonable to cut out the tongue of a man whose voice and whose will would condemn innocents to slavery or death? And can dictatorship prevent even greater evils?

From a moral standpoint, forcefully halting the advances of an authoritarian political movement is indeed justified. The suppression and rooting out of its adherents can often be useful practices, as they were in the American Revolution, where rebellious colonists took up arms not only against their royal government, but also against its royalist supporters. However, if one is pursuing liberty, and the overarching goal of a society based on peaceful, voluntary cooperation, violence is not the most desirable nor practical option.

First, dictatorship or government policy as a tool is ruled out almost immediately. Such institutions are interested first and foremost in the preservation of their own authority. Authoritative government bodies never willingly give up power, and any support initially given to them by libertarians would merely help legitimize that government, and prolong the suffering.   And considering the harm which is inevitably inflicted upon innocent bystanders, as well as dissenters who may have originally been the ones supporting the regime, police states simply cannot be trusted.

Second, violence must not continue to be normalized; for that plays a major role in the reason why governments and their associated acts of coercion are so common. When war and violence is normalized, and even praised, that society will produce nothing but more violence and misery. Children are ordered not to hit or steal, yet are told to admire and obey governments who are perpetually at war, and paying for it with the stolen wealth of their citizens. This numbs people to atrocity, and is why the United States, as of this writing, has been at war for 215 of its 236 years in existence. Similarly, if advocates of liberty were to proclaim violence as the first and most effective means of achieving a goal, those around them, especially the young, would adopt such a position, and form pathological personalities. Violence must be seen only as a final, desperate option, once all others have been exhausted.

Thankfully, there are alternatives. The most important struggle in the movement for freedom is ideological. If enough people can be convinced that personal liberty is preferable to statism, or become disengaged with the government apparatus, then that state will quickly lose its air of legitimacy, and collapse. People must voluntarily withdraw their consent from the state, become independent of its services, and pay as little into its coffers, both monetarily and morally, as one can get away with. Forming cohesive communities, providing for one’s own defense, and teaching the Non-Aggression Principle to the young and uninitiated will spell the end of the state. Once people know their value as individuals, and their potential, those who run the state’s machinery and enforce its laws would cease to show up for work.

If one seeks a lasting victory for peace, liberty, and prosperity, it must not be founded upon violent conflict. Instead, one must have the capability to defend oneself, and the will to cooperate peacefully with those around them.

The Humanities and Sciences Department of the School of Visual Arts announced the First Annual Writing Program Contest winners yesterday at an awards ceremony hosted by the Visual Arts Library.  Professor and WORDS editor Lou Phillips emceed the event, and the Michael Hashim Trio provided vivid jazz stylings.

Respect and thanks to all students that submitted.

Warm congratulations to the following winners, whose work will be published both here and in WORDS over the coming months:

Poetry
1st Place   Harris Bauer (Visual & Critical Studies)
2nd Place  Monique Pelser (Photography)
3rd Place   Alison Cheevers (Advertising)

Memoir/Personal Essay
1st Place    Michael Loscalzo (Visual & Critical Studies)
2nd Place  Josette Taylor (Graphic Design)
3rd Place   Sophia Zdon (Illustration)

Film Script or Play
1st Place    Tal Lurya (Film and Video)
2nd Place   Ha Lim Kim (Graphic Design)
3rd Place    Max Copolov (Visual & Critical Studies)

Short Story
1st Place    Evan DeCarlo (Film and Video)
2nd Place   Joshua Barclay (Film and Video)
3rd Place    Anne Clinton (Fine Arts)

Critical Essay
1st Place    Colleen Tighe (Illustration)
2nd Place   William Patterson (Visual & Critical Studies)
3rd Place    Seamus Light (Animation)

Earlier this month, Janice Ahn’s Writing About Art class trekked up the Hudson River to the Storm King Art Center.

The students set off with an assignment to write about five “encounters” with an object, scene, or sculpture.  Ahn encouraged them to engage their respective creative practices in concert with writing.  The following are photos of Storm King and the students on that peaceful day, and a few pages from Fine Arts BFA senior Anna Fasano’s sketchbook.

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Above: Minhae Kim (Visual and Critical Studies BFA, 2014) writes, dwarfed by Ursula von Rydingsvard’s For Paul (1992). 

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Above: students circle von Rydingsvard’s Luba (2010).

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Above: Dominic Musa (Fine Arts BFA, 2013) emerges from Isamu Noguchi’s Momo Taro (1977-78), with Fasano standing by.

I am sitting on Grandma’s couch, fabric so rough it feels like dried hay against my legs. My fingertips are gross and raw and gnarled because I bit and picked them all the way on the ride here.

I sit still and shift my eyes to the left. My loser of an uncle sits there with his lazy arm around Cherry’s neck. Cherry has twisted teeth. Almost like stereotypical British teeth, where they stick out every which way, except she’s Spanish or something and not British. I think Cherry’s name might be Shelley. I forget.

On the floor, my younger fat cousins are sitting and they remind me of three plump pigs in a pen. Their stomachs flood over the sides of their waistbands and threaten to pop the buttons. They’re wearing jeans and I look at myself in a nice stupid pretty dress. Why am I the only one wearing something nice for Christmas Eve?

My other fat cousin, who is older than me by a year and some months, has gotten fatter. She’s wearing jeans too. She just shoved a shrimp in her mouth. I think she ate the shell.

The stale smell of smoke is in the air. I sneak a gaze at my loser uncle again and I think the stench comes from him. Each time he speaks he reveals bits of cracker stuck between his yellow teeth. Acne scars or pockmarks or something have left dents in his cheeks.

Sitting on the tiny bench at the dinner table is my big aunt. She is supposed to have been losing weight but instead has gained. Her body shape reminds me of a basketball, with little nibs or stumps popping out for her arms and legs and neck. Like her daughter she shoves shrimp in her mouth. She keeps consuming without realizing the shell is still on the shrimp. Dipping sauce dribbles down her five chins.

I lock eyes with my mom on the other side of the room for a brief moment. She attempts a smile, to reassure me, but her gaze is distracted and her eyes flitter back to my aunt with the shrimp. My mom is being tormented here. She is imagining that one day I will be as fat as my relatives and it scares her.

There’s a knock on the door and I perk up, like a dog that has been offered a treat. The chipped red door opens and in walks my favorite uncle, aunt, cousins and that skinny boy. They all struggle to squeeze into the dining area, packed with tables and chairs and various bulbous relatives.

My new cousins who have just arrived smile politely and say hi to me and everyone else and join us. The skinny boy, who is not a relative but in fact my cousins’ friend who joins us every year, looks at me and for the first time since I’ve been here I let a smile slip. He’s a string bean with a goofy smile and big nose and he takes a seat next to me on Grandma’s hay couch.

There’s about five of us jammed together on the couch now. Secretly, behind our bodies, string bean holds my hand and my stomach does flips. I try not to stare at him since he’s sitting right next to me, but when I get a peek all I see are the lights of the Wildwood piers at night and the lighthouse cup. Between our hands I feel the grains of sand. There’s the backyard, the smell of smoke and sting of pixie sticks mixed with some sort of alcohol, home-cooked bacon and pancakes, the silhouette of my uncle in the door…. I hear the laugh of us and my cousins and the ocean roaring in the background. A layer of summer mist sits on our skin and my cousin Meg smiles; I remember the four of us walking around the streets of Cape May at night, just the street lamps guiding us to Wawa.

Somehow we all ended up here, months later packed in Grandma’s tiny house. I don’t know what or how my two cousins remember that August vacation, but skinny boy here still holds my hand and for a little while I’m existing in summer again, instead of being trapped in winter on Grandma’s hay couch.

[reprinted from WORDS 75 (SVA literary journal), edited by Professor Louis Phillips]

Henri Cartier-Bresson 1933SPAIN. Valencia. 1933.

Henri Cartier-Bresson 1933
Valencia, Spain 1933

I can so clearly recall the sour but dry and pleasant smell of the fixer that saturated the cool air of that classroom: the last classroom at the end of the hall, on the farthest corner of campus, the end of the fourth corridor (out of a grand total of four). Mondays were always designated as the day to present the “photographers of the week.” It was either the third or fourth week of the year, and I was just starting to wet my toes in the field of photography. I was already in love with the zany genius, Mr. Martz. It was his fascination with all things beautiful (from Ansel Adams to Ren and Stimpy), his ability to sing exactly like John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats, his informed celebration of childishness, his almost obsessive attention to order–but most of all, his passion for the art of photography. Looking back now as I’m almost done completing my BFA in Photography, I can say that without a doubt my high school photography teacher Jeff Martz, more than anyone, has shown me how much a person can love the medium of photography.

It was either the third or fourth week of the year, and our photographer of the week was Henri Cartier-Bresson. As Mr. Martz flipped through his analog slide projections of Bresson’s images, I was shown photographs that made me realize the potential of what a camera was able to capture when put in the right hands. Henri Cartier-Bresson’s images contained a human poetry that I had never seen before. They were a formal organization of forms combined with the preservation of moments of grace and surprise that together transformed the gestures of the everyday into an homage to living. One slide after another I found more and more images that I fell in love with. I often credit Cartier-Bresson as my first, favorite photographer, and it is because his images showed me why I wanted to pursue the art of photography.

There is one image of Cartier-Bresson’s in particular that I hold very close to my heart. I can’t say I have a definitive favorite piece of art, but Cartier-Bresson ‘s work was defining for me, and this particular photograph stands out often in my mind as one of my most beloved pieces of imagery.

In this particular photo taken in Valencia, Spain in 1933, Cartier-Bresson focuses in on a young boy. The boy is small within the frame. As he walks along a large overbearing wall, he has his left arm outstretched to caress its surface. His head is thrown back and his eyes are rolled back in an almost ecstasy. On the surface of the wall is a dark stripe with chipped white paint. But it isn’t just a boy touching a wall. Cartier-Bresson transforms this simple dilapidated wall into a galaxy through which this young boy is drifting and having a private moment of rapture. In the real moment when Cartier-Bresson took this photograph the boy was actually tossing a ball into the air and is waiting for it to fall, but as Cartier-Bresson has cropped out the ball he so brilliantly tells a whole other story of a whole other truth, of a young boy feeling his way through the cosmos.

It is this magic of capturing a unique moment in time and creating a document of the ephemeral that has driven me to make photography my chosen art form. As Bresson said himself of the act of photography, “It is putting one’s head, one’s eye, and one’s heart on the same axis.” Even as technology progresses and art evolves, there will always be a fascination in the exquisiteness of frozen time. Henri Cartier-Bresson was a master at making the intangible tangible, and transforming what would otherwise be a forgotten moment into something bigger than it ever could have been without his gaze, such as the simple act of a young boy tossing a ball into the air.

[Maya Meissner is a Photography major graduating in 2013.  For this Writing About Art assignment, she wrote about a work that had a powerful influence on her own practice.]

Right off the bat, I had difficulty with this question. I found it hard to pinpoint a singular work or body of work in ANY of the artistic realms—I feel as though I have so many that have had an impact on me! But I have whittled it down to what I believe gave me my voice emotionally, artistically, and even physically. Although visual art has provided me with much inspiration, it was music that first brought forth my inner self. It did not take long for me to recognize one artist who has had the biggest effect on me. Her name is Joni Mitchell.

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Sitting in my room, I pulled the CD sleeve from my bass case and held it lightly, feeling its frail weight countered by significance. My so-called love interest had slipped it in with my bass when I wasn’t looking. Scribbled with a Sharpie by urgent, pre-pubescent hand, it read Joni Mitchell: Blue. This was a moment one should not forget, a moment of pivotal nature unbeknownst to the player in the game. I popped that baby into the stereo on my wall and pushed play. Surrounding my skull were rhythmic chords twirling, with one note ringing out true underneath it all. And then the voice. The words. She sang and it soared like that of an imperfect angel, much more impactful than any divine being.  I sat back in awe, soaking up every last nuance that dripped out of her mouth. She sang of love, but not in any way I had ever heard before. Every single line hit me hard: I love you when I forget about me/ Do you want to take a chance on maybe finding some sweet romance with me baby/ All I really, really want our love to do, is to bring out the best in me and you. I was beginning to hear so many of my core feelings, feelings that I had no words for, being put into a song written twenty-something years before I was even hinted to exist. Immediately, I was moved.

Joni Mitchell in ConcertIn some respects, Joni Mitchell’s music had a greater effect on my own music rather than my photography. For many years I had struggled to figure out what my voice was. I would sing and listen to others, and it did not quite make sense. We were so dissimilar. They could roar. I was more inclined to soar, floating to high notes and letting my vibrato ring. I felt alone and out of place, unaware of my place vocally and emotionally. Discovering Joni felt like meeting a long-lost relative for the first time, and finally having answers to those questions you were never able to solve. You see in them what you were trying to find in yourself. Sure, that is a dramatic example, but it hints at how this discovery felt to me. Finally I had found someone I could connect with artistically. The way she leapt from melancholy to joyful to sorrowful, sometimes within the same song, reminded me so much of my own swirling emotional whirlwinds. Sometimes slow and introspective like the looping of a spoon in a water glass, or overwhelming, a mini dust storm that hits you by surprise and lingers only a few moments too long. I began to see how this would show up in my photography as well. I am not quite sure how to explain it, but the quality of my photos have the same quality of the stories I imagine in my mind while I listen to her songs…a watercolor-like, shallow depth of field, beautiful yet dark, tangible yet a little off-image. I also seek to capture my subject in ways that are genuine and subtly introspective. It’s about trying to achieve and portray honesty and emotional nuance.

Joni gave me my first true artistic inspiration, because it was not just about liking an album, it was about connecting with that person’s creations in all aspects. Although I may not even enjoy every single one of her songs, it really does not have anything to do with them anymore. Her music to me is about self-discovery. She helped me put emotions, like the ever-complex love and friendship, into words. Things I felt but could not express. And in turn, this has affected me in all aspects of life! My photography and music are just two facets in which I can see the direct correlation.

 [Alex Tremitiere plans to graduate in 2015 with a Photography BFA. For this Writing About Art assignment, Alex wrote about an artist whose work influenced her own creative practice.]

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