Paths to

Autonomy
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Paths to Autonomy

Ed. Noah Brehmer

Asist. Ed. Vaida Stepanovaite

Minor Compositions &

Lost Property Press

2022
4
Contents
Introduction 10
Noah Brehmer

They Call It Creativity,

We Call It Exploitation! 28
Katja Praznik

Learning Not to Labor 60

Stevphen Shukaitis

Unionism, Diversity of Tactics,

Ceaseless Struggle 90
Marina Vishmidt with Roberto Mozzachiodi,
Pawel Nowożycki, Agnė Bagdžiūnaitė,
Emilija Švobaitė and Vaida Stepanovaitė

Preface to Edward Abramowski's

Stateless Socialism 132
Bartłomiej Błesznowski

Stateless Socialism 142

Edward Abramowski

Looking for Autonomist Politics

in the Baltic States 188
Airi Triisberg and Tomas Marcinkevičius

We, the Inheritors, of Worlds 218

Ayreen Anastas, Rene Gabri,
Arnoldas Stramskas and Noah Brehmer

Lexicon 56, 84, 128, 214, 250

Bibliography 258
5
Preface

6
A path is created when a direction is taken; its
production marks the imbrication of personal choice,
communal action and subhuman (structural, historical,
ecological) conditionings. We are at the same time the
makers of our paths and subject to the inheritance
of paths we have made with others and which have
arrived before our own makings. And just as class is
not a static, abstract, transhistorical form, neither are
the paths of its articulation as autonomous revolts
of selves against capital – there are many paths to,
for, and of autonomy. The autonomist tradition, that
politically experimental effort to build autonomy within
and against capitalism, has been intensely variegated
from its inception in the 1970s. From an initial focus
upon the question of proletarian autonomy, its paths
have multiplied, bifurcated, and diffused. Following
the legacies of decolonial and feminist autonomism,
we would argue for an embrace of autonomy’s
differences and bifurcations. We see not one path to
autonomy but many. A diffusion that not only amounts
to the proliferation of oppositional subjects – i.e. a
proliferation of the modes by which we refuse to be
subjects for capital – but also of the geographies,
ecologies, and temporalities that mediate the articula-
tion of selves.

Paths to Autonomy began in 2020 as our effort to

think these manifold paths through assemblies, talks
and readings situated in the post-state socialist,
Eastern European context of Lithuania.* For we,
ourselves, begin in the East. It is the circumstance
within and against which our path to autonomy is
necessarily mediated. We, the present inheritors
of state socialism’s experiments, catastrophes,
* The assemblies unfolded over five sessions. Video documenta-
tioncan be found here: http://luna6.lt/paths-to-autonomy.

7
 and subterranean potentialities step into a future
conditioned not only by its highways, nuclear plants,
wars, and imperialist historiographies, but also by the
manifold paths of autonomy, resistance, and rebellion
that arose both within and against its territories. In
Paths to Autonomy you will find excavations of this
parallel history of Eastern autonomism; the opening of
dialogues between militants in the East and the global
autonomist movement; and some critical interventions
in contemporary autonomist theory. Threaded
throughout the book is a lexicon of concepts formed
by contributors, which can be approached on the
one hand as a red thread – suggesting connections
and affinities amidst notable differences – and on the
other as a toolkit for the journeys and struggles that
await us in the cultivation of paths to come.

8
9
Introduction
Noah
Brehmer

10
 Individuals are never autonomous: they depend
on external recognition. The autonomous body
is not exclusive or identifiable. It is beyond
recognition. A body of workers, it breaks away
from labor discipline; a body of militants, it
ignores party organization; a body of doctrine,
it refuses ready-made classifications.

Sylvere Lotringer, Autonomia: Post-political

Politics, (1981).

Amidst a protest in Rome that mobilized tens of

thousands against the state – as a response to the
threat of new social restrictions being imposed on
individual freedoms via the green pass system – the
Fascist organization Forza Nuova manifested and
directed the crowd’s collective rage toward the
headquarters of a labor union, The Italian General
Confederation of Labor (CGIL). Forza Nuova accused
CGIL of failing to defend employees from the state’s
requirement for the vaccination of the labor force
and incited the looting and occupation of the CGIL HQ.
It is not only in the streets of Rome that the antivax
movement has championed a notion of freedom as
the private liberty of the individual. Such a position
might be exemplified by a statement such as: “I do
what I want in disregard of the other.” Mobilizations
against public healthcare have been essential for
the building of contemporary neofascist ideology:
authoritarian individualism.1 The contemporary fascist
movement is clearly no longer only concerned with
the building of an ethno-nationalist collective body,
but also orientates toward a declassed, individualist
populism. This reconciles billionaires like Trump and the
1 As coined by Sergio Bologna, in “‘We can’t leave the idea of
freedom to the far right!’ – on the ‘anti-vax’ movement,” Angry
Workers, December 2021.
11
 ever growing disenfranchised masses aligned with him
and his international cohort, through the figure of the
market individual as owner of themselves and their
fate. Responding to the attack on the union and the
rise of neofascism in Italy over the past years, Sergio
Bologna – a veteran of Italy’s operaismo (workerism)
movement and a forerunner of the autonomia
(autonomist) movement of the 1960s and 1970s –
theorized the connection between this new politics of
authoritarian individualism and the transformation of
global production:

The old model of multinational capitalism

maintained hierarchical command and exclusive
access of companies to the market. The
individual’s material and economic survival
was solely in the hands of the companies who
employed them as a dependent and subordi-
nated workforce. Today, the natural inclination
towards individualism is increased by the belief
that access to the internet can be access to
the market and thus to survival, without the
mediation of any institution through subordi-
nated labor and the wage – in this sense, the
freelancer is the symbolic figure of our time. 2

And, as we see, for the contemporary neofascist

ideology of authoritarian individualism that has risen
out of this shift, the state is centered as the greatest
enemy of individual advancement in the networked
marketplace’s world of free competition. Importantly,
however, it is also the unions, squats, community
centers, communes, and any other articulations of
collectivity that are also its enemies. That is, any
2 Ibid.

12
collective body involved in the material reproduction
of a “we” broadly based on social principles, contrary
to authoritarian individualism, must be negated in
order to realize the freedom for which it stands. The
freelancer is hence symbolically produced within
the contemporary neofascist movement as a kind
of saintly character: a self-made subject, a radically
flexible yet constantly employable individual. A surfer
of financialized risk always prepared to ride the latest
wave, bearing responsibility for its course, regardless
of outcome. However, the projection of this rugged
individualism by the populist right and neofascism is
not the only notion of freedom that has contested
state responses during the pandemic.

While the right stands behind the banner of private

liberty the anti-authoritarian left has long held to
principles of solidarity, mutual aid, and a lesser known
but deeply influential concept of autonomy. This is a
notion of freedom that always arises with and through
the other without being utterly dependent on the
“Other” – a higher authority – for self-constitution.
Contemporary autonomists, responding to the Covid
crisis, have practically enacted such principles in
demonstrating that we need not choose between a
blind defense of the state as a sovereign distributor
of life chances and the biopolitical marketplace’s
dismal prioritization of private profit over ecology and
social wellbeing. Carenotes Collective, taking inspira-
tion from autonomous health clinics in Greece, is one
of many such groups advocating and organizing for
a struggle to communally organize healthcare.3 This,

3 See: Carenotes Collective, For Health Autonomy: Horizons of Care

Beyond Austerity – Reflections from Greece, Common Notions:
2020.

13
 Carenotes suggest, is based on a dual movement of
the deinstitutionalization (public) and decommodifica-
tion (private) of healthcare.4 Rupturing the apparatus
of individuation at the core of the doctor–patient
service relation, we arrive at a radically deterritori-
alized ecology of care.5 The latter is now reproduced
by the autonomous social body that has reclaimed
the material conditions that determine “wellbeing”
in the urban commons.6 From this standpoint we
in turn arrive at a very different understanding of
the subject and with it politics as such. Abandoning
the quest of modernity for the fulfillment of the
subject as a figure of separation and sovereign
consciousness, autonomists call for an “autonomy of
materializations” as opposed to an “autonomy from
materializations.”7 Rather than embracing the latter,
the bourgeois and patriarchal tradition of humanist
idealism, autonomist politics embraces the subindivi-
dual and subhuman dependencies and conditionings
of subjectivity, those heteronomies – economic,
ecological, social forces – that mediate the subject.
This, as Stakemeier and Vishmidt write, “thus depends

4 See: Carenotes Collective, “Reclaiming Care in the Urban

Commons” in The Commonist Horizon: Futures Beyond Capitalist
Urbanization, Common Notions and Lost Property Press, 2022.
5 “There is no encounter between suffering bodies in the
architecture of the clinic; the doctor/healer diverts the
potentiality of collectivizing around suffering to instead
individualize disease with coded complaints and a prescription
exchanged for a bill. Suffering = the biological = the
commodifiable.” For Health Autonomy, op. cit., 16.
6 “Reclaiming Care in the Urban Commons”, op. cit.
7 Kerstin Stakemeier and Marina Vishmidt, Reproducing Autonomy:
Work, Money, Crisis & Contemporary Art, Mute Publishing: 2016. 58.

14
on the purposeful expansion, reorganization, and
individuation of heteronomies: those heteronomies that
rule, form and reproduce our lives.”8

Although what could broadly be called the left may

agree on the concept of freedom as always mediated
by the social body, the paths to/of/for such freedom
have taken different and at times radically conflicting
directions. The left encapsulated by the state socialist
regimes was often viewed as hostile to individualism
per se, never mind autonomy. Indeed, as the cold
war discourse had it, “world communism” was set on
dissolving the individual – their desires, interests, and
preferences – into the undifferentiated macrosubject
of history and class. Such a socialism was a mere
antipode to the free world’s centering of the individual.9
The “really existing left” of modernity, found in state
socialism, was rivaled by the early philosophical
founders of neoliberalism – the Austrian Positivists – in
the postwar era. The latter formulated their world view
through “methodological individualism”: the individual as a
rational monad, acting on their own sovereign interests
and producing social forms as the mere aggregation of
these shared individual interests and preferences.10

Ayn Rand would appear as the prime narrator of the

free world’s post-war mythology of the cowboy market
individual.11 The emergent 1960s artistic counterculture
8 Ibid., 62.
9 For an insightful, although dense, ultraleft critique of this
collectivism as a metaphysical speciesism, see Camatte’s 1972
commentary: Jacques Camatte, “Bordiga and the Passion for
Communism,” libcom.org, 2018.
10 For an introduction to the methodological individualism/collectivism
debate, see: Daniel Bensaid, Marx For Our Times: Adventures and
Misadventures of a Critique, Verso Books: 2009. 145.
11 See for instance: Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged, Penguin: 2007.
15
 would be swept up in this mythological crusade.
Artists, figures like Jackson Pollock, would find them-
selves exported around the world in the CIA’s cultural
war against socialist realism. Pollock, a forerunner of
this counterculture, evidenced how open to recuper-
ation the antagonisms articulated by this movement,
still in formation, actually were. The countercultural
rebellion against the routine, disciplinary, sterile
securities offered by capitalism in its modern industrial
phase, were weaponized by these very regimes to
promote the emergence of a new mode of capitalist
production and accumulation: neoliberalism. Already by
1962, Andy Warhol delivered a wry commentary on how
easily commodified the new countercultural, bohemian
philosophy of the creative spontaneous individual
might be, through his series Dance Diagram . In it, we
bear witness to the industrial duplicability of Pollock’s
spontaneous foot movements, charted, indexed, and
reproduced as a commodity in themselves.12

However, Warhol’s amused cynicism was not the only

response to the recuperation of the avenues of
revolt opened up by the counterculture. There were
also more revolutionary responses. Responses that
threatened to usurp the cold war’s partitioning of
the globe into collectivist and individualist camps.
These tendencies arose at the very moment of the
subsumption of the counterculture by capital and
state. They were an effort to restrategize this new
social composition’s microrevolutions of the everyday,
not just as individualist bohemianism, but as totalizing
negations of the capitalist world system. Broadly
situated within the 1968 New Left, such tendencies – in
12 For a sociological account of the recuperation of the spirit of
May 1968 and the rise of the figure of the artist as the new spirit
of advanced capitalism, see: Luc Boltanski and Eve Chiapello, The
New Spirit of Capitalism, Verso Books: 2017. 97.
16
some cases – described themselves as autonomist.
Not only in Italy and neighboring Western European
geographies, but also in Eastern Europe, the global
south and Asia, autonomists saw in the antiwork,
anti-establishment ethos of the counterculture
both the crisis of the “collective worker” and its
institutions – the union and revolutionary party – and
the emergence of a new language or sensibility of
politics characterized by the absence of a recogniz-
able political subjectivity.13 Simultaneously, they saw
how the self-romanticizing marginality of the same
counterculture – its affinity for flexible, precarious,
at times illicit work and its propensity to enchant
decrepit urban centers with the aura of creativity –
was becoming the new core of capital accumulation in
the so-called post-Fordist metropole.14 The question of
autonomy was posed as a break from both market and
state socialist capitalisms as well as their associated

13 Endnotes in “A History of Separation” have an interesting

account of this idea of the “collective worker” as a subject
symbolically articulated and posited within the labor movement,
serving as an essential mechanism of unity, its prime
political expression being the collective demand. Endnotes,
unfortunately, only seem to find in the crisis of this subject the
call to search for another composition of political collectivity. A
composition they at one moment thought to have discovered in
the figure of the surplus population. Having eventually dispensed
hope in this subject too, Endnotes seems to linger in a certain
pathos, while turning to the tradition of nihilist communism in
the hope of arriving at a certain nonsubject: politics as the
refusal of the self as a subject-project of the political. For a
take on this crisis of the collective subject and a like-minded
articulation of the nonsubject, from an autonomist standpoint,
see: Mario Tronti, “On Destituent Power” (2008), trans. Andreas
Petrossiants, with revisions by Jose Rosales, Ill Will Editions, May
22nd, 2022. See for Endnotes’ account: Endnotes, “A History of
Separation”, in Endnotes No.4 2015. 70–193, 4.
14 See, Felix Guattari, “The Proliferation of Margins” in Autonomia:
Post-political Politics, Semiotext(e): 2007. 108.
17
 myths of freedom through the individual/collective
subjects.

Autonomist praxis was realized in myriad forms. These

ranged from the proliferation of social centers that
functioned as hubs for the communalization of daily
life in the neighborhoods (or “social factories”); free
party milieus that weaponized libidinal desire, to
fierce waves of urban insurrection, occupation, and
organized looting.

Paths to Autonomy begins at this moment of

subsumption, crisis, and revolutionary strategization,
from the perspective of the state socialist East
and its post-socialist aftermaths. The book can be
approached as an effort to excavate these lesser
known, and temporally parallel paths of Eastern
autonomism under state socialism, while also pointing
to the deeper regional roots of this tradition.
Evidenced in the vibrant and variegated histories of
stateless socialism and anarchist communism found
here. Building from our path to autonomy in the East,
the book opens into conversations with our comrades
and friends in the global autonomist movement.

In They Call It Creativity, We Call It Exploitation!, the

Serbian theorist and labor activist Katja Praznik
analyzes how reforms that began in the 1970s used
cultural workers and the figure of the artist as a “sort
of experimental vanguard” for the neoliberal counter-
revolution in the making.15 Praznik introduces how the
ideology of an independent, spuriously “autonomous,”
culture came to play a systematic role in undermining
the social equalities and economic autonomies at least
15 Katja Praznik, “They Call it Creativity, We Call it Exploitation!” in
Paths to Autonomy, Lost Property Press, Minor Compositions,
Autonomedia: 2022.
18
partially won by the working class in the Yugoslav
system of socialist self-management. Tracing the
bourgeois, patriarchal, and ruling class essence of
“aesthetic autonomy,” Praznik shows how Yugoslav
cultural policy failed to overcome this legacy and in
this failure sowed the seeds for the later onslaught of
neoliberalism. Praznik turns toward Yugoslav “auton-
omists,” such as the Praxis Group, who advanced
radical criticisms of these social and cultural policies
for their failure to abolish the hierarchical, specialized,
“autonomous,” position of art as a profession in
society. As one member of Praxis Group, Golubović,
demanded: “All professional activities and professional
groups must be eliminated, as institutionalized units
of society and conditions must be created for human
labor to become truly a universal activity.”16 Building
on the critique of this Fordist style professionalization
and hierarchization of labor, Praznik introduces the
feminist autonomist concept of “invisibilized labor” to
open up our thinking on what is at stake in the total
“emancipation” of labor, as a socially autonomous
“universal activity.” Finally, calling upon the legacy of
both Yugoslav socialist era autonomists and their
Italian counterparts, Praznik argues that a true path
to autonomy must begin by organizing around our
common unfreedoms, as an exploited working class
under capitalism.

Yet, what exactly is meant by the “working class”

and what does it mean to organize as a part of it?
The concept of class composition – as unpacked by
Stevphen Shukaitis in his contribution Learning Not to
Labor – was the Italian autonomists’ means of making
16 Zagorka Golubović, “Culture as a Bridge between Utopia and
Reality” in Praxis: Yugoslav Essays in the Philosophy and
Methodology of the Social Sciences, eds. Mihailo Marković and
Gajo Petrović, D. Reidel Publishing Company: 1979. 178.
19
 sense of the social body’s articulation of new strate-
gies for resisting domination by capital, and capital’s
defensive reorganization of the production process,
in order to control, discipline, and subsume these
new threats.17 Class, in turn, as Shukaitis advances,
is not the transhistorical abstraction “proletariat,”
but an autonomously enunciated social form arising
out of the ever-changing composition of the social
body in its resistance to what could broadly be called
work. That is, the manifold experiences of control,
exploitation, oppression, and discipline we encounter
under capitalism as parents, queers, women, factory
workers, care workers, indigenous and all the abject
others of the planet, marked off as less than human
by capital.

Sharply contrasting with Shukaitis’ own take on class

composition as a living multiplicity of forces, the domi-
nant tendency of post-autonomia came to prioritize
the quest to locate a new vanguard subject.18 It’s here
that we eventually arrive at the contentious figure of
the creative multitudes. Heralded as the new vanguard
composition by post-autonomia figureheads – such
as Negri, Hardt, and Virno – the creative multitudes
were seen as the post-industrial counterpart to
yesterday’s factory proletariat. Immaterial and
affective laborers, whose subjectivity – language,
desire, creativity, or simply political existence – is

17 Stevphen Shukaitis further builds on the concept of class

composition in, The Composition of Movements to Come:
Aesthetics and Cultural Labour After the Avant-Garde, Rowman &
Littlefield International: 2016.
18 For a trenchant critique of this quest, see “Reality Check: Are We
Living in an Immaterial World?”
20
centered as the ultimate object of production.19 And,
as romantically articulated by Hardt and Negri in their
movement-shaping book Empire in the early 2000s,
this new creative composition was seen to hold within
itself the elementary components for a stateless,
networked, communism.

Today productivity, wealth, and the creation of

social surpluses take the form of cooperative
interactivity through linguistic, communica-
tional, and affective networks. In the expres-
sion of its own creative energies, immaterial
labor thus seems to provide the potential
for a kind of spontaneous and elementary
communism.20

The strength and continuing relevance of canonical

autonomist theory is in the versatility of its concep-
tual mechanisms, articulated in the theoretical capac-
ity to welcome new class compositions and social
forms. However, its weakness is also clearly shown in
its assumption that the “most advanced” tendencies
of capitalist production are at the same time the
sources for the most advanced patterns of antag-
onistic political subjectification.21 As Kuba Szreder
19 The idea of political existence being centered is deduced by
Paolo Virno through his observation on the collapse of the
historical division of the intellect and labor under post-fordism.
See: Paolo Virno, A Grammar of the Multitudes, Semiotext(e):
2004. 81.
20 Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, Empire, Harvard University
Press: 2001. 294
21 For instance, see the collaborative effort of the artist and
theorist Warren Neidich and the Italian postautonomist Bifo on
neurocapitalism and the corresponding new vanguard subject
of this global class composition, the cognitariat. See, Arne De
Boerver and Warren Neidich eds., The Psychopathologies of
Cognitive Capitalism: Part One, Archive Books: 2017.
21
 succinctly puts it, the essential problematic of the
tendency falls on: “whether social production of value
is an autonomous process that is organized within the
multitude and only secondarily captured by capitalist
mechanisms of extraction – or whether capitalist
mechanisms of organization play a significant role
not only in extracting value, but in molding the very
process of its production, which needs to be dialecti-
cally overcome, just as the factory-form of industrial
capitalism was supposed to be.”22 Whether assuming
the form of the cognitariat, the immaterial laborer, or
creative multitude, postautonomism sides with the
former standpoint, the “social production of value”
being inherent to the “multitude.” Even if inadvertent,
this is a centering, even an alignment with the Western
techno-imperial cores of accumulation. This is evident,
however latently, throughout the postautonomist
political camp. 23 As is well articulated by Italian feminist
autonomists of the era and after it, such a centering
of the multitudes has unfolded as the erasure of
antagonisms on the peripheries of techno-imperial
development.24 Such erasures include: indigenous
land struggles, the nonwaged reproductive labors of
women, the many around the world who continue to
labor without the supposed novelty of being affective
22 Kuba Szreder, “Instituting the Common in Artistic Circulation:
From Entrepreneurship of the Self to Entrepreneurship of the
Multitude” in Praktyka Teoretyczna, Vol.27, No.1, 2018. 197.
23 See: Silvia Federici, Revolution at Point Zero: Housework,
Reproduction, and Feminist Struggle, Common Notions: 2012.
121–122.
24 Silvia Federici has been one of the more outspoken critics
of this tendency, herself hailing from the historical Italian
autonomia movement and a foundational theorist of the
feminist theory of reproductive labor. Federici is also notable
for her later participation in and research on global movements
of the commons in Africa, Latin America, and other territories of
struggle peripheral to “immaterial production.”
22
or immaterial, in industrial manufacturing, or those who
continue to work the mines from which the resources
for immateriality derive. In sum, all those excluded
from, yet essential to the reproduction of what Hardt
and Negri call the “network.”25

In Unionism, Diversity of Tactics, Ceaseless Struggle,

workers from Lithuania, Poland and the UK intervene in
these romantic, theoretical, conceptualizations of the
networked, creative, multitudes through an exchange
of dispatches on contemporary labor struggles in
and beyond the cultural sectors of their respective
regions. Engaging with a letter by Marina Vishmidt – a
theorist and militant, who has been active in autono-
mist debates around the problematic of artistic labor
over the years through her writings and also partic-
ipation in platforms like W.A.G.E. – the respondents
critically take on what Vishmidt describes as the
“anomalous” and “exceptional” composition of artistic
labor as a barrier to emancipation. In this they oppose
how it is romanticized, as noted above, as the position
of the new historical vanguard. Vishmidt takes note of
a recent unionization wave in the arts field catalyzed
by the socioeconomic decomposition of artistic
subjectivity. From this, she suggests that a new sense
of belonging and solidarity is emergent between art
workers and workers more generally, as a class in the
struggle against capitalism. The respondents, in turn,
interpret the potentials of this emergent de/compo-
sition through reflection on their own union activities
and ambitions for their unions. And this emergent de/

25 For instance, see chapter 1.2, “Biopolitical Production,” in Michael

Hardt and Antonio Negri, Empire, Harvard University Press: 2001.
22–41. And for a well-developed critique of the emancipatory
capacity of network politics see, Gregory Sholette, “Art, Politics,
Dark Matter: Nine Prologues” in Dark Matter: Art and Politics in the
Age of Enterprise Culture, Pluto Press: 2011.
23
 composition is reflected both within and beyond their
occupations in the cultural field, widening the scope of
autonomy through a wider path of social contestation.

In advocating a path to autonomy through such a call

for the antagonistic embrace of all that opposes it in
the present, the question may arise as to what – if
any – positive horizon is imagined? Autonomism, as
Guattari infamously proclaimed, “involves not only the
struggle against material bondage and visible forms of
repression, but also, from the outset, the creation of
many alternative set-ups.”26 This resonates with Paths
to Autonomy. A number of “alternative setups” are
suggested from the standpoint of multifarious forms
of labor and the manifold paths for its auto-
nomous refusal. There is Praznik’s excavation of the
revolutionary struggle to “emancipate labor” through
the movement of free associations and councils,
carried out by Yugoslav militants. Then, Shukaitis’
sketching of the creative strike, wherein creation for
capital is replaced with “ludic creativity” for all. And,
in concordance with these, Vishmidt and the union
respondents’ suggestions for infrastructural and dual
power strategies.

Similarly, confronting the problematic of cultivating

a path to autonomy both through and beyond
the standpoint of our shared heteronomies within
capitalist political economy, is a historical essay by
Edward Abramowski. Stateless Socialism advances a
revolutionary strategy from the standpoint of the
cooperativist movement in early twentieth century
Poland. Newly translated from Polish to Lithuanian, the
text features a preface by Bartłomiej Błesznowski.

26 “The Proliferation of Margins”, op. cit., 109.

24
Błesznowski is a theorist and historian who has
worked elsewhere on the connection between
Abramowski’s revolutionary philosophy of Polish
cooperativism and contemporary autonomist theory.27
Drawing from Abramowski, Błesznowski contends
that the institution of the cooperative arising out
of the class struggle enables the flourishing of the
communal individual, the task of stateless socialism
being: “to transform the consciousness of social
actors in such a way that they develop their individual
strengths within an immanent, nonhierarchical, and
voluntary community which strengthens them.”28
Abramowski saw the cooperative as supporting a
form of life that traversed the shortcomings of both
the market individual and state socialism’s imposition
of a collective body. Free association, mutual aid, and
autonomous self-organization were found to prosper
in the communes and cooperatives of this revolu-
tionary movement in action. Writing of the Owenite
neighborhood cooperatives in England, Edward
employs the idea of “communization” to describe a
movement that enacts its theses in its actions, not
waiting for communism, as some forever delayed
promise of salvation by the state.29

Turning toward our own immediate present and

position in the Baltic East, there is then the record

27 See: Bartłomiej Błesznowski and Mikołaj Ratajczak, “Principles

of the Common: Towards a Political Philosophy of Polish
Cooperativism.” Praktyka Teoretyczna 1, No.27, 2018.
28 Bartłomiej Błesznowski, “Preface to Stateless Socialism,” in
Paths to Autonomy.
29 A concept that will be further developed in the aftermaths
of 1968 as communization theory. See: Benjamin Noys ed.,
Communization and its Discontents: Contestation, Critique and
Contemporary Struggles, Minor Compositions: 2011.

25
 of a conversation between two comrades. In this,
they share their experiences with the regionally
particular forms, and inheritance, of “autonomism”
as they’ve encountered it over the past decades in
political milieus in Lithuania and Estonia. In Looking for
Autonomist Politics in the Baltic States, Airi Triisberg
(Estonia) and Tomas Marcinkevičius (Lithuania), navigate
the sharp historical discontinuities that generally
mark regional histories of the left. They conceptu-
alize autonomism as a “slippery concept.” As such,
autonomism is both a living form and the outcome of
manifold – and even conflicting – inheritances. On the
one hand it arrives as a political grammar from the
German Autonome tradition, via Poland in the early
2000s. Marcinkevičius and Triisberg detail the efforts,
frustrations and failures of Autonome’s translation
into the local landscape.30 On the other hand, the
idea of cultivating a regional, Eastern, legacy of
autonomism is posed as both an urgent task and an
already emerging movement undertaking. A task that
we have contributed to in our own small way through
facilitating the first translation of Stateless Socialism
into Lithuanian and, more generally, throughout this
book.

Concluding the book is a correspondence between

Arnoldas Stramskas, Ayreen Anastas, Rene Gabri,
and myself, We, the Inheritors, of Worlds. Here, one
finds a broad, yet personal, set of reflections on
core concepts raised in the book. Amongst other
considerations, it introduces a radical problematization
of workerist autonomism through a lively, idiorrhyth-
mic, correspondence in the form of an exchange of
propositions. Navigating the colonial-imperial dynamics

30 See, Geronimo, Fire and Flames: A History of the German

Autonomist Movement, PM Press: 2012.
26
at the heart of these majoritarian workerist histories
of autonomy, reflections are stirred on how to best
sustain erased and peripheralized histories of auton-
omy within our movement spaces and infrastructures.
Departing from our shared experiences in building
and maintaining autonomous spaces – which have
taken varied forms over the years as 16Beaver (NYC),
Dr Green Squat (Vilnius), Emma Social Center (Kaunas),
Luna6 (Vilnius) – this correspondence ventures into
the question of cultivating and reproducing autono-
mous worlds. By this we mean transversal movement
formations organized through the infrastructural and
infrapolitical – understood as paths not conventionally
legible as politics – standpoints of social reproduction
and decolonialization.

Paths to Autonomy is intended as a contribution to

the further elaboration of an autonomist politics.
An autonomous politics that suggests how the
proliferation of paths towards and of autonomy
might ultimately overcome the tenacious global reign
of capital and the state as a power of control and
command over our lives.

27
Katja Praznik
They Call It
Creativity,
We Call It
Exploitation!
The Legacy of Yugoslav
Socialism and the Class
Character of Autonomy

28
29
 “‘Whoever has money in their pockets has well-de-
termined conceptual abstractions in their heads,
consciously or otherwise’, says Sohn-Rethel, and he
isn’t joking,”1 Constanzo Preve once pointed out in
the newspaper Lotta Continua, an important paper
of Italian operaismo (workerism).2 This statement was
made at a moment when heated battles were taking
place in Italy between workers, intellectuals and
feminists against the forces and agents of capital
accumulation. In these struggles the concept of
autonomy featured prominently, though its defini-
tion and use remained ambiguous.3 The ambiguity
surrounding the idea of autonomy was perhaps most
visible in the split between feminist groups and male
dominated factions of operaismo.4 It was hard for
some men to embrace autonomy as a standpoint for
the working class as a whole: from unwaged domestic
housework(ers), the gender nonconforming to the
racially oppressed. As Silvia Federici points out, the
contemporary left’s issues with feminist autonomy
can be traced back to this period of struggles: “Not
accidentally, most of today’s left polemics against

1 A newer version of this quotation published in the recent trans-

lation of Sohn-Rethel’s book reads: "Whoever has money in their
pocket and understands its function, must have fully determi-
nate conceptual abstractions in their head!" Alfred Sohn-Rethel,
Intellectual and Manual Labour: A Critique of Epistemology, Brill,
2020. 183.
2 Costanzo Preve, “Commodities and Thought: Sohn-Rethel’s
Book” (originally published in Lotta Continua, 5 August 1977, 6) in
“Materials from Lotta Continua on Alfred Sohn-Rethel,” in Ibid., 175.
A more accurate translation appeared later in Lotta Continua and
is reproduced in the note above.
3 See Steve Wright, Storming Heaven: Class Composition and
Struggle in Italian Autonomist Marxism, Pluto Press: 2002 and
The Weight of the Printed Word: Text, Context and Militancy in
Operaismo, Brill: 2021.
4 Ibid., 498–505.
30
feminist autonomy are dedicated to denying that
wages for housework is a feminist and, therefore,
working-class strategy.”5 Autonomy as defined by
Marxist feminists within operaismo (as economic
autonomy) and by other factions of operaismo (as the
power of workers) stands in stark opposition to the
dominant western genealogy of autonomy as capital’s
power of abstraction, as alluded to by Preve in his
quotation from Sohn-Rethel. I refer to this insightful
statement by Preve precisely to consider the fate of
autonomy in a very particular realm, where numerous
abstractions, including autonomy and creativity,
stand as the hallmark for an endemic exploitation of
labor. This is the world of Western institutionalized art
wherein the concept of autonomy was articulated by
people with a lot of money in their pockets and often
tons of power in their hands.

Beginning with an analysis of how the obfuscation

of art as work in the Western tradition of aesthetic
autonomy enables the reproduction of inequalities
and the exploitation of art workers, I turn towards the
struggle against this tradition in socialist Yugoslavia.
It is here that I engage with the contradictions and
unfulfilled aspirations for the emancipation of labor
through the system of self-management practiced
under Yugoslav socialism. I show how the bourgeois
banner of artistic autonomy was in fact crucial to the
undermining of Yugoslav socialism’s partial emancipa-
tion of cultural labor. Referring back to the diverging
standpoints on autonomy within Italian operaismo,
I show how the male dominated vision of workers’
autonomy, as secure and productive labor, undermines
itself by enforcing a hierarchy within the working

5 Silvia Federici, “Capital and the Left,” in Patriarchy of the Wage:

Notes on Marx, Gender, and Feminism, PM Press: 2021.
31
 class that invisibilizes other forms of labor that
fall outside the classic wage relation. I turn toward
the theories of autonomist and Marxist feminists to
expose this invisibilization of labor and the importance
of the conclusions they reached about the character
of women’s work for the problem of the exploitation of
labor in the context of the western institution of art.

Just like housework, which was historically and

socially constructed as a natural attribute of female
subjects or as a “labor of love,” the labor of the
artist has historically been redefined as embodied
creativity, an inborn faculty of genius. In both
cases, particular skills get essentialized, declared,
or culturally constructed as naturally stemming from
the subject’s essence or nature. Neither is defined
as work: they are invisible in relation to the process
of their production. But while we owe much to Marxist
feminists who demystified the essentializing principle
that turns housework into nonwork and becomes
the fulcrum of exploitation and oppression of women
under capitalism, the discourse of aesthetics and art
theory uncritically perpetuates ideas about artistic
practice as nonwork or as an exceptional kind of labor
that reproduces the essentialization of artists’ work
as an attribute of creativity or creative genius. In
other words, essentialization in the case of art work
is perceived as positive (unlike domestic labor), and
it makes art look natural (so not work); it therefore
legitimizes the invisibility of labor in a way that may
be worse than with domestic labor. With artists, the
positive valence associated with an essentialism that
maintains the difference and exceptional nature of
each artist makes it harder to rebel and to want to

32
reform this exceptionality. This makes it easier to
accept a nonremunerated approach to art work.

Examining the opposition between autonomy and

labor in the arts through the case of Yugoslav
socialism, I argue that the autonomy of art is a class
construct, a specifically bourgeois invention that
impedes the emancipation of “art work.” I go on to
demonstrate that the material conditions and policies
through which art became a form of labor in Yugosla-
via represent an alternative conception to that of the
bourgeois definition of artistic practice as creativity,
and in doing so they offer a terrain to challenge the
class character of art’s autonomy today. I conclude
by arguing alongside Yugoslav era militants that the
emancipation of art work has broader stakes in the
emancipation of work more generally as a truly free,
universally autonomous, activity.

What is Autonomy Without

Economic Autonomy?
Autonomy, an otherwise cherished principle frequently
undergirding movements for political and social
change, has a quite ambivalent role in the context
of institutionalized art production in the West. The
meaning of autonomy in the context of art is not only
ambivalent but also ambiguous: it can refer to the
autonomy of an artist, work of art or an entire field.
The variety of meanings has divergent effects on art
as a form of labor. Regardless, in this discussion I refer
to a historically specific idea of the autonomy of art
that developed alongside the philosophy of aesthetics

33
 in the eighteenth century.6 Structurally speaking,
the division of labor by the end of the eighteenth
century turned art into a professional social sphere.
Art became a relatively autonomous social occupation
with its organizations, agents, relations of production
and so on. As the capitalist mode of production
became endemic, the autonomy of art also became
an ideological notion that defined art as a field which
is separate from the drudgery of capitalist wage
labor and commerce. As any ideology worthy of being
called an ideology, artistic autonomy mystified the real
exploitative conditions and arrangements that govern
the relations of production in the arts. Autonomy
of art from the viewpoint of labor brings out this
unsettling element because it separates the labor of
an artist from remuneration and affects the definition
of art work as a practice that is or should somehow
be unaffected by pecuniary concerns.

In Herbert Marcuse’s essay “On the Affirmative Char-

acter of Culture” we see how the eighteenth century
conceptualization of aesthetic autonomy as capitalist
ideology originates in Greco-Roman idealist philosophy
which, in positioning abstraction, truth, and beauty
above matters of subsistence, served to enforce the
social order:

The ancient theory of the higher value of

truths above the realm of necessity includes
as well the ‘higher’ level of society. For these
truths are supposed to have their abode in
the ruling social strata, whose dominant status
6 Peter Bürger, “Critique of Autonomy,” in Michael Kelly ed., Encyclo-
pedia of Aesthetics, Oxford University Press: 1998; Immanuel Kant,
Critique of Judgement, Hackett Publishing Company: 1987; Paul
Oskar Kristeller, Renaissance Thought and the Arts, Harper & Row:
1965.
34
 is in turn confirmed by the theory insofar as
concern with the highest truths is supposed
to be their profession.7

During the bourgeois era, the separation of aesthetic

enjoyment and art from economic survival was
established as something universal. Art and culture
were proclaimed to be a universal value and humans
“as abstract beings . . . are supposed to participate
equally in these values.”8 This abstraction, as Marcuse
underscored, emerges and obscures the reality that
was clear to the Greek philosophers: it is only the
economically secure classes that could afford to
enjoy these universalities. Or, if we recall Sohn-Rethel’s
thought – those with money in their pockets. The
autonomy to ponder higher values was based on
economic security and not the other way around.

Thus, despite the fancy proclamations regarding

universality that are characteristic for the “bourgeois
liberation of the individual” and the “new happiness”
that this freedom should bring, Marcuse underscores
the illusory status of the universality proclaimed and
its class determination:

But the universality of this happiness is imme-

diately canceled, since the abstract equality
of men realizes itself in capitalist production
as concrete inequality. Only a small number of
men dispose of the purchasing power required
for the quantity of goods necessary in order
to secure happiness. Equality does not extend
to the conditions for attaining the means. For

7 Herbert Marcuse, “On the Affirmative Character of Culture,” in

Negations: Essays in Critical Theory, MayFly Books: 2009. 67.
8 Ibid., 69.
35
 the strata of the rural and urban proletariat,
on whom the bourgeoisie depended in their
struggle against the feudal powers, abstract
equality could have meaning only as real
equality. For the bourgeoisie, when it came
to power, abstract equality sufficed for the
flourishing of real individual freedom and real
individual happiness, since it already disposed
of the material conditions that could bring
about such satisfaction. Indeed, stopping at
the stage of abstract freedom belonged to the
conditions of bourgeois rule, which would have
been endangered by a transition from abstract
to concrete universality.9

Building on Marcuse’s arguments about the importance

of understanding the social function of art in bour-
geois society and its class character, Peter Bürger
has shown how Kant’s philosophy of disinterested
aesthetic enjoyment is built on this false universalism
and how it is related to the autonomy of art as class
ideology.10 Kant’s definition of art as an activity that is
free in a double sense – free from utilitarian purposes
and free from remuneration (that is, it shouldn’t be a
mercenary occupation) – furthers the “invisibilization”
of labor in the arts and removes art from consider-
ations about the relations of production and labor.11
Clearly it also implies that art is an activity that is
available to the classes unconcerned with securing
subsistence. In this sense, Bürger’s contention

9 Ibid., 72 (emphasis added).

10 Peter Bürger, Theory of the Avant-Garde, University of Minneso-
ta Press: 1984. 41–43.
11 Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgement, Hackett Publishing Com-
pany: 1987. 190.

36
that the autonomy of art is a bourgeois ideological
category is central, as is his question about what it
conceals.12

Enjoyment of art then, is exclusive: it belongs to

classes that can dispense with certain material
conditions, and as I argue, this is also the case for
the production of art including the labor of artists –
art work. To practice art work autonomously in the
bourgeois sense, that is without worrying about
payment, means one’s economic security is not in
question, especially under capitalism where people are
structurally conditioned to work to live. What classes,
after all, can afford to practice art independently of
remuneration? The autonomy of art is instrumental
to the mystification that produces the invisibility of
labor in the arts, which in turn goes hand in hand with
exploitative relations of production.

Therefore, from its historical emergence onward, the

autonomy of art stands in distinct opposition to art
as a form of work; it is part and parcel of artistic
labor’s invisibility and its exploitation because the
autonomy of art is premised on a disavowal of the
economic relations of art. Labor’s invisibility in the
arts and its “autonomy” converge, but as we have
already seen through Italian autonomism, they are
not conflatable. It is a peculiarity of Western art that
autonomy should be thought of and philosophically
grounded in opposition to economic autonomy.
It is here that the case of Yugoslav socialism
(1945–1991) and the transformation of art work into
invisible labor, during the last decades of its existence,
is instructive. While the political economy of socialist
12 Theory of the Avant-Garde, op. cit., 46.

37
 Yugoslavia, known also as a system of self-man-
agement, was based on a policy of full employment
(including artists), Yugoslav socialism’s incorporation
of bourgeois aesthetic traditions produced a mysti-
fication of art as a realm of freedom. The autonomy
of art played an important and detrimental role in
the process whereby art as work was gradually
overpowered by an understanding of art as creation.
The dynamics of this transformation is relevant for
a critical reconsideration of the autonomy of art
and the ways in which a critical analysis of its class
character may offer pathways to the emancipation of
(art) work.

Autonomy of Art vs.

Autonomy of Labor in
Socialist Yugoslavia
The attitude toward art as labor developed in the
first half of Yugoslavia’s existence (1945–1967), through
progressive labor policies and social protections
for artistic labor.13 Yugoslavia developed a socialist
version of a state welfare system that was based on
social insurance and social protection; all cultural and
artistic activities were publicly funded. It was also
importantly connected to a policy of full employment.
Socialist Yugoslavia recognized artists as workers
and as an important part of the new socialist state
including their welfare provision, economic, and labor
rights. Artistic labor was integrated into the political
13 I detail these developments in Art Work: Invisible Labour and the
Legacy of Yugoslav Socialism, University of Toronto Press: 2021,
especially chapters three and four, “The Making of Yugoslav Art
Workers: Artistic Labour and the Socialist Institution of Art” and
“The Mystification of Artistic Labour under Socialism.”
38
economy predominantly in the form of full-time
employment in cultural organizations, art academies,
and high schools for applied arts. Art workers were
also employed in primary and high schools, publishing
houses, newspapers, and in radio and television.

While the majority of art workers were employed, a

very small percentage, initially, operated as freelanc-
ers with protected social and workers’ rights.14 In 1952,
authorities passed a contract ensuring social insur-
ance for freelance writers, poets, and film production
workers (screen writers, film directors etc.).15 In 1955,
this was extended to other art workers, for example
musicians and translators.16 In sum, laws and decrees
passed in Yugoslavia during the late 1950s and 1960s
provided freelance art workers with similar protec-
tions to those enjoyed by employed workers.

The socialist labor policies that established full

employment did not circumvent the institutional
framework of autonomous art, as a professional
endeavor. Rather they bolstered autonomy but on
different terms than under capitalism since art work-
ers’ labor and economic rights were acknowledged
and also protected. This overlap ensured not only the
emergence of art workers but also the practice of art
as an economically viable form of professional work.
The cultural policies also strengthened the capacities
for cultural production in terms of infrastructure,

14 In 1955 the SFRY passed a decree on social insurance of artists:

Uredba o socialnom osiguranju umetnika, Službeni list FNRJ, No.
32, July 13, 1955. 536–9; and three separate decrees for trans-
lators, music and film workers: Odluka o socijalnom osiguranju
muzičkih umetnika; Odluka o socijalnom osiguranju prevodilaca
naučnih i književnih dela;
15 “Ugovor o socialnom osiguranju književnika, zakljućen 24.
16 Uredba o socijalnom osiguranju umetnika, Službeni.
39
 which supported democratic access to culture,
enabling art appreciation and cultural engagement for
the majority of people in their everyday life.

In recognizing artists as workers, Yugoslav self-man-

agement took the first step in a broader movement
for the emancipation of labor: creativity’s generaliza-
tion as a universal social right. In the words of Stevan
Majstorović – a sociologist who pioneered the study
of cultural policy in socialist Yugoslavia – this implied
a “reintegration of the hitherto alienated and divided
spheres of human activity,” and an aim to supplant
“historically conditioned division of culture from the
life, work and interests of the broadest strata of
the people.”17

Autonomy and Class

Character of Art in
Yugoslav Socialism
A more radical transformation of the bourgeois
institutional model of art became stalemated due to
the unoriginality of the socialist institutionalization of
art, which preserved a traditional understanding of
autonomy as an attribute of genius artists and the
formal aesthetic laws of their works of art.

While Yugoslav cultural policy recognized the economic

needs and labor rights of art workers, the attempts
to radically redefine the institutional framework
for art and its function in socialist society were
limited and constrained. The autonomy of art was

17 Stevan Majstorović, Cultural Policy in Yugoslavia, Paris, UNESCO:

1972. 26.
40
not challenged despite the fact that the socialist
government understood culture as “a wide range of
opportunities for the expression and confirmation of
the human personality in all spheres of public activ-
ity.”18 The overlap of socialist labor policies and the
institutional framework of autonomous art functioned
to produce the artist as an employee. By securing
funds for art projects, remuneration, and social
security for art workers, cultural policy regulation
acknowledged artistic labor as work that deserved
payment and protection thus turning it from invisible
to visible labor. Yet, the adoption of the Fordist
paradigm based on standardization of production,
stability of employment, and workers’ consumption
limited the actual transformation of artistic labor into
a form of emancipated labor and enforced hierarchies
between labors in the arts – invisibilizing some while
recognizing others.

Alongside the professional sphere of culture embodied

in traditional arts institutions, such as theaters,
operas, ballets, museums, galleries, philharmonic
orchestras, film production houses, cinemas and so
on, a whole realm of so-called associational culture
existed that encompassed everything from amateur
culture to professional art associations and art
groups that took place in a well-developed supporting
infrastructure, such as cultural homes, clubs, etc.
Additionally, art production and art work also took
place in a network of youth and student centers.
Moreover, there were whole sectors related to the
production of popular music and film. In these sectors
art workers eventually came to work in less favorable
economic conditions. Such a hierarchy was enforced
through both the bourgeois model of aesthetic

18 Ibid., 28.
41
 autonomy and broader issues in the political economy
of Yugoslavia and the geopolitical shifts from the late
1960s onward.19

The autonomous artistic sphere, which was to be

evaluated through abstract, formal principles of
aesthetic judgment, was based on an undemocratic
gatekeeping model. Cultural policy regulation secured
social security and workers’ rights for artists, but
the decision about access to these rights was in the
hands of professional artists’ associations and based
on aesthetic criteria (artist training/education, number
of exhibitions, publication, performances, etc.). The
artists had to demonstrate professional qualifications
based on these aesthetic criteria, which in turn
enabled access to rights. Socialist labor policies and
the aesthetic ideology of art concurred and were
aligned. This contradiction was later exploited by
neoliberal policies that redefined rights as privileges
for only the most creative by transferring the entire
burden of social security to art workers and depriving
them of workers’ rights. 20 Culture was thus “a system
of specialized and professionalized social activities,”
in which “workers cease living for creative work and
begin to live off it,” as argued by Zagorka Golubović, a
member of Praxis group. 21

19 Art Work, op. cit., 55–60.

20 Ibid., 101–140.
21 Zagorka Golubović, “Culture as a Bridge between Utopia and
Reality” in Praxis: Yugoslav Essays in the Philosophy and Meth-
odology of the Social Sciences, eds. Mihailo Marković and Gajo
Petrović, D. Reidel Publishing Company: 1979. 178.
42
Yugoslav era militants indeed criticized these
contradictions, advocating for a total liberation of
labor. Golubović offered one such articulation when
she defined what a true self-management society
in respect to art and culture entails: “All professional
activities and professional groups must be eliminated,
as institutionalized units of society and conditions
must be created for human labor to become truly a
universal activity.”22 The latter was qualified in Marxian
terms as meaning the prospect for individuals of
taking on any number of activities for which they
have talent, and an elimination of “social and class
considerations in the division of labor which bind the
individual to a single activity for his entire life.”23 More-
over, Golubović also argued against the separation of
social spheres: “Free associations” should therefore
be created in such a way that they would “reintegrate
the currently fragmented activities and spheres of
life, such as politics, economics, art,” thereby enabling
an individual “to cease to be a partial being ( homo
oeconomicus, homo politicus, artist, etc.).”24

Further, Golubović criticized dogmatic Marxist views

concerning the base (or infrastructure) and super-
structure. According to these views, culture is a part
of the superstructure that pertains to the spiritual
and not the material aspects of social organization.
In her critique of this narrow and schematic under-
standing of culture in orthodox Marxist aesthetics,
Golubović noted that “the concept of ‘superstructure’
holds culture to mean exclusively the objectivized
attainments of mental activities,” which positions

22 Ibid., 178
23 Ibid., 184.
24 Ibid., 184.
43
 culture as “secondary to infrastructure.”25 And,
I should add, doesn’t consider art and culture’s
relations of production. Culture, therefore, had only
“a secondary, reflexive influence” as if material and
spiritual aspects can be divorced.26

Creative labor in the realm of associational culture,

also labeled amateur culture, was reserved for the
spare leisure time of all working people and particu-
larly the youth. Associational culture was therefore
opposed to professional creative labor in the
context of institutionalized art and the cultural and
entertainment industry. In the socialist institution of
art, a paradox of socialist cultural policy emerged. The
latter established platforms and support for creative
labor and art production, but it did not support a
transformation of art’s social function because it
maintained the distinction and division of labor. In the
final analysis these contradictions contributed to
the undoing of the status of Yugoslav art workers
and the turning of artistic labor into invisible labor. It
is precisely the exceptionality of creative work and
the unique status of artists, which Yugoslav socialism
maintained and glorified, that made artistic labor
vulnerable to exploitation and disavowal as a form
of labor. What is more, very few artists were critical
of how the system invisibilized and exploited artistic
labor.

By contrast, Goran Đorđević, a member of Yugoslav

conceptual art circles, articulated a formidable critique
of Western art first by pointing out that creativity
is a theological notion and secondly that the idea of
artist as creator is befitting for an understanding of

25 Ibid., 171–2.
26 26 Ibid., 172.
44
art as a form of religious practice that has a strong
class character.27 Đođrević, as well as a few other
critical intellectuals in Yugoslavia such as Golubović,
criticized the emergence of a class-determined idea of
art under socialism. In his text “On the Class Character
of Art,” Đorđević proclaimed: “In countries that are
building socialist relations in society, not only is the
class character of the artistic consciousness not
understood, on the contrary this consciousness is
upheld and asserted.”28 Zagorka Golubović provided
a similar reading of art under socialism when she
argued:

The class character of culture in socialist

systems is revealed in a double limitation of
culture. First, culture has a class-interest
function (the existing system is identified with
this class interest) rather than having man
as a human being as its goal. Second, culture
performs the function of socialization in accor-
dance with a class conception of socialization,
preparing the individual for life in a given
system in its existing state . . . In other words,
culture aids in the formation of the conformist
personality, in fact, the nonconformist is the
creator of true culture.29

27 See Goran Đorđević, “Postoji samo istraživanje,” Novi Svet, No.24–

4: 1972. 11; Goran Đorđević, “Subjekt i pseudosubjekt umetničke
prakse,” Vidici Vol.23, No.3: 1977. 2; Goran Đorđević, “Art as a Form
of Religious Consciousness,” in SKC and Political Practices of Art,
ed. Prelom Kolektiv, ŠKUC: 2008. I discuss Đorđrević’s work in
Praznik, Art Work. 76–91; and in Praznik, “Artists as Workers,”
Social Text Vol.38, No.144: 2020. 83–115.
28 Goran Đorđević, “On the Class Character of Art,” The Fox, No.3:
1976. 164.
29 “Culture as a Bridge”, op. cit., 179 (original emphasis).
45
 Golubović maintained that “in Yugoslavia, cultural
nonconformism has not yet reached the point of
radical opposition to the practice of assigning culture
a special place in society and reserving it for particu-
lar social strata.” However, “this nonconformism is still
class conformism,” she asserted.30

As we see, self-management’s emphasis on the idea of

all labor being creative did not eliminate the structures
through which art production operated as a separate
autonomous field that became an exclusive concern of
professional and political groups in larger urban areas.
If self-management’s goal was to liberate labor from
constraints of capitalist exploitation and commod-
ification of labor, it developed a blind spot in terms
of understanding artistic labor and the institutional
organization of art practices as an autonomous
sphere.

For example, Stipe Šuvar, a sociologist and at the time

the secretary of culture and education in Croatia,
clearly expressed this problem, when he wrote in 1975:
“It seems that the misunderstandings that occurred
at the beginning of the development of socialism, that
also trouble our contemporary society, which is still a
relatively young and underdeveloped socialist society,
mostly stem from the fact that what we call culture
has been inherited from the bourgeois society as a
set of institutions, as a system of values, and as a
form of traditional structure of cultural creators.”31 The
socialist institution of art was “inclined to reproduce
or emulate bourgeois models in art and culture rather

30 Ibid., 183 (original emphasis).

31 Stipe Šuvar, “Kulturna politika: vizije i stvarnost (1975),” in Kultura i
politika, Globus: 1980. 139.
46
than to engage in creating new alternative ones,” the
critic Predrag Matvejević commented.32

Along with professionalization came also elitism.

For instance, Šuvar admitted: “Even today, we are
mostly concerned about the fate of traditional,
inherited cultural institutions and the traditional
content of their work. And this is still the focus
of our cultural policy. This is also the focus of the
traditional consciousness of cultural creators and
the majority of intelligentsia.”33 Golubović echoed this
view resolutely by noting that in the cultural sphere
“the major demand [was] not for the elimination of
the professionalization of culture, but for freedom for
professional cultural activities.”34 Despite an awareness
of a “need to create an enlightened public,” art
workers “fail[ed] to make any great efforts to close
the ‘unbridgeable’ gap between professional ‘creators’
and ‘non-creative’ consumers.”35 Golubović was critical
of this divide when she noted that there is “quite
evident disinterest of many creators of so-called
‘high-culture’ toward the penetration of ‘mass culture,’
and its disastrous effects on the general population.”36
One of the reasons for this condition was, in Golubo-
vić’s view, a demand to expand “the circle of ‘culture
customers’” and a lack of “struggle for the provision
of the conditions and the means to make culture a
daily need and a way of life for all.”37 This means that
ideas of emancipation of human labor whereby culture

32 Predrag Matvejević, Prema novom kulturnom stvaralaštvu

[Toward a New Cultural Creativity], Naprijed: 1975. 98.
33 “Kulturna politika”, op. cit., 140.
34 “Culture as a Bridge”, op. cit., 179 (original emphasis).
35 Ibid., 182–3.
36 Ibid., 182.
37 Ibid., 183.
47
 would become a way of life was in contradiction
not only with the idea of cultural consumption and
commodification of culture, but also with bourgeois
ideals of art’s autonomy.

Golubović and Đorđević’s critiques have two things in

common. They are not only critical of the economic
conditions that generate class systems and exploita-
tion, but they also both brought to the fore the
reproduction of a class system in culture. Culture both
under capitalism and under socialism was burdened
by class character and bourgeois ideology, which is
exemplified in the individualistic and exceptional ethos
that is ascribed to artistic labor as well as to the
autonomy of art. This contributes to an elitist under-
standing of art and culture that became prevalent
after the violent dissolution of socialist Yugoslavia
even though these attitudes, as we have seen, were
already burgeoning during the final two decades of its
existence.

Late Yugoslav Cultural

Policy: the Housewifization
of Art Work
Socialism’s mystification of art as a realm of freedom
and its attachment to the understanding of creative
work as an autonomous practice made it easier
to divorce these productive activities from other
kinds of labor. Together with the shifts in economic
policies, which introduced market elements in Yugoslav
socialism, cultural workers and artists were turned
into a sort of experimental vanguard for the neoliberal
reforms that began in the 1970s.

48
The housewifization38 of artistic labor in socialist
Yugoslavia, and in particular of freelance art workers,
during the late 1970s and 1980s took place not only
due to the marketization of self-management but also
because artists of the postwar generations – with
very few exceptions – saw themselves as creators
and not as workers. Due to the lack of available appro-
priate cultural and economic models and the concrete
geopolitical constraints in which the cultural and social
transformation epitomized by socialist Yugoslavia took
place, the socialist institution of art failed to live up
to its revolutionary aims. The most telling sign of its
disintegration was found precisely in the emergence
of unpaid artistic labor during the second half of the
1970s and the 1980s.

Specifically, the emergence of unpaid artistic labor

was, on the one hand, a consequence of the unre-
alized transformative potential of the alternative art
movements, in particular their attempt to transcend
the bourgeois institution of art, its autonomy, and art
understood as commodity production. On the other
hand, the emergence of unpaid artistic labor was
related to the liberalization of market principles and
the federal government’s response to changes in the
international economic conditions that went counter

38 The term “housewifization” or “housewifed labor” was coined by

Maria Mies and refers to flexible, atypical, devalued and unpro-
tected forms of labor. See Maria Mies, “Housewifization – Globali-
sation – Subsistence – Perspective” in Beyond Marx: Theorizing
the Global Labour Relations of the Twenty-First Century, eds.,
Marcel van der Linden and Karl Heinz Roth, Brill: 2013.

49
 to the aims of securing a rising living standard for all
working people in Yugoslavia.39

The conflict generated a dissonance between

the socialist provision of culture based on secure
employment for art workers and an implementation of
market principles in the field of culture, which began
to redefine art workers as socialist entrepreneurs.
While art workers were treated both as specialists
endowed with creative powers and recognized as
laborers that deserve equal rights with other workers,
an implementation of market principles in the sphere
of culture affected the demand for and provision
of cultural goods.40 On the heels of competition and
existing divisions within the autonomous sphere of
art, working conditions began to deteriorate, and the
process of class stratification in the field of Yugoslav
culture began.

The 1980s in socialist Yugoslavia offer further

evidence of the skewed politics that emerged under
the banner of autonomy of art while the socialist
welfare regime was slowly being deconstructed
under the imposition of the well known actors in the
play called “The End of Communism,” such as the IMF,
World Bank, etc. The generations that were politically
active during the final decade of socialist Yugoslavia
39 Susan Woodward, “The Political Economy of Ethno-Nationalism in
Yugoslavia,” in Socialist Register 2003: Fighting Identities – Race,
Religion, and Ethno-Nationalism, eds., Leo Panitch and Colin Leys,
The Merlin Press: 2003. 77–8.
40 For example, the federal Council for Education and Culture
commissioned a study “Kultura kao delatnost i stvaralaštvo
u uslovima robneproizvod” (Culture as activity and creativity
under the conditions of commodity production), conducted
by the Yugoslav Institute for Economic Research in Belgrade in
1968. Reviews of the study point to the problem of commodifi-
cation of culture.
50
were mostly oblivious to the economy and the
transformations of class composition, especially in the
field of arts and culture – simultaneously demanding
an alternative to Yugoslav socialism and drinking
from the well of liberal dogmas, freedom and liberty
in particular. The intellectuals and art workers that
belonged to the so-called alternative movements of
the 1980s disregarded the role of socialist welfare
regimes that were vital to social reproduction. Instead,
they attacked the oppressive state apparatuses and
self-management ideology and inadvertently contrib-
uted to the fall of Yugoslav socialism.

While art workers of the alternative art practices

in the 1980s critiqued the socialist institution of art
either in an attempt to create parallel new art organi-
zations or to occupy the existing cultural institutions
and transform them from within, the cultural policy
regulation of working conditions implemented during
the 1980s pulled the rug from beneath their feet.
Such policy redefined independent cultural workers
as self-managed socialist entrepreneurs through
juridical arrangements that planted the seeds for the
flexibilization of art work and the housewifization of
art workers.

The situation was the effect of neoliberal rationality,

but it was also importantly connected to the
autonomy of art. In the 1980s socialist cultural policy
reinforced the valence of creativity and exceptionality
of art work. Artistic exceptionality or if you will,
creativity, became the foundation for basic social
rights. Independent art workers had the right to
social protection not because they were working
but because they were exceptionally creative. As a
consequence, they were no longer art workers but

51
 independent creative individuals. The payment for
their work became optional and seen more as a reward
for their creativity. This dynamic caused a reversal of
the initial acknowledgment of art as a form of labor
in socialist Yugoslavia. Art work transformed into
invisible labor and returned to the realm of art guided
by the autonomy of art and its flipside – disavowed
economy, including unfair remuneration.

In lieu of Conclusion: From

the Autonomy of Art to
Economic Autonomy
But how does all this matter today in the post- and
non-Yugoslav world? The Yugoslav case shows us why
the autonomy of art cannot be based on an illusory
independence from the economy, especially not under
capitalism where social domination and oppression
are organized through economic relations. Work in
capitalism is an alienated form of labor and not a
free activity or emancipated form of labor. Positing
the autonomy of art in opposition to the economic
structures that govern its relations of production is
in fact counterproductive to any kind of liberation
from capitalism and from alienated forms of labor. By
defending the autonomy of art without reckoning
with its problematic history, art workers participate
in the reproduction of their own oppression and are
politically contributing to the reproduction of the
system that is based on the exploitation of labor. By
obscuring the relations of production in the arts and
its economic exigencies rather than acknowledging
the inevitable imbrication of art and economy,
we contribute to the mystification of the labor

52
process, exploitative working conditions, and unfair
remuneration.

Under the false flag of creativity and the auton-

omy of art, the class character of art is not only
neutralized, it is also depoliticized. Creativity and
the autonomy of art join all art workers of different
socioeconomic backgrounds under the mirage of a
classless banner. Calling art labor offers a tactical
vantage point for rejecting the understanding of art
work as essentialized creativity and the social role
capitalism intends for art workers. On the heels of
the struggles of Marxist feminists who argued that
reproductive labor is not a personal, affective, service
outside of capital, it becomes easier to recognize
that art work is not a autonomous activity outside
of capital either. While work is not the only means of
reproduction, most people under capitalism work to
secure their livelihoods or are supported by someone
whose work is paid. Art work is a private, autonomous
matter only for those who can afford to practice it
without remuneration. But that luxury is guaranteed
by a structural exploitation of both wage labor and
even more by enormous swaths of exploited invisible
work. So defending and enjoying the autonomy of art
by practicing creativity without proper remuneration
means we obscure the economic exploitation involved
in it.

If the autonomy of art reinforces the invisibility of

labor and essentialization of art work as creativity
and contributes to the system of merit which rewards
it, it disables the possibility for a political struggle
against the specific form of (capitalist) exploitation,
and for workers’ rights and fair payment. Art work
under capitalism needs to be based in economic

53
 autonomy and that is possible when art workers’
labor and economic rights are acknowledged and
protected. The struggle in the world of Western art
therefore begins with a recognition of artistic labor
as work, and a redefinition of autonomy as economic
autonomy. That is why labor rights discourse in the
arts matters much more than a depoliticized gloss of
autonomy: firstly, because it builds alliances with other
exploited workers, and secondly because it allows
us to struggle for the emancipation of labor and for
alternative new economic relations beyond capitalist
accumulation.

54
55
Lexicon

Katja
Praznik
Invisibilized
Labor

56
The autonomy of art’s dark side is artistic labor’s
invisibility. By invisible labor I refer to unaccounted,
unrecognized and unpaid work – a central political
term defined by Marxist feminists in the 1970s.

The origin of the concept of invisibilized labor can be

traced back to the groundbreaking Marxist-feminist
theorization of wageless or unpaid and thus invisible
housework/domestic labor.1 Through a process of
essentialization or naturalization, certain forms of
work become invisible and thus subjected to capital-
ist exploitation and the accumulation of capital. The
quintessential form of invisible labor is housework/
domestic labor – so much so that it is culturally still
referred to as “women’s work.” Some North American
scholars tend to obscure this history of the term
and its links to Marxist methodology by positing that
Arlene Kaplan Daniels coined the term “invisible work”
to talk about women’s unpaid labor.2 Daniels may
have coined the term but she most certainly did not
develop the theory of the exploitation of labor that
appears invisible.

Invisibilized labor, as theorized by Marxist feminists,

developed as a response to Marx’s oversight regarding
the role of social reproduction in capitalist accumu-
lation, while also drawing from Marx’s own critique of
labor exploitation. In his critique of the political econo-
my, Marx exposed how the exploitation of labor is made

1 Mariarosa Dalla Costa and Selma James, The Power of Women and
the Subversion of the Community, Falling Wall Press: 1973; Silvia
Federici, Wages Against Housework, Falling Wall Press: 1975; Maria
Mies, Patriarchy and Accumulation on a World Scale, Zed Books:
1986.
2 See for example, Marion G. Crain et al. eds., Invisible Labor: Hidden
Work in the Contemporary World, University of California Press:
2016.
57
 invisible in the process of commodity production and
capital accumulation. Marxist feminists then went on
to demonstrate the double invisibility of housework,
or reproductive labor, that is unpaid and exploited, and
as such part and parcel of the capitalist exploitation
equation.

In contrast to Marx’s unwillingness to account for var-

ious forms of work other than wage labor as relevant
to the accumulation of capital, and in spite of his con-
tribution to the codification of the idea of a worker as
a white male waged industrial worker, Marxist feminists
demonstrated and theorized the mode in which the
patriarchal omission of housework took place, and the
construction of women’s role as unpaid houseworker.
Feminists showed that in the process of establishing
the primacy of wage labor a redefinition of work took
place through which certain types of work became
disregarded as work through their naturalization and
romanticization as identities – enabling exploitation as
an unquestionable social role.3 Maria Mies therefore de-
vised the term “housewifization” or “housewifed labor”
to describe flexible, atypical, devalued and unprotect-
ed forms of labor.4

Understanding art as a form of invisibilized labor

gives insight into the very mechanisms that drive the
economic exploitation of artists’ labor to this day.
Two theoretical contributions in feminist epistemology
are particularly resonant when it comes to theorizing
the invisibilized labor of the artist. First, the structural
component of invisible work rests on the separation

3 Silvia Federici, Patriarchy of the Wage, PM Press: 2021. 89.

4 Maria Mies, “Social Origins of the Sexual Division of Labour,” SS
Occasional Papers, No.85, Institute of Social Studies: 1981; Mies,
Patriarchy and Accumulation on a World Scale, Zed Books: 2014.
58
of public and domestic/private sphere (or, if you will,
the spheres of production and reproduction) under
capitalism, whereby the latter is excluded from the
economy but is nevertheless a site of both value
creation as well as social and economic exploitation.
Second, the essentialization of particular types of
work or skills leads to their economic devaluation. In
other words, the first contribution helps us under-
stand that treating art as nonlabor under capitalism
leads to its invisibility and consequently exploitation.
The second insight helps us understand the operating
logic behind the invisibility. Finally, looking at art work
as a form of invisibilized labor helps us to conceive of
art work and its poorly remunerated condition as a
political question and a site of struggle for the labor
rights of art workers. In this struggle we can learn
from and use the feminist analysis as the necessary
tactical tool for demystification. Or to paraphrase a
Marxist feminist slogan: “They call it creativity, we call
it exploitation!”

59
Stevphen
Shukaitis
Learning
Not to
Labor

60
61
 In autonomist history and theory, the refusal of work
is frequently invoked but seldom expanded upon in a
significant manner. From the celebration of laziness
to mass industrial strikes, work refusal takes many
forms. This essay develops an expanded autonomist
conception of work refusal, understanding work
refusal as a compositional practice and arguing
for analyzing it through the forms of collectivity
and social relations that it creates. Based on this
analysis, a form of “zerowork training,” or a pedagogy
of learning not to labor, is proposed as a process
through which antagonism and refusal can be further
socialized. Learning not to labor sits at the junction
of the refusal of work and the re-fusing of the social
energies of such refusal back into supporting the
continued affective existence and capacities of other
forms of life and ways of being together, as practice
and as a form of embodied critique.

The “right to work”

is for the birds
one of the turds
I can do without
GIVE IT TO THE WORKING CLASS
wherever it’s foolish enough to be.

Alexander Trocchi, Man at Leisure, (1972)

What is, or what can be, the meaning of refusing

work today? The refusal of work is a concept and
practice—an approach to and understanding of the
political, not an incantation. It is one of the most
popular and widely circulated concepts associated
with post-autonomia, and also one of the most
misunderstood. In the English-speaking context it is

62
far too easily understood as primarily individualistic,
along the lines of a clichéd hippy dropout culture. But
historically, work refusal has taken many forms, from
mass exodus from the factory and wildcat strikes to
attempted individual escape plans. The point is not to
exclude any one form from consideration but to see
the relationships between them: how different modes
of refusal work together to animate new forms of
social composition. In that sense refusal oftentimes
serves more as a provocation or a utopian demand, in
Kathi Weeks’s sense, than something elaborated in an
expanded way.1

If we are to approach the question of the meaning of

post-autonomia today, it is from this understanding: to
engage with concepts not so as to precisely under-
stand them but rather to productively misunderstand
them—to bastardize and rework them in present
conditions, which have shifted greatly since the
period of the 1960s and 1970s. And these shifts are
not just temporal but also political, economic, cultural,
and so forth. If the current state of political discus-
sion is marked by the hegemony of Italian theory, as
Matteo Pasquinelli has suggested2, then a mutating
and reworking of the key concepts of post-autonomia
is even more important so that they do not become
ossified by their preservation. One could go so far as
to propose that today it is necessary to develop a
kind of “zerowork training,” to learn how to not labor,

1 Kathi Weeks, The Problem with Work: Feminism, Marxism, Antiwork

Politics, and Postwork Imaginaries, Duke University Press: 2011.
2 Matteo Pasquinelli, “The so-called Italian Theory and the revolt of
living knowledge,” UniNomade, 4 April, 2011.

63
 rather than to fall back on previous assumptions
about refusing work.

Indeed, what form could such zerowork training take?

That is a question for consideration here, as well as
to ask its method—to rework the notion of the refusal
of work in an expanded framework that is adequate
to the changing conditions of the present. Paul Willis
in his classic book Learning to Labor 3 analyzes how
British lads’ attempted refusals of school discipline
and educational advancement end up fitting them for
another form of control: namely, the reproduction of
the class relationship as they are then sent off to
work in the factory. In other words, the refusal of a
certain type of social structure is part of interpel-
lating them into the industrial class structure. Today
it seems that many of those factories are gone, at
least from much of the UK and Europe, and with them
much of the social antagonism of industrial labor.
Where then to find the kinds of practices fitted to
learning not to labor? How can we develop this kind of
zerowork training?

A Plurality of Refusals
I don’t bother work. Work don’t bother me.
I’m just as happy as a bumblebee.

Gid Tanner and the Skillet Lickers, “Work Don’t

Bother Me” (1926)

An important realization to start from is that the

refusal of work is not a single thing but rather a
concept that brings together a plurality of different
3 Paul Willis, Learning to Labor: How Working Class Kids get Working
Class Jobs, Columbia University Press: 1982.
64
kinds of refusals. These range from the nonconformist
preacher William Benbow’s call for a “grand national
holiday”4 (a month-long general strike) during the
1830s to anarchist provocateur Bob Black’s call for
the “abolition of work”5 in the 1980s. The refusal of
work as a concept brings Guy Debord – who embraced
as a political slogan Rimbaud’s call to “Never Work!” –
together with collective refusals to work, wildcat
strikes, and acts of sabotage prominent in factories
in Europe and the United States in the late 1960s and
1970s. Such conditions led management consultants
and union bureaucrats to wonder out loud, Where
Have All the Robots Gone? – which is also the title of
a book from that time analyzing the origins of wildcat
strikes and sabotage and linking them less to specific
demands around wage increases than to the rise of
the “anti-authoritarian worker.”6 We can see the refusal
of work as a key and important focus in the writing
and discussions to emerge from Italy in the 1970s, but
more broadly than that, it can also be connected to
how Jim Koehline and Ron Sakolsky have explored (with
others) the idea of “going to Croatan,”7 or forms of
escape from modern civilization. And we can also look
at the hobo dream of the “Big Rock Candy Mountain,”8
where they hanged the jerk that invented work.
In these examples are many different forms of
practice with different ideas and different interactions
4 William Benbow, Grand National Holiday, and the Congress of
Productive classes, Pelagian: n.d. (1832).
5 Bob Black, The Abolition of Work and Other Essays, Loompanics:
1986.
6 Harold L. Sheppard, and Neal Q. Herrick, Where Have all the Robots
Gone? Worker Dissatisfaction in the 70s, Free Press: 1972.
7 Jim Koehline, and Ron Sakolsky, eds., Gone to Croatan: The Origins
of North American Dropout Culture, Autonomedia: 1994.
8 See, Omasius Gorgut, Poor Man’s heaven: The Land of Cokaygne
and Other Utopian Visions, Past Tense: 2011.
65
 involved. Much as Walt Whitman put it, work refusal is
a multitude unto itself, filled with possibilities, poten-
tials, and contradictions. It is not one thing or one
approach. In that sense it might be impossible to trace
an exact genealogy at all, or an account of the lineage
and influences between different times and spaces.9
It is rather a shared sensibility transmitted through
an undercommons of submerged social practices and
spaces. It is part of what Marcus Greil described, in his
elaboration of the connection between the insurgent
aesthetics of punk and the medieval heresy, as “the
secret drift of history”10 – a drift that remains secret
to those who make it. In these infrapolitical histories,
the development of a politics often unseen and not
encoded as political, there exists a constant process
of translation between infrapolitical insurgency and
the development of collective imagination.

In that sense, when we discuss the refusal of work,

it is only part of the story that is usually considered:
namely, the aspects that are most socially visible.
Something always remains hidden away, tucked below
the gaze of power. Although that is more often than
not a benefit rather than a downfall to many forms of
social resistance, for the purposes of this essay we
are considering the moments when these subterra-
nean social currents burst through the surface and
openly declare themselves. These are the moments
when Marx’s old mole emerges from the burrows

9 Simon During suggests that literary production and culture,

once divorced from the spiritual realm, provides tactics for
escape from the domination of work. This is backed up by Henri
Lefebvre’s declaration that he became interested in thinking
about work refusal not because of a political tradition but rather
after reading a science fiction novel, City, by Clifford Simak.
10 Marcus Greil, Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the Twentieth
Century, Harvard University Press: 1989.
66
into the sunshine of social antagonism, and most
important are the effects this has upon emerging
social compositions. The Midnight Notes Collective has
defined working-class struggles precisely as those
that “attempt to reduce the unpaid labor capital
appropriates throughout the social circuit.”11 The
refusal of work plays a key role in fermenting class
struggle as it provides a framework for moving from
discontent to action, underpinned by a concrete
utopian desire to reduce and if possible eliminate the
influence of work over social life.

This is the center of an autonomist refusal of work: a

perspective that focuses specifically on the compo-
sitional elements of that refusal. The twin concepts
of political and technical composition, which are of
great importance for understanding what makes
operaismo different from other forms of Marxism,12 are
likewise important in understanding work refusal as a
compositional practice rather than as an individual-
istically oriented gesture. Jason Read, in his analysis
of the affective composition of labor, has argued
that the autonomist hypothesis — or refocusing on
working-class revolts rather than on capital as the
motor of transformation — is only possible through an
understanding of class composition.13 Otherwise, such
a reversal of perspective – calls for the radical
possibility of the present divorced from an under-
standing of material and political conditions – risks
falling into a form of idealist invocation, a millenarian
call or prophetic gesture. The same could be argued
11 Midnight Notes Collective, Midnight Oil: Work, Energy, War, 1973–
1992, Autonomedia: 1992. xii–xiii.
12 See Steve Wright, Storming Heaven: Class Composition and
Struggle in Italian Autonomist Marxism, Pluto Press: 2003.
13 Jason Read, “The Affective Composition of Labor,” Unemployed
Negativity, May, 17, 2011.
67
 for the refusal of work, that it is only possible when
approached through a compositional framework: to
work from material conditions and practices and the
kinds of political and social formations they enable
and support.

A compositional analysis of refusal thus is not

concerned with just the actions and practices of
refusal itself but how these actions and practices are
socially embedded and what effects they produce.
Such an analysis asks questions like: How is the refusal
of work deployed as a practice? How is it understood?
What social energies do varying forms of refusing
work enact? And this analysis considers, perhaps
most importantly, the affective dimensions of those
refusals, focusing specifically on the forms of care,
social reproduction, and organization that exist to
sustain and support the continued self-reproduction
of refusal. This consideration of the affective and
relational dynamics of refusal moves beyond notions
of individualized “dropping out” precisely because any
attempt to escape from capitalist logic is only possible
through the animation of affective relations capable
of reproducing the sociality produced by that refusal.
This moment – the negativity of refusal, the drive
to escape – carries within it another moment that
enacts a different mode of social becoming. This is
the movement of refusal that leads to the re-fusing of
common life and energy back through the social.

68
Refusals and Typologies
But what if feminist political analyses and
projects were not limited to claims about
who we are as women or as men, or even the
identities produced by what we do, but rather
put the accent on collectively imagined visions
of what we want to be or to do?

Kathi Weeks, “Life Within and Against

Work: Affective Labor, Feminist Critique, and
Post-Fordist Politics” (2007)

The autonomist feminist tradition – oftentimes ignored

in the histories of Autonomia and post-autonomia
(and even more so in recent debates that draw from
them) – offers much to the reconsidering of work
refusal. Although these contributions might seem
negative at first glance or to be based on concerns
over the limitations of certain forms of social and
political practice, I would suggest that only through
understanding such limitations and blockages is it
possible to work around them. In her article “Where is
Jocasta?,” Alisa Del Re argues that forms of refusing
work that do not take into account the dynamics of
social reproduction have a tendency to reinforce and
reinscribe labor demands upon women who are most
involved in the tasks of social reproduction.14 We can
imagine this dynamic in terms of women being left to
keep the house together and provide support during a
strike. In other words, this ends up creating a negative
affective recomposition of labor in the way that the
tasks of social reproduction fall upon some people
14 Alisa Del Re, “Women and Welfare: Where is Jocasta?” In Radical
Thought in Italy: A Potential Politics, eds. M. Hardt and P. Virno,
University of Minnesota Press: 1996. 99–113.
69
 and not others.15 A different approach is necessary
to understand class itself: one that is much more
compositional in the sense of being formed through
ongoing antagonism and conflict rather than as a
fixed identity or status. This more fluid and flexible
version of understanding class has been developed
within the autonomist tradition more generally,
although for some reason it has not seemed to filter
through into more recent debates on immaterial labor.

One of the best perspectives for this rethinking can

be found in the work of the Madrid-based collective
Precarias a la Deriva (PAD), originally formed in 2002 in
response to a call for a general strike in which many
found it quite difficult to participate because of their
positions in precarious and gendered forms of labor.
This made it difficult, if not impossible, to go on strike
without causing harm to themselves or others. PAD’s
approach thus starts from a rejection of under-
standing changes in work by analyzing its technical
composition — for instance, by distinguishing brain
workers from chain workers. Rather, their typology
starts from forms of political composition correspond-
ing to the forms of labor — in particular, with different
kinds of refusal associated with the varying forms of
work. This is a key insight: namely, that refusal is not
one thing but that the form of refusal varies accord-
ing to one’s position in a broader labor process and
by social positioning. Precarias a la Deriva breaks work
into three main categories:

15 This dynamic can be seen at work in the film Made in Dagenham,

in which male workers deride and dismiss the validity and
importance of striking female Ford workers based on the
assumption that ultimately their incomes are not necessary for
social reproduction but are merely additional to the necessary
wages of the male workers.
70
 Jobs with repetitive content: telemarketing,
cleaning, textile workshops; little to no
subjective engagement with the task; conflict
takes the form of generalized absenteeism,
dropping out, sabotage

Jobs with varied content, vocational/profes-

sional work: nursing to informatics, social work
to research; subjective implication with the
task performed is high; conflict is expressed as
critique of the organization of labor, its logic
of articulation, and the ends toward which it is
structured

Jobs with content that is directly made invis-

ible and/or stigmatized : the most paradigmatic
examples are cleaning work, home care, and
sex work; conflict manifests itself as a demand
for dignity and the recognition of social value16

This is a useful framework for approaching work

refusal, not as one thing but as a practice closely
connected to broader changes in the labor process.
Thus, rather than lamenting that the heroic years
of mass wildcat strikes by industrial workers have
seemingly ended (although there is some debate on
that depending on where you’re looking), the task
is to look at the multiple forms that refusal takes in
the current composition of the workforce and then,
based upon that understanding, to find ways to work
between these different patterns of subjectivation,
encouraging from that the emergence of new forms of
political composition.

16 Precarias a la Deriva, “Adrift through the Circuits of Feminized Pre-

carious Work, EIPCP : 2004.
71
 EuroMayDay and the organizing around precarity
can thus be understood as one attempt to rethink
political organizing in such a fashion. And while it was
often critiqued for lumping together forms of work
that seemed to have little to do with each other from
a technical perspective, this was precisely the point.
One could make a similar argument for the functioning
of the more recent occupy movements: it is not that
they share an assumption about the subjective
position of all involved and seek to work from that
position but rather that they seek to find common
ground for politics despite the variety of positions
and experiences of the participants.

Refusal and Cultural Labor

Art products are the objects of intense
financial speculation; cultural productions
are top hit-makers in the jackpot end of the
New Economy; “cultural districts” are posited
as the key to urban prosperity; and creative
industries policy is embraced as the anchor of
regional development by governments around
the world on the lookout for a catch-up
industrial plan.

Andrew Ross, “The New Geography of Work:

Power to the Precarious?” (2007)

If we take seriously Precarias a la Deriva’s notion that

different forms of refusal relate to varying positions
in the labor process more generally, this would be a
good reason to digress into a discussion of cultural
labor. By cultural labor I refer mainly to the kinds of
jobs that have been discussed as relating to the
creative class, the media and cultural work, artistically
72
oriented professions, and related ideas. These are
forms of work that have been generally understood
in relation to debates around immaterial labor. Much
interesting work has been written about them from
multiple perspectives. But for the moment I’m most
interested in thinking about how the perspective that
PAD proposes could change the way we think about
these kinds of jobs, both sociologically and politically.
From a compositional perspective, the importance of
the forms of cultural labor is in the way they shift
the politics of work from a direct refusal of work to
embracing it.

In PAD’s categories this is a shift from the first type

of work to the second, a move from work that is
repetitive and leads to pure refusal to vocational work
that is more critiqued than refused. Richard Neville
makes a number of insightful observations about this
in his book Play Power, which explores the dynamics of
1960s counterculture. In countercultural projects “work
is done only for fun, obsession, hobby or art form,”17
which transforms every “Monday morning into a Friday
night.”18 Neville describes such ventures as mostly
undercapitalized, leading to a precariousness that
makes it necessary for those involved to “work hard
at not working.”19 And while the subjective composition
of such projects is motivated by searching for
enjoyment and freedom, he notes that “the laxity of
the (non) working conditions is beyond a shop-stew-
ard’s dream (or nightmare?). Gone are contracts, time
clocks, fixed holidays, strikes, division of labor and
doing things in triplicate.”20 Or one can look at the role

17 Richard Neville, Play Power, Paladin: 1971.

18 Ibid.
19 Ibid.
20 Ibid., 213.
73
 that a greater emphasis on cultural labor played within
the squatting milieu of Amsterdam in the mid-1980s.
According to the history of that time written by Lynn
Owens, it involved a shift from a politics of pure refusal
to one that tried to negotiate spaces for autonomy in
production and community by arguing that there was
something valuable in having these sorts of spaces,
both from an economic and cultural angle.21

In an overall shift and transformation of class

composition, the most important aspect is how the
shift enacts a broader change in the relationship to
work, in particular the higher degree of subjective
investment in work itself. In some ways this is a
new version of Joseph Beuys’s famous statement
that everyone is an artist, except that it has now
been realized as everyone is a worker, all the time,
everywhere. And the higher degree of subjective
involvement with and relationship to the work itself
has tended to lead away from a refusal that takes the
form of pure refusal – or even that of union organiz-
ing – and more toward forms of individual critique and
the discussion of conditions. At some level this has
been seen as the absence of labor politics from many
forms of cultural labor. Cultural politics has become a
form of political entrepreneurship more than anything
else. But this seems a bit unfair in the sense that one
can also approach these changes as shifts in the form
of refusal rather than its absence altogether. And from
an autonomist perspective, that seems much more
encouraging.

Recent debates on shifts in cultural labor and politics

and on work within the arts economy have tended
21 Lynn Owens, Cracking Under Pressure: Narrating the Decline of
the Amsterdam Squatters’ Movement. Amsterdam University
Press: 2009.
74
to focus specifically on the changing nature of work
within the world of arts and cultural production. 22 There
is much to be gained in this kind of exploration. But I
would suggest, from a compositional framework, that
most interesting is how the changes in relationship to
work that have developed within arts and cultural work
have then expanded beyond that particular sphere into
much broader patterns. This is the argument made by
Pascal Gielen: that the arts world becomes a laboratory
where the post-Fordist work ethic is developed and
then generalized beyond it. 23 One could make similar
arguments concerning the role of what Greg Sholette
calls the dark matter of the arts world, or the neces-
sary but undervalued mass of labor that sustains
the functioning of the arts economy without being
celebrated, or the increased importance of internships
first in the cultural sector and then more generally. 24
Here we have the same dynamic: a different relationship
to work is developed (for interns often very little or no
pay) based upon a high level of subjective involvement,
a process of subjectivation through the work. And this
relationship and its intensified forms of exploitation
are then generalized beyond the arts and culture
world — for instance, by making the recipients of social
benefits engage in free labor in order to maintain their
benefits. In these cases we see a change in the form
of labor, in the refusal involved, and in the overall social
composition created.

22 Geert Lovink, and Ned Rossiter, eds., My Creativity Reader: A

Critique of Creative Industries, Institute of Network Cultures,
2007.
23 Pascal Gielen, The Murmuring of the Artistic Multitude: Global Art,
Memory and post-Fordism, Valiz: 2009.
24 Greg Sholette, Dark Matter: Art and Politics in the Age of
Enterprise Culture, Pluto: 2010.
75
 Renewing the Art Strike
Resistance has never been more internal, and
more inadequate, to the material conditions
that support its realization (as value) — this
is notable in the currency of critique in
contemporary art, for instance, even and
especially when it addresses itself to the evils
of exploitation or the aporias of emancipation.
Selling labor-power to live has never been more
conflated with life itself — this indeed conjures
away any disparity between capital and labor,
when they become indiscernible as variables in
the compulsions of life as it is.

Marina Vishmidt, “Value at Risk: From Politics of

Reproduction to Human Capital” (2010)

Finally, I would like to turn to a brief reconsideration

of the art strike as a possible way to think through
the refusal of work where conditions include a high
level of subjective involvement in work itself. While
the idea and practices associated with art strikes are
generally little known, I would suggest they provide an
interesting way for rethinking questions around labor
politics today.

Historically, the art strike has come about in four

main iterations, with variations among them. The Art
Workers Coalition issued the first call for an art strike
in the 1960s in New York City. 25 It brought to light the
connections between the art economy and the war
economy, through the role of people such as the
Rockefellers in supporting both. It commented on
25 Julia Bryan-Wilson, Art Workers: Radical Practice in the Vietnam
War Era, University of California Press: 2009.
76
the Vietnam War as well as on issues of racism and
exclusion in the art world. Its main focus was thus the
politics of the institution, and in many ways it could
be understood as a form of institutional critique. 26
This is in some ways quite similar to Gustav Metzger’s
call for 1977–1980 to be “years without art.” For these
three years, Metzger produced no work, apparently
going on strike by himself, likewise with the idea that
such a strike could create the potential to change
the institutional structures of the art world. The call
for an art strike was taken up again by Stewart Home
and the Neoists from 1990–1993, with the specific
goal of disrupting the role of the artist itself. Thus
it was less focused on the institution and more on
the position of artists generally. And finally, during
the past few years, calls for an art strike have been
coming from Lithuania, organized by Redas Diržys and
the Temporary Art Strike Committee. The focus of
this iteration is the role of Vilnius as a creative city,
as Vilnius was recently named one of the European
capitals of culture for a year. The goal of this strike
is thus to disrupt the functioning of the arts in a
cultural economy.

In each of these iterations there has been an expan-

sion of the scope of the action or strike call, from the
role of the gallery and arts institution to the role and
position of the artist to the place of creativity in the
economy more generally. In this way the art strike
directly takes up the theme that seems to underpin
practices of work refusal more generally, as it works
between the utopian promise of possibility found in
human labor, the wealth that can be produced and is
26 Alexander Alberro and Blake Stimson, eds., Institutional Critique:
An Anthology of Artists’ Writings, MIT Press: 2009; and Gerald
Raunig and Gene Ray, eds., Art and Contemporary Critical
Practice: Reinventing Institutional Critique, MayFly: 2009.
77
 already in motion, and the compromised and exploit-
ative forms that work takes. The art strike doesn’t
seek to do away with this tension but works with it.
Stewart Home once argued that the importance of
the art strike is not in its feasibility but in the ways
that it expands the terrain of struggle. 27 That would be
even more the case today. This argument was echoed
recently by Paolo Virno in an interview discussing the
relationship between art production and social move-
ments. Virno suggests these connections are less
significant within the content of artistic production
than through creating new forms of interaction and
new public spheres, especially those that are separate
from the state. 28 Given the ever greater enmeshing
of creative activity in people’s everyday lives (and
not just in terms of paid employment), it would seem
difficult if not impossible to throw down the tools of
creative labor without also throwing down one’s own
life in the process.

This is a theme to which Croatian artist Mladen Stili-

nović has returned throughout his decades of work.
First, Stilinović proposed to reclaim one’s being and
energy through laziness rather than through labor.
This can be seen most clearly in his 1977 piece “Artist
at Work,” which comprises a series of eight images
of Stilinović in bed in his pajamas, apparently in a
condition of doing nothing at all. In a Yugoslav context
where productive labor was constantly celebrated as
a virtue, the key foundation of building and maintain-
ing a socialist society, this can clearly be seen as a
27 Stewart Home, The Neoist Manifestos / The Art Strike Papers, AK
Press: 1991.
28 Paolo Virno, “The Dismeasure of Art: An Interview with Paolo
Virno by S. Lavaert and P. Gielen,” in P. de Bruyxne and P. Gielen
eds., Arts in Society: Being an Artist in Post-Fordist Times, NAi:
2009. 17–44.
78
provocation and challenge. The theme carries through
Stilinović’s work as he celebrates laziness as being
necessary and integral to artistic activity. Conversely,
Stilinović derides artists who are not sufficiently
attentive to developing their own capacity for
laziness, referring to them as mere “producers” rather
than artists. But a subtler point underpins Stilinović’s
celebration of nonwork: precisely, that laziness is
a form of artistic labor rather than an escape from
labor.

This comes out most clearly in his 1993 work “Chinese

Business,” in which a series of collages explores the
question of whether artists can ever truly go on
holiday. The work provocatively asserts that it is
impossible for the artist to ever truly stop working,
that the apparent refusal of productive labor that
Stilinović explores through his work at the same time
represents the development of new forms of artistic
labor and production. The outside of labor sought
through artistic laziness has become another form of
production rather than an escape from it.

Another way to approach this is from the observation

that real subsumption as a condition, if it should
actually come to be true, is such that pointing out
that condition would no longer produce any political
effect. In other words, if all of life has become part
of an overwhelming labor process – the social
factory – then the condition of naturalizing the
expanded exploitative work relationship is taken
as a given rather than experienced as something
which is disturbing or could nurture an antagonistic
relationship to that condition. This is along the lines
of what Franco “Bifo” Berardi calls the necessary
alienation that precedes a compositional moment

79
 and new forms of struggle. 29 But it seems clear, given
the changing composition of labor and the shifting
ground of politics, that new forms of necessary
alienation leading to new antagonistic movements
would not likely be similar to those that Bifo describes
as having occurred in the 1960s and 1970s. We might
look instead to what he describes as the pathological
and overwhelming nature of immaterial labor 30 — the
condition of those who find themselves “dreaming in
code”31 — rather than to industrial alienation.

In short, looking to the dark side of the multitude

may help with understanding the potential for new
forms of subjectivation: to look not just at the
conscious activities of labor and politics but also at
the ways that sociality is put to work more generally,
such as through the use of geolocative data and
mobility.32 And most importantly, this means to look
for new routes of political recomposition, not just in
the obvious moments of labor and politics but also
through understanding blockages to emerging social
composition. Working from the blockages of composi-
tion is not to mourn them or to fall into a melancholic
trap but is rather to realize that new moments of
social recomposition emerge from the decomposition
of that which has become before. It is to embrace

29 Franco “Bifo” Berardi, The Soul at Work, Semiotext(e): 2009.

30 Franco “Bifo” Berardi, Precarious Rhapsody: Semiocapitalism
and the Pathologies of the Post-Alpha Generation, Minor
Compositions: 2009.
31 Rob Lucas, “A Sleep Worker’s Enquiry,” in Endnotes 2: April, 2010.
154–166,
32 Trebor Scholz, and Laura Y. Liu, From Mobile Playgrounds to
Sweatshop City, Architectural League of New York: 2010.
80
what Frederic Jameson calls the cynicism of the
intellect with the utopianism of the will.33

The Shape of Refusal

to Come
For at the sight of work — that is to say,
severe toil from morning till night — we have
the feeling that it is the best police, that
it holds every one in check and effectively
hinders the development of reason, of greed,
and of desire for independence. For work uses
up an extraordinary proportion of nervous
force, withdrawing it from reflection, medita-
tion, dreams, cares, love, and hatred. And now,
horror of horrors! it is the “workman” himself
who has become dangerous; the whole world is
swarming with “dangerous individuals.”

Friedrich Nietzsche, Daybreak: Thoughts on the

Prejudices of Morality (1881)

To conclude, let us return to the beginning. It does

seem today that work is, as Nietzsche argued, the
best policeman. It holds a function of governing social
life even when its role in adding productive value
seems to slip away and we find ourselves in the posi-
tion of what Peter Fleming and Carl Cederstrom refer
to as “dead men working.”34 It might seem that in times
of biopolitical production, where the policing function
of work is thus the policing function across all of

33 Fredric Jameson, “A New Reading of Capital,” Mediations Vol.25

No.1, 2010. 5–14.
34 Peter Fleming, and Carl Cederstrom, Dead Man Working, Zero
Books: 2012.
81
 life, the refusal of work is the refusal of life itself. Not
surprisingly, this leads to some rather dismal-sounding
conclusions about the possibility of autonomy and
social recomposition. While I can appreciate a certain
degree of questioning of assumptions surrounding the
potentials of immaterial labor and of networking (as
has been circulated in debates emerging from post-
Autonomia over the past decade, I’d nevertheless
argue that there’s no reason to follow such arguments
to rather dire conclusions. Stefano Harney suggests
that an alternative can be found most readily within
the black radical tradition, which takes up this problem
of refusing work when one’s life is the work. For
Harney, this “is the dimension of original exodus; this
is the practice of fugitivity found within the black
radical tradition, the escape that does not need to go
anywhere but remains escape.”35

The project to be undertaken, which I’ve tried to

hint at here, is to instead take a more compositional
approach to understanding and working with different
forms of refusal. That is, to ask certain questions:
What form of social surplus is produced by a particular
refusal? What form of collectivity? And following from
that, what circuits of value production and valoriza-
tion are the refusal enmeshed in? What is the notion
of value and of social collectivity embodied in the
refusal, and how does it respond to circuits of capture
and accumulation?

Bernard Marszalek, in the new introduction to Paul

Lafargue’s classic text The Right to be Lazy, hints at
another important direction: namely, that the opposite
of work, and what is produced by its refusal, is neither

35 Stefano Harney, “Abolition and the General Intellect,” Generation

Online, 2008.
82
leisure nor idleness. Rather, for Marszalek the opposite
of work is “autonomous and collective activity – ludic
activity – that develops our unique humanity and
grounds our perspective of reversing perspective.”36
A compositional approach to work refusal is thus not
a question of doing nothing but of developing the
skills, capacities, organization, and collective becoming
that make possible and sustain these ludic activities
and social wealth. In short, this is the very form of
zerowork training that we need today: a pedagogy of
learning not to labor, not as a form of individual refusal
but as a socialization of refusal. This is the argument
that Stanley Aronowitz and Jonathan Cutler make
concerning the history of labor struggles for shorter
hours: such struggles enable increasing freedom from
work and act as a strategic locus for organizing.37
This locus is capable of embracing the entire working
class and creating collective resources to respond to
capitalist offensives. Learning not to labor sits at the
junction of the refusal of work and the re-fusing of
the social energies of such refusal back into support-
ing the continued affective existence and capacities
of other forms of life and ways of being together, as
practice and as a form of embodied critique.

36 Bernard Marszalek, “Introduction,” in The Right to be Lazy, by P.

Lafargue, AK Press: 2011. 19.
37 Stanley Aronowitz, and Jonathan Cutler, Post-work: the Wages
of Cybernation, Routledge: 1997. 21.
83
Lexicon
Major
Waldemar
Fydrych
Passive
Resistance
and the Stay
Away Strike
84
A scene from the Polish Orange Alternative movement
in the early 80s, advancing two strategies of refusal.

A tram arrived. They got on. Dziewit went to

a validating machine. Major caught on when
Dziewit took out a tube of toothpaste and
began squeezing it into the machine. The
passengers pretended they couldn’t see.
Dziewit went to the back of the carriage
where he clogged up the remaining validating
machines. Finally an elderly man asked, ‘What
are you doing?’

Major looked the old gent up and down. He

actually didn’t think blocking up validating
machines was as effective as, for example, a
stay-away strike, but he didn’t like anyone
criticising his friends.

‘Can’t you see?’ he asked, ‘my friend is

gluing up the validating machines. It’s
a combination of active and passive
resistance.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said the elderly man.
‘Didn’t you know there’s a state of martial
law?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘We have two kinds of resistance, as you
know from anti-government handbills.’
‘Yes,’ answered the older man in
astonishment.
‘Active resistance is, for example, throwing
bottles full of petrol at the police. You’ve
probably heard of incidents like that.’

85
 The tram reached the stop. Several people
got off. Others got on. They tried to put their
tickets in the validating machine, but couldn’t.
The tickets came out covered in toothpaste.
The remaining people, seeing that the validat-
ing machines were blocked, gave up and sat
down.

‘Do you see?’ asked Major after a moment’s

silence, ‘the state treasury has been stripped
of a few zlotys. Those people are engaged
in passive resistance. They aren’t paying. All
that’s needed is to create a pretext for not
paying.’ The elderly man was astonished. ‘It
won’t achieve anything.’

‘Why not?’ reacted Major. He went closer. He

wanted to tell him something discreetly. He
leant over a little. The tram made a sharp turn,
and there was a squeal. Major waited for the
tram to join a section of straight track and
took up the conversation again. ‘We’re going
to fight until the government capitulates.
With just a stay-away strike; no occupations.
Absence. Outright victory. You won’t go to
work and the government will surrender. What’s
more,’ he said, excitedly, ‘you’ll be able to rest
during the strike.’

* excerpt from Major Waldemar Fydrych, Lives of the

Orange Men: A Biographical History of the Orange
Alternative Movement, Minor Compositions: 2014.

86
87
 Mladen Stilinović, Artist at Work, 1977.
88
89
Marina
Vishmidt
Unionism,
Diversity
of Tactics,
Ceaseless
Struggle
Dispatches from
Cultural Workers
90
91
 Bringing together different experiences and strategies
of organizing seems really necessary, in general,
but especially right now. Although there are several
conceptual arguments that could be made for this
heterogeneity and/or diversity of tactics, these could
not be advanced in isolation from the actualities of
what we’re up against: an ever more intransigent,
racist and oppressive far-right political environment in
many places, normalized austerity, and authoritarian
managerialism in operation, if not in policy, in all types
of workplaces.

In this introductory piece, what I would like to focus

on is an analysis of a limited Anglophone (US-UK)
context, which the London-rooted Art Workers Forum
will expand upon, and then to turn toward the Polish
Workers Initiative union (Inicjatywa Pracownicza
or IP) and a group of art workers in Lithuania for
comparative analysis. Salient here is what could be
observed as a shift in labor politics as they unfold in
the institution of art (as a discursive whole) and in art
institutions on the ground. This could be outlined as
a shift from the W.A.G.E.-style (that’s the acronym for
Working Artists and the Greater Economy – the New
York based group) organizing of artists in relation to
institutions as individuals, to art workers and cultural
workers organizing in traditional as well as indepen-
dent trade union formations as collective bodies. For
example, the museum workers branch of the United
Auto Workers union in the US or the role of grassroots
unions such as United Voices of the World and Inde-
pendent Workers of Great Britain and the coordination
with trade unions engaged in by independent plat-
forms, such as the Art Workers Forum, in the UK. This
new unionization wave is thus indicative of this shift in
the organizing focus from artists organizing for better

92
working conditions to workers organizing in the arts
with their artist status as secondary. In this light,
it could be suggested that the main question is no
longer how to get artists and other freelance cultural
workers organized on the basis of being individualized,
but rather how to get art institutions organized, like
any other public or private workplace. This means
it’s no longer a problem of exceptionality that must
be negated in common, one by one (W.A.G.E.) or as a
specific class of professionals (CARFAC, other national
artist union schemes like Artists’ Union England), but
rather as a problem endured throughout the working
class: precarity. Perhaps the notion of artists orga-
nizing as workers (or even as ‘WAGEnts’) will always
be more tenuous than of artworkers organizing along
the lines of the wage labor relation. But equally it
may be more informative not to compare incongruous
fruits: the organization of waged workers is simply a
different type of campaign from the one of ensuring
freelance cultural workers are paid by the institutions
which commission their work, even if both are about
the value of labor in a capitalist marketplace, however
more or less mystified that labor might be. In their
differences as well as the alignment of their political
objectives, these should augment and complement
one another.

However, it may also be useful to use the idea of this

shift in organizing focus as a way of understanding
the relationship between organizational form and
political content in spaces of cultural worker organiz-
ing. According to the Art Workers Forum, “the ideology
of art’s autonomy reinforces capital’s heteronomy
over workers in the arts,” and this can be reflected on
in the terms I have developed – in the lexicon entry
that follows – on the speculative subjectivity of the

93
 cultural worker who asserts their independence as a
nonworker while locked in a cycle of dependency with
the surplus wealth of philanthropic individuals, orga-
nizations, and enterprises. Yet it can also be a trap to
overdetermine that subjectivity as the condition or
the limit of organizational forms in that sector – rather
than that condition being materially apprehended
as comprised of the diversity of relationships to
capital – making the most dominant of those relations
the departure point for organizing strategies. Aside
from the union form, there are also coops which have
been emerging over the past several years in the
landscape, to address the question of resources for
artistic production, as well as social reproduction,
from an angle other than the relationship to the
employer or commissioner. Here we could mention
the COOP fund in New York City or Interim kultur in
Stockholm. The coop may not be strictly articulating
a conventional form of labor politics in the cultural
field per se. Rather, it presents something akin to
administrative self-management, and this speaks to a
certain pooling or resocialisation of roles previously
carried out by exhibiting, publishing, etc. institutions,
in response to the elimination of such administrative
occupations by institutions pressured to restructure,
cut costs, and streamline operations under neoliberal
cultural policy.

With all this in mind, we haven’t actually gotten

much closer to the specific type of exceptionality
constituted by artistic labor, whether it is to do with
its class status or institutional location, its content
or its organizational forms. For clarity, I’ve been up till
now speaking of artistic labor as the work done by
artists as artists, in distinction from the work done by
people working in arts and cultural institutions who, of

94
course, often have an art practice as well. The reason
to distinguish these is that it is the social and ideolog-
ical position of the artist in Western (or capitalist more
broadly) society that defines the problematic of labor
organization in the field, with the obvious structural
issues of having no employer, no collective workplace,
no collective bargaining mechanism for artists as
artists. This brings us to the impasse that institution-
ally and economically enforced conditions of artistic
autonomy pose the chief barriers to labor organizing
among artists and art workers qua independent
artists. But this also generates a particular specu-
lative subjectivity that splits the artist potentially
into a politically concerned or engaged citizen, so to
speak, who wants to represent and amplify political
issues in their work, and a structural identification
with capital, specifically with finance capital, in their
material interests. This is a quandry which is often
encountered in the personae found in the noxious
ruling class composition of art institutional boards:
they are the incarnation of capital in the privatized or
nonprofit art world that we see in many places, and
their denunciation is often met by the objection that
private capital is the infrastructure of artistic support
(the well-worn “all money is dirty” argument for
political quiescence). What I’ve noticed in recent years,
as I’ve already mentioned, stemming not just from my
theoretical work, but from my involvement some years
ago with the W.A.G.E. project as an advisor and some-
time board member when they became a nonprofit, is
that taking this impasse or these conditions as the
basis for labor organizing in the arts can have some
ambiguous results. We see that with W.A.G.E. there has
been the pursuit of a narrow gauge artist fees-fo-
cused politics consisting of advocacy with institutions
and funders to include artists fees in operating

95
 budgets, and, through a certification program, work
towards creating a reputation economy which would
normalize paying artists and art by extension; other
art workers, especially ones that do not produce
marketable objects to sell; as well as translating this
into a wider and possibly transversal debate around
equity and social accountability for arts institutions.
Yet it might also appear that this is an approach that
preemptively rules out the existence of any but an
individualized, contract-based road to labor politics
for artists and art workers, with the hope of gener-
ating a critical mass of both certified institutions and
eventually certified individuals that could introduce a
kind of unionization by the backdoor, as it were.

While an enormously valuable project on its own

terms, there may also be a sense in which we can see
it as having been – at least in part – eclipsed by two
other recent tendencies which don’t focus on the
peculiarity of artistic labor to develop their organizing
program, but rather on its commonality with other
forms of labor. This entails focusing on the lower
hanging fruit of artists organizing in more traditional
units, such as existing collective bargaining organiza-
tions, and organizing not as artists, but as employees
of art institutions (often very casualized, of course).
They are likewise not setting up new organs for the
purpose, but seeking out existing ones. For example,
big umbrella trade unions for support, such as the
already mentioned UAW in New York, or taking advan-
tage of the energy and results gained by grassroots
and independent trade unions in the UK, such as
UVW, IWGB, to initiate divisions for graphic designers
or games programmers. Again, this is perhaps
sidestepping the question of organizing artists as
artists, but like W.A.G.E., this is a mode of organizing

96
that swerves away from defining what constitutes
artistic labor in order to center the relation to the
employer regardless of type of production. The other
tendency we see in organizations in the UK around
climate justice and divestments, such as BP or not BP,
Platform, Art Not Oil or Liberate Tate; or around social
justice, such as Black Lives Matter, and in New York
City, for example, Abolish MoMA, Decolonize This Place,
Fuck tha Police or Take Back the Bronx. These are
some examples of how larger movements have used or
exploited the arts institution as a platform to spotlight
ecosystems of social violence, with the specific role
of arts institutions in that. Especially their predatory
capitalist boards, as highlighted by the 2019 campaign
around the Whitney Biennial and which is now a regular
tactic for a number of campaigns bringing to light
the sources of wealth for board members, which are
bound to be deeply unsavory.

What do these two tendencies represent and what

can they tell us about the prospects for arts and
cultural worker organizing? The first one seems to
be an admission that serious labor organizing within
capitalist relations of production and power cannot
start from the anomaly, but from commonality. More
precisely, a focus on the anomaly qua anomaly leads
to a reformist trajectory, which is to say, petitioning
to be included in the supposedly normal conditions
of exploitation represented by a contract as a goal,
rather than as a baseline. And the politics associated
with that trajectory will have to be representational,
since they’ll be driven by an advisory body and
empowered individuals, rather than a transversally
coordinated group of people organizing in their shared
material interests. The shift from the idea of organizing
as artists to organizing as arts workers in relation to

97
 an employer seems to have something to do with a
realism of the inefficacy of anomaly-based reformism
being disseminated by practical experience, leading
workers to turn towards unionization as the “baseline”
for more radical reforms – a more traditional opening
to radical horizons through reformist means. But it’s a
turn that is likely also prompted by a worsening polit-
ical and economic climate of austerity supercharged
by COVID-19 damage, and increasingly unchecked,
violent and racialized exploitation undertaken in the
“reproductive realism” of the same arts institutions
that engage in ameliorative gestural politics around
representation and reparation, as fashion dictates.
With the second tendency, there is perhaps also the
recognition that the infrastructure of exploitation
that necessitates organizing as workers cannot be
fully engaged or dismantled without confronting
the structural violence that the infrastructure
both unleashes and cloaks – which is the racialized,
gendered and abled forms in which class is lived –
thus thoroughly shaping the labor relation. Hence
the art institutions become a hypervisible target but
also a resource (hence my reference to exploiting
them as a resource) for the convocation of different
movements approaching the leviathan from different
related and implicated directions. This would be an
instance of what I have in other places discussed
as infrastructural, rather than institutional, critique,
as the tendency for the art institution’s material
conditions – in relation to its workers and its others –
to become the focus, rather than the focus being on
the institution’s conditions of symbolic possibility and
legitimacy. The arts institution here is viewed as just
one more site of accumulation whose ideological and
actual capital has to be dismantled and redistributed

98
as part of a process of generalized, as well as specific,
social antagonism.

In conclusion, and with a view to the responses that

follow, I wanted to briefly come back to the coop as a
way of organizing artistic labor which is not about the
labor-capital relation so much as a type of self-man-
agement or self-administration. So, it seems to amount
to a delimited withdrawal and counterformation, rather
than engaging in a relation of antagonism with holders
of resources or power. The coops referred to here are
ones that distribute the work of cultural producers’
back office activity such as invoicing or grant writing,
or those that function as an independent ecosystem
for the distribution of funds for members for the
realization of projects or also for holding funds on
behalf of smaller organizations without bank accounts
or tax status. This is something I’d love to give a bit
more thought to, both as a strategy and as a piece of
infrastructure in the cultural field, especially through
thinking of the political implications of this kind of
maintenance work or reproductive work as potentially
a temporally extended form of antagonism. The politics
of organizational form can here be examined from the
point of view of their differences, but, as with the
earlier note about W.A.G.E. and unions, perhaps also
from the point of view of their mutual reinforcement
or a diversity of tactics in a network of reproductive
autonomy which draws on elements of both affirma-
tive self-organization and ceaseless struggle.

99
 Art Workers Forum
Roberto Mozzachiodi
Marina Vishmidt’s contextualization of the shifting
ground of political struggle within the institution of
art provides a useful starting point to reflect on the
agenda and activities of the Art Workers Forum (AWF)
to date. Her question about the specific features of
contemporary artistic labor, and by extension, the
organizational form proper to its political interests,
is one which AWF has been reckoning with. For us,
however, this question is inflected by a prior and
equally fraught phenomenon: the peculiarities of the
waged labors that reproduce the institutional sites
of the culture industry. This leads us to a related,
though slightly different, question: what, if any, would
be the strategic benefits of following the discursive
and policy fictions that maintain culture as a distinct
sector of the economy when trying to organize labor?
As the building of class power in workplaces is always
constrained by sectoral demarcations fabricated by
capital, there is a risk that by using the culture sector
as a site for labor organizing, as we seek to do, we
repeat the mistake of exceptionalizing the labor and
the political efficacy attributed to art and culture. It
should be said at the outset, therefore, that our polit-
ical aspirations remain modest insofar as we recognize
the industrial status of the culture sector in the
economy – in the UK context, the sector’s role is not
insignificant. But we do not believe the labor struggles
of this sector ought to be burdened by the universal-
izing pretensions of art per se. And in that regard, we
do not think it should be the responsibility of workers
in this sector to redeem the political in art, any more
than it is the responsibility of all workers to do so. But
100
we do recognize that the idealisms of art, including
its professed autonomy from capitalistic exchange,
are real, inasmuch as they take root in minds, shape
funding criteria, and ultimately condition the mana-
gerial logics of our workplaces. It is this dimension of
art’s autonomy that we are concerned with, i.e. how it
shapes the conditions of our working lives. And, more
optimistically, how it might lend itself to forging what
Vishmidt calls an “infrastructural critique,” which may
be the missing link between the economistic dead end
of trade unionism and the voluntaristic dimensions of
social movement activism.

Responding to these broad problems of building work-

ers’ power in the cultural sector, the AWF was formed
in 2019. In what follows I will give a brief introduction
to our organization, explaining how we came to focus
on cultural workers as waged workers, the historical
background of our organization, and finally a framing
of our ambitions and theoretical principles.

The AWF came into existence out of a series of

meetings held in London framed around questions to
do with the horizons of workplace organizing in the
culture sector. The titles of the meetings were the
departure point for discussions: “Can Art Workers
Organize?”; “How are Art Workers Organizing?” There
we met art/cultural workers who shared our curiosity
about class power in the industry and who were
interested in developing a sustained conversation
about organizing the sector. As it happens, the
workers we established longer-lasting ties with were
those working in both major and small cultural insti-
tutions (galleries, museums, venues) across London
and Liverpool, active in the trade unions (TU) in their

101
 workplace. Representatives from a number of these
TUs have remained part of the core group at AWF.

The AWF has since evolved around the regular

participation of these TU activists. The direction the
AWF has taken is toward sustaining and growing a
network of TU activists within the sector that support
each other’s campaigns (usually workplace-focused
but not exclusively), coordinate mass support for
industrial disputes, amass cross-union support at
picket lines and demonstrations, etc., and collectivize
practical and legal advice around organizing in the
sector. We also provide a forum for comparing notes
about the shenanigans of our TU bureaucracies and
other internal processes.

In principle we support the role of TUs in workplace

struggles, but specifically we want to consolidate
their strength within the arts and culture sector in
the UK where the TU membership has been historically
very low (even in the public arm of the sector, while
other areas of it have far higher union participation).
But while we support TU activism, we also recognize
the limitations of traditional TU structures (I’ll go
into these limitations below), and that’s why we are
concentrating on cohering a sectoral rank and file
network of TU activists outside of any particular
branch structure.

There are a few key factors that have shaped the

formation of AWF, our strategic aims, and our organiza-
tional principles. To begin with, it is necessary to say
something about the public arm of the arts/culture
sector, which is primarily where we are organizing
within/across, and outline two related dynamics that
have become quite apparent to us in practice. They

102
concern the broader history of cultural policy in the
UK, and employment policy within its public sector.
First, on the cultural policy in the UK: since the early
1990s, successive UK governments have identified
the culture sector (or the “creative industries”) as a
growth area of the national economy. This has also
dovetailed with the aims of EU cultural policy, which
has attempted to instrumentalize art and culture as
solutions to postindustrial and regional integration.
I’m thinking specifically of initiatives like the City of
Culture which became a key inspiration for culture-led
placemaking – now one of the central tenets of UK
urban governance. Since the late 1990s, then, cultural
policy in the UK has been characterized by consistent
efforts by governments to further compel arts and
cultural organizations to orient their objectives and
internal structures toward the market in accordance
with the private sector (largely determined by the
conditions of state funding allocation). This growth
of public-private infrastructure has resulted in a rapid
socialization of labor in the sector, and accordingly
shaped the workplaces we are organizing in. The
expansion of workplaces linked to arts/culture across
the UK has spawned an industry with a relatively
sophisticated division of labor (if we consider the
divisions of labor in and beyond exhibition sites, all
of those formal and informal relations of dependency
that have been established). It is a reality that is
not lost on members of AWF: most of the jobs we do
within this particular public-private configuration did
not exist twenty years ago.

So, you have the rapid growth of the infrastructure of

this relatively new industry (new gallery spaces and
venues, transnational networks of traveling exhibi-
tions, festivals, art fairs, all the various spin-off jobs

103
 that come out of the ballooning of this sector) based
on the speculation that this arm of the public sector
can be profitable and can regenerate local economies.
And along with this, you have the development of a
new rationality in human resource management within
the public sector: New Public Management. The thrust
of it is to make organizations resilient to market
fluctuations, for which it is necessary to integrate
financial risk into the employment hierarchy of
workplaces. From the perspective of human resources,
this means differentiating between an inner core
of employees with a high level of employment
security and responsibility directly linked to the core
objectives of the institution, and an outer layer of
peripheral employees assigned to noncore activities,
with a high degree of job insecurity. Policies such as
Compulsory Competitive Tendering, brought in by the
Conservative government in the late 1980s, and Best
Value, brought in by the New Labour government in
the early 2000s, put pressure on public managers to
heavily budget on the costs of noncore activities
(facilities work such as cleaning and security, and
customer service jobs) within the public sector, and
to look to the market to find solutions – such as the
use of third party employers to separately manage
workers on site; widespread use of insourcing/
outsourcing and agency work; establishment of
subsidiary commercial arms of public institutions; and
as a result, the growth of a layer of differentiated
insecure jobs in the public sector. This is what you
see within the culture sector: growth of a layer of
differentiated insecure jobs in the public sector and a
mass of contingent workers, working on various types
of atypical and insecure contracts.

This division between core and auxiliary services

structures workplaces and therefore defines the
104
objective conditions of labor struggle. It is also
important as a way of understanding the limitations of
institutional critique as an artistic or critical gesture,
which has tended to mirror this core/auxiliary dyad in
the way that it conceives of political agency within
the arts. The demands of institutional critique tend
to be pitched toward, or issued from, the core (i.e. as
a conversation between artists, art and institutional
decision makers), which replicates the idea that
contingent workers are somehow supplementary to
the core mission of art and its publics. In this light,
it is interesting to see solidarity actions taken by
artists in support of contingent workers’ struggles in
the sector.

The trade union movement has also mirrored this

core-periphery paradigm. Largely because they are
institutions that were built and formed around the
assumptions of job continuity and the maintenance
of “typical” employment, they have been slow to
adapt to the new reality of nonstandard, precarious,
temporary employment, and to pivot away from
an organizational structure shaped – from top to
bottom – around the material interests of just the
core workers. Indeed, it is significant that at roughly
the same moment Tony Blair’s Labour government set
up a Task Force to define and measure the value of
the “creative industries,” the Trade Union Congress
(the main trade union federation in the UK) was
announcing its willingness to embrace the New Public
Management doxa, its acceptance of privatization
and its praise for flexibility in labor markets. Precisely
because TUC leaders prioritized the conditions of core
workers while celebrating the meritocratic promises of

105
 flexibilization, they abetted the spread of casualiza-
tion within the UK economy.

A big inspiration for AWF has been the appearance of

a number of small trade unions that have consciously
broken away from the TUC, organizing and campaign-
ing almost exclusively with contingent workers. Unions
like United Voices of the World (UVW), The Independent
Workers of Great Britain (IWGB), and The Cleaners &
Allied Independent Workers Union (CAIWU) have been
representing workers who have been abandoned by
the traditional trade unions because of their contract
types (outsourced, agency, gig economy, sex workers,
and so on), and they’ve been making significant
qualitative gains with these workforces in terms of
reversing the logic of privatization. Their model of
establishing an axis of solidarity around atypical
employment conditions is something we are very much
trying to replicate by developing an organizational
form that can accommodate these dynamics at a
sectoral level, to sustain links among contingent work-
ers across the cultural infrastructure. For us, it means
working with trade unions already present in the
sector, notwithstanding their structural limitations. Our
basic assumption then is that effective class power
could be an intrinsic byproduct of the condition and
the density of contingent workers in the workplaces
that constitute this industry. By organizing for this
class power we could not only transform the working
conditions of the sector, but also draw a stratum of
contingent workers towards more generalized social
antagonisms which take on heightened form as art
and culture become, to an increasing extent, focal
points for broader political contestation.

These are principles that remain long-term aims for

AWF. We are very keen to enrich this speculative
106
analysis through practice. We want to learn about the
workplaces that make up this relatively new sector of
the economy so we can understand what is possible
and what is not, and ultimately where power lies in our
working and political lives.

Inicjatywa Pracownicza

In my response to Marina Vishmidt’s dispatch I will

focus on the strategic issues of commonality, social
antagonism, and infrastructures of exploitation,
drawing on my experience of years of working and
organizing in the cultural field. Although all three strat-
egies identified by Vishmidt are present in organizing
efforts in contemporary Poland, my considerations
of them will be from my standpoint as a member of
the grassroots union OZZ Inicjatywa Pracownicza
[Workers’ Initiative Trade Union], both at workplaces
(i.e. public cultural institutions) and in the cultural
sector as such.1 In conclusion I will address how these
different campaigns/struggles, informed by different
material interests, can, but do not necessarily have to,
meet. Readers interested in WAGE-style organizing of
artists, critics, and freelance curators in Poland can
check the online resources of Obywatelskie Forum
1 It is important here to note that cultural production in Poland is
mostly performed within the system of public cultural institutions
funded in the vast majority by the state and local governments.
After the transformation from state socialism to neoliberal
capitalism in 1989 there was an important rise in the number of
private galleries, art fairs, etc., but public institutions are still in a
dominant position in the production and distribution of cultural
works within society, especially in the visual arts, but also in
theatre and music. However, public cultural institutions are also
being transformed by neoliberal forces and management, which
generates many problems for their workers.
107
 Sztuki Współczesnej.2 The coop strategy of organizing
artistic labor in Poland, as suggested by Marina, is
represented by the newly established Spółdzielnia
POMPUJ!.3

OZZ Inicjatywa Pracownicza organizes employees

irrespective of the type of employment (labor law, civil
law, cooperative employment contract, employment
through temporary work agency, and self-employ-
ment) into different sectors: logistics, production,
trade, transport, care, education, culture, and other
services. The union was established in 2004 in the
city of Poznań by activists and employees of Cegielski
factory. It was inspired by anarcho-syndicalist (not
autonomist!) ideas – imported to Poland from Germany
around this time – as an attempt to renew the union
and anticapitalist movements. Inicjatywa is based on
values of solidarity, direct action, and direct democ-
racy with the revolutionary end goal of gaining control
of the economy by workers and abolishing the wage
system. It currently has approximately six thousand
members all around Poland organized in workplace

2 Obywatelskie Forum Sztuki Współczesnej [Citizens’ Forum for

Contemporary Art] was established in November 2009 on the
initiative of artists, critics, and curators of contemporary art.
Its aim was to achieve an impact through legal and institutional
changes necessary for the environment, which would allow for
the proper development of this area of culture. More info: http://
forumsztukiwspolczesnej.blogspot.com/
3 PUMP! is an art cooperative taking shape within Biennale
Warszawa since February 2020. The name of the association
suggests water, and more broadly, life-giving artistic energies
which we want to pump into the social circulation of ideas. At
the same time, it alludes both to the area of our activities and
our working methods – at Pump! we put emphasis on grassroots
activities, pumped with the enthusiasm of the cooperative
members. More info: https://biennalewarszawa.pl/spoldzielnia-
pompuj/
108
committees, regional and sectoral branches, and a
national committee elected by the delegates from the
workplace committees during the national reunion
every two years. OZZ Inicjatywa Pracownicza is a
member of two international organizations (ICL-CIT–
International Confederation of Labor4 and Interna-
tional Labour Network of Solidarity and Struggles5). I
will arrive at the importance of such networks only at
the conclusion of this text.

Before I move to our ongoing campaign “High Culture –

Low Wages,” I have to make an important distinction,
something that was already noted in Vishmidt’s text,
but needs to be elaborated on here.6 The majority
of our members and the real driving force of actions
are those who Airi Triisberg has called “backstage”
workers of the arts and cultural institutions: such as
technical assistants, producers, educators, editors,
archivists, receptionists, administrators, exhibition
guides, actors, sound and lighting technicians, or
stagehands.7 As much as I hate the term “background”
and think that after the COVID-19 pandemic all our
work should be considered “essential,” for cultural
institutions, it captures well the less visible and less
valued – both symbolically and materially – position of
these occupational groups in the hierarchy within the
cultural sector, as compared to artists, curators and

4 More info: https://www.iclcit.org/

5 More info: http://www.laboursolidarity.org/
6 I’m referring here to the fragment where she writes about
“artistic labor as the work done by artists as artists, in
distinction from the work done by people working in arts and
cultural institutions.”
7 Airi Triisberg, “Art Workers’ Movement in Tallinn: The Politics
of Disidentification,” in: Erik Krikortz, Airi Triisberg and Minna
Henriksson, eds., Art Workers: Material Conditions and Labour
Struggles in Contemporary Art Practice, Konst-ig: 2015. 149.
109
 critics, that our W.A.G.E.-style organization Obywa-
telskie Forum Sztuki Współczesnej [Citizens’ Forum
for Contemporary Art] aims to represent – or to the
expanding managerial class within the cultural institu-
tions. This important distinction has three implications:
1) our activities are automatically oriented toward
infrastructural critique (to use Vishmidt’s wonderful
term) rather than institutional critique; 2) our practice
is based on the commonality of problems (rather than
anomality), which are the shared material interests
by which we understand both wages and types of
contracts); 3) we identify ourselves as working class
both within cultural institutions and within the society
at large. The last one seems to be particularly import-
ant in the context of postsocialist society, as from my
own experience one of the biggest problems of the
unionization drive in the cultural sector in Poland is
the ideology of the middle class imposed on us by the
US-influenced economic transformation in 1989.8 This
ideology of the middle class, as the anthropologist
Hadas Weiss has shown, not only does away with such
decisive categories as workers vs. capitalists/bosses
and creates (very attractive for the cultural field!) an
image of society as multiple, self-governed individu-
als – but also “exacerbates inequality by encouraging
competitive consumption, lifestyle and investment to
signal advantages over others.”9 For artists, curators
and critics the politics of disidentification (to use
another of Triisberg’s terms) is about “a dissociation
from two assumptions dominating the commonplace
conceptions about the economy of art – the belief
8 Among the advisors to the Polish elites in 1989 and in the next
years were the same American economists that designed the
neoliberal transfromation imposed by the military dictatorship
in Chile.
9 Hadas Weiss, We Have Never Been Middle Class: How Social Mobility
Misleads Us, Verso: 2019. 12.
110
that art making is a hobby that serves the purpose
of self-expression and is not supposed to be a source
of stable income, and the somewhat contrasting
idea that art practitioners are entrepreneurs who
are selling their products in the market.”10 For cultural
workers it is first of all the disidentification from
the middle class that enables them to engage in the
redistributive struggles at their workplaces (cultural
institutions), and to join the class struggle alongside
workers from other sectors (public and private) within
the capitalist system.11

Having said that, employees of Polish public cultural

institutions are among the most underpaid profes-
sional groups in the country for which the politicians
of all parties are to blame – having encouraged the
exploitation of public sector employees.12 The “High
Culture – Low Wages” campaign started on May 18,
2019 during the Night of the Museums – a regular
event symbolic of the neoliberal takeover of cultural
production. On this night, members of IP’s workplace
committees in public cultural institutions in Warsaw –
including myself – marched with a self-made, seven
meter banner and union flags and vests through
the streets of Warsaw, stopping at successive
10 “Art Workers’ Movement in Tallinn,” op cit.
11 This is becoming even more evident now with the new tax
regulations introduced by the Polish government since January
1, 2022, which brought so-called “relief for the middle class” for
people earning between 5701 and 11141 PLN gross a month. Most
of the occupational groups form the cultural sector unionionized
in the OZZ Inicjatywa Pracownicza earn below 5701 PLN gross
a month. For example at my workplace (Museum of Modern Art
in Warsaw) we were able to raise the wages of producers,
educators, editors and archivists to 5500 PLN gross a month
through the process of collective bargaining only in 2019.
12 The average wage is 4328 PLN (927 euro) gross a month
according to the data of the Statistical Office (GUS) from 2019.
111
 cultural institutions and government buildings, giving
speeches, and distributing a collectively written leaflet
describing poor working conditions and overproduc-
tion in the cultural sector. The protest was followed by
an independent study concerning wages and condi-
tions of employment in cultural institutions based in
Warsaw that resulted in the publication of the report
under the same title in September 2019. The report
was later translated into English and made accessible
to our international comrades to download from the
union website.13 The report covered 113 institutions and
provided data on the average gross monthly salary
in 2018 (including gender statistics); the median gross
monthly salary in 2018; the number of employees on
labor law employment contracts (as per December
31, 2018), and the number of employees on civil law
contracts for at least six months in 2018. Based on the
results we have formulated five demands:

1. UNABLE TO MAKE A LIVING, WE DEMAND THE INCREASE

OF GROSS BASE SALARY BY 1,564 POLISH ZŁOTYS!

2. WITH REAL WAGES DROPPING EACH YEAR, WE REQUIRE

THE ANNUAL WAGE VALORIZATION ADJUSTED TO THE
INFLATION RATE!

3. EARNING LESS DOING THE EXACT SAME JOBS, WE

CLAIM THE RIGHT TO EQUAL PAY!

4. SUFFERING FROM JOB INSECURITY, WE DEMAND THAT

DECISION MAKERS PUT AN END TO OUTSOURCING AND
JUNK CONTRACTS!

13 https://www.ozzip.pl/english-news/item/2663-high-culture-low-
wages
112
5. KEPT IN THE DARK ABOUT UNEQUAL PAY RATES, WE
DEMAND FULL TRANSPARENCY REGARDING RULES OF
REMUNERATION!

The next step in the campaign was a direct action in

November 2019 at the City Council of Warsaw. Finding
out that there is a disparity between average wages
at public cultural institutions funded by the City Coun-
cil and Ministry of Culture, we decided to intervene
during the Town Council meeting with banners and
union flags and vests. We gave the printed copies of
the report “High Culture – Low Wages” to the coun-
cillors, which resulted in the invitation to the meeting
with the Warsaw City Cultural Office. As a result, the
City decided to allocate 9.2 million PLN for the wage
increase of the library staff (the lowest earning occu-
pational group in the cultural sector of Poland) and
introduce annual valorization of wages. We perceived it
as a partial win and planned the action in front of the
Ministry of Culture, but then the COVID-19 pandemic
unfolded in the beginning of 2020 and we learned that
the money for the pay rises for the library staff was
withdrawn due to austerity politics. At the same time,
public assemblies were banned by the government.
During the pandemic we were mostly active at our
workplace committees, checking the health and
safety measures implemented by the Ministry, the City
Council, and employers, and observing the situation
of the civil law contract/precarious cultural workers.
Some of us used the home office conditions applied
to the public cultural institutions to find more time to
engage with the IP members from other sectors and
committees (for example Amazon and Volkswagen),
and to help with their campaigning during the difficult
times of the COVID-19 pandemic, as the division of

113
 those who can work remotely and those who cannot
became a problem for the whole working class.

The “High Culture – Low Wages” campaign was resumed

in November 2021 during the legislation process of
the budget bill by the members of the IP workplace
committees at the public cultural institutions funded
by the Ministry of Culture. Referring to our report and
post-pandemic rise in the inflation rates, we brought
back the demands of the annual salary adjustments
and ended outsourcing and temporary contracts in
the public sector. We sent the letter to the Minister of
Culture signed by nine trade union organizations (some
workplace committees of Solidarność and OPZZ [The
All-Poland Alliance of Trade Unions], the two largest
unions in Poland, also signed) from five different public
institutions in Warsaw. It demanded the intervention
of the Minister to improve our material situation and
draw attention to inequalities in the public sector,
as we did not agree with the Polish government
that cares only about and invests only in so called
law enforcement (army, police and border guards),
ignoring other professional groups. “The average
gross monthly salary in the culture and entertainment
sector (4328 PLN gross per month)” – the letter
read – “is lower than the average gross salary of a
professional soldier (nearly 6000 PLN per month). While
soldiers got significant increases, we cannot wait for
real valorization of our salaries due to the inflation
rate and the related increase in the costs of living.
We demand equal treatment for all people employed
in the public finance sector who work hard for Polish
society.”

Without waiting for the reply we organized a picket

line in front of the Ministry of Culture headquarters in

114
Warsaw on December 6, 2021. The picket was attended
by members of the IP workplace committees at
POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews; Museum
of Modern Art in Warsaw; National Film Archive;
Audiovisual Institute; Zachęta National Gallery of Art;
and supported by the IP workplace committee at the
University of Warsaw and the KNSZZ Ad Rem union
of court and prosecution workers. As one of the
picketers shouted through the megaphone:

“Minister, on the day we submitted the letter to you,

the inflation rate was 6.8% year-on-year. According
to the Main Statistical Office’s quick estimate for
November 2021, it is already 7.7% year-on-year. Prices
for energy carriers have risen by 13%. We know that
our material situation will deteriorate with rising price
indices for basic products and services . . . Our work is
essential for society and we demand salary adjust-
ments and stable working conditions!” “The situation
in cultural institutions during the pandemic has not
changed, in fact it is only getting worse.” – the other
picketer added – “Cultural workers are still living on
very low salaries. In Warsaw, it’s a drama if someone
just wants to live with dignity. It’s very difficult to
live from the first to first of the month on one salary.’
‘I would like to tell you that you are not alone in this
protest. There is a red tent-town of court and pros-
ecution workers in front of the Ministry of Justice.
Next to it there is a white tent-town of healthcare
workers. We are all treated the same and we need to
count ourselves and see that there are more of us.
We do not deserve the way we are treated. We don’t
deserve the fact that our wages are losing value year
after year. We are earning less and less, not more and
more as we should” – concluded the unionist from

115
 KNSZZ Ad Rem and invited the cultural workers to a red
tent-town to strengthen the labor ties.

Just two weeks later, on December 20, we participated

with banners and speeches at the picket line of IP’s
sister union Związek Nauczycieli Polskich [Polish Teach-
ers’ Union] in front of Warsaw University. The picket
lines caught the media attention but did not result
in a response or invitation to the meetings by the
Ministries, and the budget bill passed the Parliament
and was signed by the President on January 1, 2022.
We are not giving up and are instead planning next
actions both at workplaces and towards the state
officials, distributing leaflets, posters and debating
the situation of the workers in the public and private
sectors in Poland and abroad.

Even if it sounds controversial, at the moment

we – the cultural workers unionized in OZZ Inicjatyw
Pracownicza – feel more in common with the workers
from different public sectors than with organizations
of artists, curators and critics. It is not just because
they did not support us on the picket lines, but also
related to how their different material interests and
investments are reflected in the fight against the
right wing takeover – it makes them blindly defend
and idealize the liberal directors of the cultural
institutions and the managerial feudalism they bring
to our workplaces. In the near future, we plan to build
more alliances with the union organizations in the
public finance sector, because from our – the working
class – perspective the struggles over the directors
of the cultural institutions that presently dominate

116
the cultural field are first of all the struggles of the
different factions of capital.

As a conclusion, I want to return to the importance of

not only strengthening our intersectoral connections
but also our transnational solidarities. As we can see
from our own effort to do so through these discus-
sions and dispatches, the comparisons of conditions,
the sharing of strategies, is pivotal for cultivating the
organizational bonds that will allow us to take on capi-
tal as a global, imperial system. And as I conclude this
dispatch, I’m happy to report we have already seen
the revolutionary fruits of this still young cooperation
between OZZ Inicjatywa Pracownicza and the Lithu-
anian union Gegužės 1-osios profesinė sąjunga, who
together with unions from the International Labour
Network of Solidarity and Struggles, went to Lviv
Ukraine as a workers aid convoy, to deliver resources
to the Independent Labour Union of Metalworkers and
Miners in Kryvyi Rihson, for redistribution in the region.

Three Lithuanian
Cultural Workers

What follows is a joint response from three Lithuanian

cultural workers, differently embroiled in the matters
of labor relations in the cultural field: Emilija and Agnė
through the independent labor union Gegužės 1-osios
profesinė sąjunga [May 1st Labor Union or G1PS], and
117
 Vaida as a worker in the arts field who had been
involved in a slowly developing effort to establish an
independent union for art workers in Lithuania.

Art and culture workers organizing as such in

Lithuania has taken a more sporadic route than in
the cases discussed elsewhere in Poland and the UK.
Far from being a place from which to rethink existing
cultural workers organizing forms – whether through
labor unions or advocacy platforms – here the step of
actually having an independent labor union for cultural
workers is yet to be realized. On the other hand, the
contemporary landscape is colored by its past, state
socialism, wherein various state-established “unions”
were present and persist to this day in their various
and contradictory forms, together with newer itera-
tions of “unions” or “artists’ associations” established
after the Independence.

Although we find no real potential in entryism – i.e.

strategically joining these existing unions to rede-
velop them as workers unions – their historical lineage
needs to be reckoned with as we attempt to cultivate
new paths for autonomy and towards autonomy as
a future horizon. Our dispatch is structured in three
sections, each engaging with different historical
phases of the collective material structures that
have variously provided for the reproduction of art
and culture workers. Agnė begins by recounting the
Soviet era and the dynamics between cultural workers
and the institutional bodies that represented them.
Picking up on transformations of the landscape after
Independence in 1990, Emilija presents on the new
material conditions artists and cultural organizations
came to face in the neoliberal era. The dispatch
concludes with a forward-facing mapping by Vaida of

118
the recent discussions about what to do with these
lingering conditions and promises, highly inspired by
the discussions that unfolded alongside these pages.

The Union of Soviet Artists established in 1933 was

not in any way an exception in terms of the Soviet
bureaucracy and its complicated organizations. Each
of the fifteen Soviet Socialist Republics had its own
republic Union of Soviet Artists and Ministry of Culture,
these in turn were controlled by the Department of
Culture of the Central Committee of the Party. Regions,
districts, and municipalities had their own sections of
the Union of Soviet Artists, and the functions of the
Ministry of CuIture were performed by the cultural or
ideological sections of these bodies.

According to art historian Erika Grigoravičienė, in

July of 1940 the Soviet government transformed the
organizations of Lithuanian artists into one trade
union, and by the spring of 1941, the Union of Artists
of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic (LSSR)
became subordinate to the Union of Artists of the
USSR. The union constantly expanded: in 1973 it had
five hundred members and in 1975 it accepted forty-
two young artists.

Gradually, being a visual artist became a very respect-

able and profitable profession, but only if the artist
was loyal to the principles of socialist realism at the
time. The Soviet artist received most of his/her means
of livelihood from the system of state orders. However,
a unified definition of socialist realism spanning the
entire history of the USSR did not exist. Every Union
of Soviet Artists had their own Art Fund as a republic.
119
 Lithuania (LSSR at the time) was no exception. The Art
Fund provided artists with the tools and materials
necessary for their work, gave them cash advances,
paid for trips of artistic purpose, and maintained the
“houses of creativity,” the art salons, the exhibition
halls, the special artshops, hospitals, workshops, etc.

The budget of every municipal committee: collective

farm, factory, school and ministry, included funds
allocated by the government for the acquisition
of artistic objects. Only a negligible portion of this
output consisted of original works by Soviet artists;
most were copies of the most renowned masterpieces
of the laureates of socialist realism. The life blood
of Soviet artists was official exhibitions, the vast
majority of which were thematic. The themes did not
change rapidly through time and were rather formal-
istic. Some exhibitions were not open for the public
since they consisted of artworks made by younger
artists and required substantial prior discussion
about the proper understanding of socialist realist
principles. As Grigoravičienė summarizes the situation
of the Union of Soviet Artists in Lithuania in the late
1960s and 1970s: the painters fought for the renewal
of social realism, the expanded concept of “thematic”
painting, a status for colorism and landscape.

Already by the 1980s art workers became very

competitive, seeking bigger apartments, workshops,
cars, travel abroad and equipment. In general, the
Union of Soviet Artists was a huge machinery based
on a brutal hierarchy. It was controlled by the state,
but at the same time it was also fully and generously
funded by it. Nevertheless, the state also learnt
how to tolerate the disobedient artists who did not
necessarily want to paint a portrait of the state

120
official or conform to an orthodox approach to the
portrayal of historical events. They would still be
included in the Union of Soviet Artists but they did
not win the best state commissions or gain entry to
the official exhibitions, and had far fewer benefits
than the “winners” of the system.

Although, as we see, Soviet style state socialism

did not provide great conditions for art workers or
workers more generally, the innovations and auton-
omies of artists that produced monumental, public,
works must be noted. Many great works of art were
created in collaboration with architects. The Soviet era
was a rather favorable period for both architecture
and monumental, decorative art, as a synthesis was
established between them, and cooperation between
architects and artists became an area of substantial
development. In the works that decorated the
resorts, for example, there were no political demands
at all. Stained glass, ceramic panels, tapestries and
pieces made from leather were cleverly applied in inte-
riors. Such works, borne out of the specific conditions
provided under state socialism, would be unrealizable
in any capitalist state or small arts organization.

In the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic there were

few members of the Lithuanian Communist Party (LKP)
inside the artists’ unions. Even before the declaration
of independence, most unions actively expressed a
desire to separate from the Communist Ministry of
Culture and continue their activities independently.
Their aspirations for independence were fulfilled, but

121
 this led to difficult conditions for survival in the newly
established neoliberal economy.

After Lithuania gained its independence in 1990,

the unions lost their function of serving the Soviet
ideological apparatus. The loss of commissions given
by the state put artists at risk since it had previously
been their main source of funding. In the same year, the
first Prime Minister of Lithuania, Kazimiera Prunskienė,
famously stated that during the economic crisis that
unfolded over the 1990s it would not be possible to grant
any social group exceptional conditions or financial aid,
not even artists. Thus, the artists and the unions had to
learn to operate in a free market and adapt to so-called
wild capitalism with the rest of society.

State-funded unions are legally entitled not only to

involve their members in the activities of the organiza-
tion or to organize exhibitions, but also to represent the
rights of the artists and provide them with legal support.
Presently the tendency is that unions support their
members in providing space for exhibitions and promot-
ing artists, they are less active in defending the rights
of the artists or providing legal consultation, with some
notable exceptions.14 This can be considered a grave

14 The Lithuanian Artists' Association, which had its beginnings

in Soviet times, subsequently separated from this centralized
structure and became an organization in its own right in the
independence period. Since then, it has been doing a fair amount
of legal work concerning the social protection of artists – such as
lobbying for artist status and for pensions for artists, consultation
on social security matters with members and non-members of their
union, and similar work. The Lithuanian Interdisciplinary Artists’
Association has also participated in legal activities to help their
members, i.e. protecting artists’ right to free artistic expression
when their works have been attacked legally by opposing publics:
such as in the case of an artwork ‘desecrating’ the Lithuanian flag
that was taken to the police and to courts by bitter nationalists.
122
shortcoming since many artists are left with the
burden of self-management in the free market-
place, which makes them especially vulnerable to
exploitation.

It is also worth mentioning the losses endured by

the elderly generation of artists who belonged
to the unions during the Soviet era. During the
transformation period, there were no (or at least, not
enough) discussions about pensions for these artists.
Only in 2011 did the Lithuanian government renew the
social security system for those who possess status
as artists, either granted automatically by union
membership or by applying individually. However, those
artists whose active working lives took place between
1990–2011 suffered severe losses from their pensions,
leaving many artists, after retirement, living in poverty.

Finally, the fact that most of the unions inherited

both the organizational structures and properties
allocated to them in socialism, has created tensions
between actors in the field of culture. All the new
organizations (e.g. Lithuanian Interdisciplinary Artists’
Association (LTMKS)), that were established in 1997 or
after, were left with a very small chance of acquiring
cultural spaces. The inequalities borne out of these
inheritances have led to endless conflicts over access
to space. Up to this day, the unions continue to
struggle to prove their right to use certain buildings
in the city to the municipalities. In addition, even for
the unions who manage to maintain their own spaces,
the support that comes from the state is not enough
to maintain the buildings or to pay the utilities. Thus,
some of the unions have established parallel organi-
zations like publishing houses or other NGOs under
similar names. During open calls for funding facilitated

123
 by the Council for Culture, these organizations make
multiple applications as different entities (in name
only), making the whole process of the distribution of
state funding less transparent.

Arising from the clear pitfalls noted by Emilija of

the artist unions we’ve inherited, an array of ideas
have been gathering about what steps to take in
cultivating a path towards cultural workers’ autonomy.
For some years now, proposals have been made for
how to better attend to the needs of artists and
cultural operators as workers. In 2020 these efforts
were once again sparked amidst a conversation
initiated through the Paths to Autonomy assemblies.
In what follows I will outline the essential proposals
and directions of this composition, beginning with a
framing of the specific conditions our struggle for
autonomy faces.

Let me outline a figure, an invocation of sorts of the

neoliberal age of production. Imagine a person – which
is a real example – today: a part-time employee at
a state-funded cultural institution who also runs a
non-profit organization and a self-organized art space;
while at the same time maintaining personal creative
practice mostly funded by the state either through
state distributed individual grants or commissions
by state-funded cultural organizations under their
projects; while also, occasionally, supplying temporary
work of many kinds (communications, curatorial,
writing, invigilating, bartending . . . ) for various cultural

124
organizations, state, non-governmental or private
sector enterprises.

What could the traditional trade unions do for

this person in ensuring their needs are met, in the
convoluted multiverse of employment conditions, each
of them lacking sufficient protection? Such a subjec-
tivity seems to elude the organizing approaches of
both official, bureaucratic, trade unions aligned with
capital and state institutions, as well as syndicalist,
federated, autonomous unions – like those in the
UK or Poland. In Lithuania this problematic is only
deepened by the fact that existing artist unions do
not place labor issues at the center of their activities,
as trade unions do in other countries – leaving little
to no opportunity for those working in the arts and
culture sector to have their labor struggles leave the
individual realm and enter into a collective process of
negotiation.

A proposal arising from such conditions, clunky to say

the least, is for an intersectoral trade union (joining
visual arts workers from different sectors of the
cultural field, public-budgetary, public-self organized,
private-commercial) that could simultaneously fight for
the recognition of artistic labor as secure, decently
paid work, while connecting struggles endured in the
multiverse of employment conditions most cultural
producers reproduce themselves within.

Firstly, such a model of unionism would be important

in enacting a shift, as Marina has stated, of artists to
art workers, by inciting art and cultural workers to
see themselves as part of labor relations and not just

125
 hobbyists or “creatives” who do not require sufficient
pay (which of course is a paradox of the neoliberal
economy configuring the artist as entrepreneur, and
at the same time precarising them into oblivion and
without decent material support structures). With
this shift, another comes – that of ensuring the
recognition of a certain worker subjectivity, and a
leverage for demanding fair compensation for labor
from prospective employers, as well as better social
conditions from the state (such as ensuring pensions
as mentioned by Emilija). In one of our meetings
for establishing such a union, one idea drafted for
achieving the status of art workers was to urge the
Lithuanian Council for Culture – the main financial
supporter of the whole cultural field in Lithuania from
biggest to smallest – to tax individual grants for
creators, so as to configure them not as subjects of
support for their exceptional work but as workers.
The reason for this being that while they are not
undertaking paid (and supposedly contracted) work
under the monthly grant, nor are they accruing social
security (health benefits, pension, and else) and that
is detrimental for their future.

Another strategy for recognising “art work” is the

inclusion of not only artists as those needing labor
protection, but also the backstage workers, as per
Airi and Pawel’s emphasis. Those who ensure technical
support for the events and exhibitions; those who
lead educational activities; those who ensure the
cleanliness of the necessary facilities; who sell tickets
and offer guidance in the exhibition halls; design
the posters; check the grammar of the exhibition
texts and those who stay there after the lights go
out at night. But here the curators also need to be
mentioned, who even in state-funded institutions are
paid barely above the minimum wage for work that
126
often exceeds full-time hours and requires unac-
counted for labor. Through the union we may fight
for the inclusion of the various types of labor that
goes into the public outcome of art work, abolishing
art(ist)’s exceptionality and thinking autonomy as
reproduced through the material conditions we share
across the field and beyond it.

Echoing Roberto’s thoughts on the unionization of

casualized workers, this new type of independent
union would be one that includes those on temporary
contracts, the self-employed on one off contracts, as
well as those that pay monthly self-employed tax. It
should be said that the initial idea for our union was
to establish one exclusively for so-called ‘independent
workers’ as they usually fall through all the cracks
of recognition/regulation. Yet, after discussions that
followed it became clear that those working only in
one kind of employment are quite scarce – as in the
example outlined at the start of my response, and
therefore this approach would again serve in turn to
only enforce the crooked exclusionary imaginary of
the arts. Furthermore, since in Lithuania we do not yet
have a great many movements as can be found in
Marina, Roberto, and Pawel’s dispatches – it would
therefore make more sense to start from joining
different workers in intersectorial solidarity than to
start from the exclusion of one type of work. Since,
after having short chats with a few colleagues, one
can see how many of the problems are pertinent to
all those working, whether in state-funded or private
institutions, leading their own organizations and
exhibition spaces, or being self-employed. Because
it is not about a single employer, individualized case
studies or “better contracts,” but the precarious
conditioning of the field as a whole. To reckon with
such a multiverse a more robust approach is needed.
127
Lexicon
Marina
Vishmidt
Autonomy
and
Heteronomy
Speculative
Subjectivity
128
Autonomy and Heteronomy
Autonomy and heteronomy have been important
parameters for my thinking on labor politics in the
arts over the years. I arrived at these concepts
through Adorno’s Aesthetic Theory and Negative
Dialectics. I’ve been trying to specify art’s heteron-
omy or unfreedom with reference to the concept
of abstract labor rather than by determinations
in the market. “Abstract labor” here is taken to
mean the general social form of labor subsumed
by capitalist valorization processes. “Autonomy,”
on the other hand, I’ve tried to map onto forms of
labor – artistic and otherwise – that are exceptional
in their noncompliance with the logic of valorization.
Artistic labor’s exceptionality or autonomy arises in
contrast to abstract labor, which is the predominant
means of valorizing invested capital: organizing and
regulating the labor process to maximize surplus value
extraction – such as automation, deregulation, the
investment into expanded production and standard-
ization. Artistic labor is clearly anomalous to that and
remains artisanal in many ways as a process and an
experience, and this is important. But what is its place
in contemporary relations of production? To begin,
it is helpful to describe such labor in terms of “value
relations” as opposed to “value production,” given that
the exceptionality of this form of labor is actually
fundamental rather than anomalous to the capitalist
mode of production. If we take surplus value-pro-
ducing wage labor as standard, then what about
domestic labor or unwaged social reproduction, forced
labor, and, in line with the work of Jason W. Moore, the
labor of nature, or, what capital produces as “nature,”
that is, nonsocial in terms of capitalist social relations
of wage and commodity? Uncommodified labor then
129
 starts to seem like it forms the majority of the
sources of capital accumulation, or, as may be useful
for bringing in the colonial dimensions, extraction. This
has important consequences for how we conceive
not just of labor normatively, but of class as the
determining relation of capitalist societies, because if
we consider the “division and multiplication” of labor
through the impositions of gender and race, this gives
us the possibility of understanding how both the
exploitation and the absolute devalorization of labor
(in all coercive labor relations, such as enslavement or
prison labor) proceeds, and how it involves, as writers
such as Silvia Wynter or Denise Ferreira da Silva note,
the concentration of humanity at one pole and nature
at another.

Speculative Subjectivity
We are left at a certain juncture with something
of a nonanswer as to whether there is any way
to combine the competitive, atomized, speculative
subjectivity of the artist (or at least the subjectivity
the artist is socialized to have) with revolutionary
or even just practical labor politics. In my book,
Speculation as a Mode of Production, I suggest that
labor is the negativity within speculation. Speculation
here is understood in relation to philosophical idealism,
and what I do is introduce a dialectical approach to
that idealism wherein its negativity gains material
implications as struggle “within” the heteronomy of
class existence. Speculation is now given a position as
the negativity within labor, emptying the moral claims
of labor as “the source of value,” which labor power
factually is for capital, and displacing labor from its
use in the reproduction of the capital relation to its
other pole: antagonism to that relation. While this can
130
generate a classic autonomist move, which is strongly
resistant to the social form of capital as determining,
proposing rather the idea of the independent agency
(or the “self-valorization”) of labor, which sees capital
as a sort of late coming, parasitic entity (as in Mario
Tronti’s account of the primacy of class struggle, with
capital always trying to catch up to the activity of
the working class), my focus is rather on the relation-
ality of the value relation, how labor forms a negativ-
ity within the class relation rather than an affirmative
pole beyond it. Thus, I would suggest that the
anomalousness represented by artistic labor, as with
all so-called forms of exceptionality, can help unpick
the centrality and seeming naturalness of wage labor
as a political norm or aspiration. But unlike how, for
example, Wages for Housework used domestic labor,
at least initially, in their program of both affirming
and negating the wage labor relation, we need to see
how artistic labor, as distinct from all other forms of
labor, also has a propensity to reaction, which is very
specific to it insofar as its very criticality of capitalist
social forms relies on its separation from any material
route of transforming them. The ideology of art’s
autonomy has thus to be approached as a completely
material and structural force, as with ideology in
general.

131
Preface
to Edward
Abramowski's
Stateless
Socialism

132
“Stateless Socialism” appeared in 1904 as a chapter in
Socialism and the State. In this extensive work, Edward
Abramowski (1858–1918), who was a member of several
Polish socialist parties (the Second Proletariat, the
Workers’ Union) and later one of the founding fathers
of the Polish Socialist Party, summarized his critical
theses on the socialism of the Second International.
Abramowski was at the time already developing his
own sociological and psychological concepts. Later,
he would become one of the most important pioneers
of experimental psychology in Poland. The impact of
his scientific concepts, presented in the book, on the
critique of socialism can hardly be overestimated.
Although Abramowski had used similar arguments
in his earlier texts, such as Ethics and Revolution
(1897) or Issues of Socialism (1899), in this work his
criticism of the mainstream socialist movement was
clearly sharpened. Within the ideology of reformism,
which focused on a “minimum program” of immediately
implementable postulates concerning, for instance,
social legislation or political democratization, he saw
an abandonment of the ideal of a total transformation
of the social system, which was instead postponed to
an indefinite future. He identified so-called “Blanquist”
tendencies (named after the nineteenth century
French revolutionary socialist Louis Auguste Blanqui)
with the imperative to take over the state and build
communism through violent revolution, and he feared
that the bloody consequences would lead to the
emergence of a new party tyranny.

These trends were described by Abramowski as “state

socialism.” In the case of both reformism and Blan-
quism (which can be understood as the harbingers of
the two most important currents in twentieth century
workers’ movements, social democracy and Soviet

133
 communism), systemic changes were to be made from
the top down as a result of state intervention. As
history has shown, many of Abramowski’s predictions
have more than proven true – the social democratic
parties of Western Europe and the Bolshevik revolu-
tion in the East became the foundation of top-down
reforms and modernization programs, but never led to
the emancipation of the working class or to cement-
ing the link between the mass workers’ social parties
and state structures.

From the perspective of turn-of-the-century socialist

politics, the state had grown to the rank of a
metaphysical and political necessity, as an instance
constituting the ultimate expression of the human
spirit and the final form of society’s organization. For
Abramowski, socialist politics that focused solely on
the institution of the state was only a kind of “intel-
lectualism” reflecting the reality not of the popular
classes but of the ambitions of party ideologues,
who wanted power and imposed present structures
of thinking; expressing their own social condition, on
projections of the future world.

The fact that the liberation of the proletariat

requires a transformation of social relations
does not mean that it requires a new state;
social relations are also conceivable as
stateless organizations, and are not only
conceivable but even exist and have always
existed as such in various human associations.1

Abramowski considered the idea that the state was

necessary for social life – and in this sense also for
1 E. Abramowski, “Socjalizm a państwo. Przyczynek do krytyki
współczesnego socjalizmu” in E. Abramowski. Filozofia społeczna:
Wybór pism, PWN: 1965 [1904]. 220.
134
socialist politics – to be a different version of the
dogma about the immutability of human nature, which
derives from the essentialist-theological form of
European thought. 2

Abramowski did not see social transformation as a

process that must lead through political violence
toward a new state. Although for him, revolution
was a process of the complete transformation of
the social world, he believed that it was essentially
a process of experimenting with various forms of
self-improvement and self-government, which in the
long term would result in large-scale social change.
Therefore, Abramowski planned for the reconstruction
of society “from the bottom up,” through the activity
of the association movement, which would not need
any external instances – the state or market – in
order to organize complex social relations. Abramowski
regarded the state as a sui generis type of political
organization, appropriate to earlier levels of civiliza-
tional development and thus historically particular
and geographically local. The domination of this
organizational form in capitalist societies should not
necessarily lead one to the conclusion that it was the
end point of civilizational evolution.

In the emerging mass society, Abramowski found

quite the opposite tendency – a powerful current of
grassroots association. That current was an expres-
sion of the tendency to association, which charac-
terizes the human race, not because of the specific
properties of its nature but because of the condition
of human beings in the material world. Using language
developed by David Graeber, we could speak of a kind
of “baseline communism,” which is the “foundation of

2 Ibid., 225.
135
 all human sociability,” and “makes society possible” as
such.3 Thus, Abramowski wanted to imagine popular
institutions as institutions of “pure socialization,”
corresponding to the increasingly diversified industrial
society of the late nineteenth century.

Thus, there is the potential for the historical trans-

formation of society by a different way than through
nationalization – transformation through free asso-
ciations that arise automatically out of the needs of
life’s struggle, and whose outstanding feature is that
they settle matters of life independently of theory
and without any general hypothesis. However, this
possibility and this development tendency seem to
be completely forgotten by the politics of socialism,
which presents the issue of revolution as if there
were no other forces outside the state transforming
society and no other path of liberation except
through legislative reforms.4

Therefore, according to Abramowski, only if socialist

thought goes beyond the category of the state will it
be possible to avoid “scientific substantialism” on the
one hand, and on the other, political “totalism,” which
places political emancipation on the altar of short
term strategies – reformist or revolutionary. The ideal
Abramowski champions is not an overriding thought or
logic of history. It depends neither on the state, nor
on the church, nor on capital. The ideal does not have
a single form – it is “historically changeable,” although
in each era it is a universal imperative governing social
development. It is the “conditions for the possibility”
of emancipation, and therefore of reinventing life.

3 David Graeber, Debt: the First 5,000 Years, Melville House: 2011. 220.
4 E. Abramowski, “Socjalizm a państwo”. 237.
136
 Stateless socialism does not require any
philosophical thesis as the starting point for
its politics. […] This is because politics itself
specifies the future as a matter of contem-
porary life, as an everyday transformation
of people and relations. From the moment
that people come together to fight for a new
ideal, to fulfill their need for collective life, the
new fact disrupts social causality, working to
change the previous direction of development.5

This is why Abramowski perceives socialism not

as ideals that stride through history to ultimately
achieve fulfillment in an imagined future society, but
as a social praxis, as the element of possible change
present in interpersonal relations. Socialism does not
therefore constitute only theory and doctrine, but
above all – and this is primary in relation to all social
formations – the self-immanent socialization of man,
who changes the world by changing his conditions of
existence.

Crucially for Abramowski, this moment of social praxis

ought to be equated with an ethical operation; the
human, understood as a creative being, is above all a
moral subject, one that constructs values in relation
to the world. Transformation of the social formation
thus constitutes nothing other than a change in the
subject’s perception of itself: apperception as the
ethical revolution. In Issues of Socialism Abramowski
wrote that “Socialism, however, as a political party,
considers it necessary to acquire new forms of life,
even though these forms determine themselves
elementally; . . . socialism can impose obligations,

5 E. Abramowski, “Stateless Socialism,” Praktyka Teoretyczna 1 (27)

2018 [1904]. 35.
137
 transform the phenomena of collective consciousness
into ethical categories.”6 For the same reason, human
transformation is governed by the logic of revolution,
that is, by a re-evaluation that no longer allows us to
look at the present in the previous categories.
This identification of that which is active with ethics
leads Abramowski to formulate an original conception
of revolutionary practice which, in this context,
becomes change of an ethical character. After all,
as he puts it, “only that which passes as an idea
through the consciousness of the masses becomes
an historical fact, the reality of life in society.”7 If, as
Abramowski claims, the human consciousness is a
genetic factor of the social world, the active and, in
this sense, performative part of the self, then all social
change begins with the individual and is, in a certain
sense, a cognitive process involving the self.

Like capitalism, socialism exists primarily as a “mental

fact” and therefore it is change within the culture of
work itself that is crucial to transformation. Stateless
socialism does not try to civilize proletarians by
means of state education, law, or party discipline.
It instead attempts to enable individuals to develop
harmoniously by co-creating the conditions for their
own existence.

Communes and cooperatives are designed to operate

in a way that does not restrict human creativity; on
the contrary, their task is to create an appropriate
environment for experimentation with social relations,
including various forms of self government, mutual

6 E. Abramowski, “Zagadnienia socjalizmu” in E. Abramowski, Filozofia

społeczna: Wybór Filozofia Społeczna: Wybór Pism, PWN: 1965
[1899], 71.
7 Ibid., 147.
138
aid, democratic education and the role of women in
organizing an association. The issue of empowerment
is a crucial point in Abramowski’s concept of socialism.
Becoming a subject is always a political process that
takes place within an association.

Abramowski’s associative (or stateless) socialism is

a counterbalance to versions of socialist ideology
based on pure collectivism on the one hand, and on
parliamentary reformism on the other, and on belief in
overriding political categories such as class and state.
The former category, treated as the mediated identity
of grouped individuals, is exclusively an abstract
concept that is used to maintain the leading role of
workers’ parties. The state, as the prize of the class
struggle and the means by which the working class is
to end it, represents for Abramowski an incarnation
of the worst kind of transcendence – an involuntary
apparatus of forced cooperation.

[I]n the emancipation movement of the masses

of the people today, and even in socialism, two
factors, two methods, two policies which are
fundamentally different coexist side by side as
a social fact – state-related and stateless: the
first is contained in the party’s programs and
viewed in terms of the ideology, the second
manifests itself in spontaneous movements
of voluntary association, unrestrained by any
ideology and not yet aware of its existence as
a political revolutionary force.8

The task of socialism, as he understood it, is in fact

to transform the consciousness of social actors
in such a way that they develop their individual

8 E. Abramowski, 1965, op. cit., 236–237.

139
 strengths within an immanent, nonhierarchical, and
voluntary community which strengthens them; it is
not to provide a transcendent disciplinary structure
for which the lives of individuals are important only in
so far as they reproduce and maintain that structure.
From this perspective, the transformation of an
individual’s conscience seems to be at the same time
the starting point, because conscience is first of all
social, and also the arrival point of all emancipation.
Changing the rules of the formation is de facto a
change of the subject’s perspective on those rules.
“Only such free ferment coming from below, from the
widest possible masses of people, from the depths
of various individualities, can develop this new world
of future communist democracy, which no legislation,
no socialist parliament can define or predict in
advance.”9 Workers’ institutions are to lead to changes
in conscience: transformations, not so much in some
specific content but, in the very form of the deepest
layers – as Abramowski calls them – of fraternity, and
of the rules of social life.

9 Ibid., 254.
140
141
Edward
Abramowski
Stateless
Socialism
Translated by: Wojciech

Translation revised by: Steven

142
143
 Stateless socialism does not require any philosophical
thesis as the starting point for its politics. The state
may be treated as always and ever necessary, in
line with an interpretation of individual rights as an
economically independent form that always demands
some kind of organized repression. Or it can be seen
as a historical and transitional form that disappears
along with changes in the means of production. Such
issues are very interesting for sociologists. They
open an extensive field for various hypotheses and
theories, even for romantic writers like Bellamy and
Morris. However, these issues cannot serve as a
backdrop for politics. Politics cannot depend on any
thesis or scientific theory attempting to foresee the
social future. This is because politics itself specifies
the future as a matter of contemporary life, as an
everyday transformation of people and relations.
From the moment that people come together to fight
for a new ideal, to fulfill their need for collective life,
the new fact disrupts social causality, working to
change the previous direction of development. This is
something that the history of the future must take
into account, even with the most precise theoretical
predictions. Therefore, it is not politics that has to
adhere to theory, but, to the contrary, the theories
of sociologists that have to adhere to politics,
consider its forces and developmental tendencies, the
relationship between aims and other conditions, and,
in accordance with these factors, it has to specify
what kind of future awaits the life of societies.

If social movements were to follow the lead of science

and only spoke out in accordance with commonly
accepted theories, then no social movements would
exist, nor would there be any social theories about
social life. Politics, strictly following the results of

144
knowledge, would be forced to step back from creat-
ing any novelty, since the latter hadn’t been predicted
by and included in extant theories; it would have to
castrate life from anything that had no proper place
in the systems created by philosophers, or that stood
in contradiction to their proven theses. As regards
sociological science, while it may exert an influence
on the minds of politicians and agitators, we cannot
omit the fact that its experimental field is nothing if
not politics and social movements. It is unable to be
replaced; the truth or falsity of theoretical presump-
tions and deductions can only be determined when
the history of the social movement, borne of this or
that presumption, or realized within a specific set of
conditions and social forces, has become the witness.
The history of political parties plays the undisputable
role of the sociological laboratory, in the broadest
meaning of this word, and one could confidently think
that if politics adhered to scientific theories, that
means, if history was formed by itself in the offices of
scientists, then we would run out of all of material and
criteria of truth for the sociological science itself.

Fortunately, or not, things work in a completely

different way. A nascent social movement usually has
an exact purpose that, from a contemporary scientific
point of view, is an absurdity. That is how the revolts
of rural communities and peasant uprisings in medieval
times were seen form the viewpoint of the theories
of medieval lawyers. These latter uprisings aimed to
reintroduce the roots of civil and public right through
a complete reorganization both of feudal relations and
of contemporary juridical and social theories. For the
science of the economists, the class struggle of the
proletariat was also absurd, since it desired to change
things viewed as immutable “laws of nature” — or at

145
 least until philosophers such as Marx and Lassalle
appeared. Under the pressure of this struggle, they
were able to see hidden economic contradictions and
form some initial points of development of the new
system of social forces. Of course, if the politics of
the working classes had been meant to adhere to
contemporary scientific conclusions, the concept of
social antagonisms would not have seen the light of
day. Neither would the struggle have come to express
the specific interests of the proletariat, or even
grasp the existence of class struggle and the need
to change “capitalist laws.” This possibility could have
created a situation in which we would neither have a
theory of socialism nor scientific theories that cohere
with socialist movements and scientifically develop its
existence and tendencies.

Thus, one of the most invalid arguments is that

any newly created social movement should seek its
justification in sociological theories and validate its
existence before contemporary knowledge and, under
threat of disappearing, try to change its nature
in order to make itself totally consistent with the
conclusions and theories of this knowledge. Only
proposals for social reform or political programs, born
in the minds of professors or officials and copied from
prepared models, are forced to legitimize themselves
in this way. On the other hand, in the face of the
social movement, which appears as a natural matter
of certain issues of life, the attitude of science is
directly opposite; rather, it (science) should justify
itself before a new social fact, and in fact, sooner or
later, it is always forced to adapt its theories to the

146
existence of that fact and to recall all those concepts
which have turned out to be inconsistent with it.
Understanding this relationship properly, it becomes
clear why stateless socialism can treat with complete
disregard the theoretical question as to whether the
future of societies will necessitate the state form,
or, on the contrary, will it create the possibility of
getting rid of this necessity. The future and direction
of historical development depends largely on the
way the social movement realizes itself and it is the
social movement alone that resolves the theoretical
issues and dictates the principles to be used by
future sociologists, principles that are to serve as the
cornerstone of their theories on the state.

What will remain of political programming after the

removal of all theory that predicts the social future
and imposes patterns of reasoning on it? What will
remain of the socialist program after we reject both
the hypothesis about the state’s indispensability and
the opposing theory of statelessness? What remains
is the only real starting point of socialist ideology,
namely the fact of class struggle. As a specific
conflict between human needs and the conditions of
life, this reality exists independently of all theories
and serves as a starting point for socialism and its
politics. It was on the basis of the theory of class
struggle that socialist theory and its politics could
begin. By accepting the hypothesis of the state, and
by thinking about its social tasks in deductive fashion,
previous socialist politics freely limited both the nature
and the innate tendencies of this real fact, with a view
to bringing the development of class struggle to an
effort of state transformation. And politics, rejecting
any doctrine of the future, has to accept the fact
of struggle and, without any theoretical restrictions,

147
 take it as the basis for a self-generating source of
continuous revolution. After that it will grasp the ways
of practice and define the aim on this basis alone.
Naturalists do not start their surveys by choosing a
general, reasoned postulate, but by providing a simple
description of a given phenomenon, such that the goal
of an experiment is introduced by the phenomenon’s
natural characteristics. A politics that is to guide
life issues should employ the same methods — its
guidelines must be found not in a doctrine but in the
fact of class struggle itself.

Examined independently of other theories, the fact

of class struggle contains a huge variety of different
life issues and tendencies to reconfigure both the
individual, as well as all social life. Class struggle is a
fire, the source of incessant series of social trans-
figurations. Under its pressure old theses and moral
habits slowly die off, whole systems of human thought
fall apart, and previous institutions of collective life
disappear, while new institutions and ideologies are
born. Wherever class struggle is more accented, richer,
more common, the development of the society takes
place faster and the differentiation of economic and
mental life appears greater. Wherever class struggle
is less developed, we can see social and civilizational
stagnation, lazy movement of thought and life. The
secret of this subversive and productive power, a
component of class struggle, relies on the fact that
it affects human minds by providing them with new
needs, which are the essence of social phenomena
and a bridge between inner life and socio-material
life. The effect of this power is twofold. On the one
hand, it reconfigures the moral and intellectual nature
of individuals by adapting spiritual systems and,
on the other, it naturally aims to realize itself by

148
creating popular gatherings. These gatherings later on
transform themselves into new institutions and, due
to this, they change an individual’s conditions of life.
So here the unbroken nexuses of mutual interactions,
individual, social, moral and collective configurations
take place. These nexuses make for a situation in
which society cannot be considered as a stable and
finite being, but as a continuous process of becoming
that connects, by imperceptible changes, basically
conflicting types of collective human life and the
corresponding types of people’s morality.

Now, let us take a closer look at those unprompted

transfigurations, both individual and social, which
develop themselves due to the chief conflict in the
history of modern nations – the struggle between the
proletariat and the bourgeoisie.

At the very beginning of this conflict, a new moral

characteristic shows up – the solidarity of workers,
which initially takes the form of a simple mutual
aid and aims at defending the common interest. It
manifests itself in spontaneous associations, strikes,
which break out when exploitation becomes too
burdensome. Over time, the struggle transmutes into
permanent, stable associations, into workers’ unions
that strive to curb exploitation. They turn out to
create true comradeship, full of disinterested help for
the disadvantaged. Because of the need for struggle,
new institutions engender, fully changing the charac-
ter of capitalistic economy in their basics, the wage
labor. The typical hireling, who sells his labor power
individually, by the authority of a free contract and
the price that states the ratio of supply and demand,
becomes outmoded in countries that have reached
a developed stage of class struggle. Trade unions

149
 come out as a new factor, regulating labor market and
creating new norms of working conditions, on which
wage labor can exist. They oppose the monopoly
of workforce to the monopoly of the means of life,
resulting in weakening the latter. A whole number of
practices and institutions were shaped of their own
accord due to the struggle, which serves those trade
unions. This can be clearly seen in the example of
English unions. At first, the labor offices of workers’
organizations concentrate in their hands statistics
and the workforce market. In order to remove damag-
ing competition between those who look for earning
and shelter and to prevent the workers from selling
their labor power under the threat of starvation,
unions keep special-aid funds for currently unem-
ployed people. In the process of hiring a workforce,
the new institution of collective settlement is set up
and it changes the outgoing character of hired labor
entirely. The wage contract is not concluded between
manufacturer and worker, but between manufacturer
and trade union, with its representatives. Trade unions
try to keep working conditions at a decent level and
limit exploitation. Up to three collective settlements
are often there to secure the worker’s work condi-
tions. The first is one concluded between the central
and nationwide management of the trade union and
the general union of manufacturers. This settlement
determines general conditions of hiring and regulates
them equally for the whole country – minimum wage,
work time. The second settlement is one concluded
between the local committee of the trade union and
the local committee of the trade union and local
committee of manufacturers. This one discusses the
more specific working conditions. The third is one
concluded between the trade union of the exact
company and the manufacturer. These settlements

150
cannot be inconsistent with one another. Even
workers who do not belong to the trade union have
to sign up to the collective settlement and approve
only those working conditions that are described in
this settlement. At the same time, trade unions force
manufacturers not to accept those workers who do
not belong to a trade union or break the rules of
hiring. This is strictly supervised by delegates who
visit and look over the workshops and mines. In cases
of a breach of contract, the manufacturer is remem-
bered, listed and watched and sooner or later he will
be punished by a boycott. Some institutions, such as
“mediation courts,” exist that include representatives
of both workers and manufacturers, that clarify
those disputed points of the settlement. Besides
standardizing the norms of wages and working hours,
a collective settlement tries to regulate the sanitary
conditions and protect workers from the risk of being
fired. Entrepreneurs cannot fire a trade union member
without an important reason, one that has to be
approved by the trade union itself.

Thus, working class achievements become universally

applied law, albeit the state police are not involved.
Individual workers with all the characteristics of a
hireling, forced to accept exploitation due to poverty,
step aside to make way for a more powerful orga-
nization that consciously aims to curb exploitation.
The more gathered the workforce is throughout the
country, the more effective it becomes. Let’s assume
that this organization gathers the entire working
class in its ranks and by collective settlements it tries
to win more and more of the proletariat-articulated
demands and to extend its watch over the process
of production. In this case, capitalist monopoly and
contract labor become completely worthless. The

151
 privileges associated with private property and
organizational capabilities would be turned into merely
meaningless titles. Real power would be executed by
the organized proletariat.

New forms of struggle present major developments

in forging new relations between social forces. By
using boycotts – this new form of proletarian-created
revolution with “crossed arms” – trade unions can
put constant pressure on the development of
present social life, applying this pressure not only
to economic matters, but also to political and moral
ones. What often happens is that when trade unions
are in conflict with a capitalist, the entire organization
of workers does not need to be summoned, but,
using their monopoly on labor power, they just go
on partial strike. They summon the workers to stop
work and simultaneously prevent any replacement of
this labor power from taking place. For a trade union,
the costs are often small, but a capitalist finds them
sufficient motivation to give up. All personal issues,
injuries, abuses, exploitation, expulsions, and also
the limiting of workers’ political freedom, find their
resolutions in an organized resolve to boycott, even
if oppressed people are unable to directly lead the
struggle themselves. The history of strikes increas-
ingly shows us a type of class struggle that is based
not on carrying out individual interests, but that is
done for the common justice of others. The boycott
comes to replace the state courts, police or legal
supervision. Its new form is being developed now in
United States – the leagues of consumers, which start
by informing clients about conditions of production
of each product. They also boycott the company that
owns the factory in which exploitation is excessive, or
in which worker demands are not taken into account,

152
or some other mishaps occur. The agitation under-
taken by the consumer association has the effect
of reducing the number of products of this or that
company, narrowing the groups of people who buy
from it. Faced with this situation, the company enters
a peculiar fight. Its opponents, by forcing it to respect
the demands and interests of the working class,
are not the workers as producers. Its opponents
are an unnamed and undefined mass of proletarians
as consumers and people from all sorts of social
strata able to sympathize with a given fight slogan.
The market becomes smaller, not due to economic
factors, but because of being under the influence of
a previously unknown power, which emerges only in
order to stamp out injustice. The entrepreneur is not
attacked at the site of production, but at the site of
selling the goods. And this can result in even worse
outcomes than a tidal break in production would. If
the manufacturer wants to avoid such moral punish-
ment, which totally hits profit margins, the demands
of public opinion must be adhered to. The same action
of defending working people against exploitation can
be carried out by stable associations of consumers –
cooperatives – with an even better outcome, as they
control a wider part of the market. Often at issue are
not only finished products, but also the market of
raw materials. In the interests of the workers fighting
alongside them, these associations are able to
permanently push and influence entrepreneurs.

Consumer cooperatives emerge from class struggle

as a separate kind of institution. As every person is a
consumer, these cooperatives do not bear the mark
of a specific economic class (as trade unions, for
example, do). However, the economic character and
factors that give rise to their creation often make

153
 them very proletarian in their personal composition
and in the tendencies they manifest. They are usually
formed by a group of workers that is looking for
practical means to improve their living conditions
and culture. This group desires to gain some sort
of economic independence, to establish some kind
of protection against the insecurity of being hired
workers, i.e. those who are dependent on crises and
market liquidity and are unable to save money. Some-
times these associations form out of strikes, as a way
to counter shopkeepers’ refusal of credit. Rooted in
these common, daily-life issues, a new slogan emerges
of “saving through spending” and of disengaging from
the broking of shopkeepers by cooperatively buying
directly from the producer. This way of organizing in
itself excludes the petit bourgeoisie from belonging
to consumer cooperatives. The petit bourgeoisie gets
its money from small trade and is thereby forced to
maintain a class position that is hostile and adversarial
towards the cooperative. Neither can the haute
bourgeoisie and the bunch of scammers gathered
around them find their interest in joining a consumer’s
cooperative, which, because of the democratic spirit
it contains, makes gathering all stock in one hand
impossible, but also because its economic and cultural
aims can be of interest only to the working class.

For all these reasons, the consumer cooperative,

while seeming to be a trans-class institution, is
essentially an institution of the working class. Its
specific, proletarian character is clearly notable
in its further unprompted development and in the
revolutionary tendencies that it manifests. The
primary rule of the cooperative is extremely simple. A
certain type of joint-stock association is established,
though it differs significantly from the capitalist

154
one. Concentrating shares in one hand is forbidden.
Every single participant is permitted to own a single
share or the same amount of shares. The value of
this share is determined by the purchasing power of
the typical worker so that it can be bought without
doing harm to the household budget. It can also be
partly discharged and repaid. With capital raised, the
association gains the ability to buy good at wholesale
prices and sell them to participants at higher retail
prices. In this way, the trading profit is generated
and shared between members. The method is one of
“saving by spending.” The more one consumes, the
bigger the profit. The consumer gathers this surplus,
which is nothing more than the capitalist’s income.
That’s why all the negative aspects of broking, such
as largely falsified goods and artificially generated
high costs, are negated. In addition, the association
that owns a private grocery warehouse frees the
worker from store debts and the truck system.

At this first stage, the cooperative is basically akin

to a common warehouse operation, but here some
revolutionary tendencies also become visible. First,
the workers start to take control of the retail market
as an association, acting consciously and according
to a plan; an association that, taking into account its
further development, may become a great weapon
for boycotting industrialists. Secondly, they learn
about both collective and individual economics. They
learn about the complex mechanics of the vast
present-day global economy, acquiring knowledge
that is indispensable in the process of creating an
industrial democracy able to replace capitalists as
the organizers of labor and production. Next, they
are emancipated from the tradesmen and, due to this
and the level of agricultural technology, merchants

155
 appear as an already defunct class who will be
gradually eliminated through this process. As the
consumer associations develop, changes that could
not take place without undermining the essential ideas
of capitalism appear possible. Finally, owing to the
selection and affordability of goods and the process
of “saving by spending,” worker’s living standards rise.
Swiss cooperatives, for example, have by and large
consciously set themselves the following goals:

1. Allow workers to buy good quality but cheaper

basic necessities and, thereby, bring about an
improvement in their standard of living, even if
they continue to earn the same amount of money.

2. Habituate workers to using cash in order to

emancipate them from debt and credit. This will
allow them to win greater independence and teach
them how to rationally budget for the future.

3. Widen the area in which one can take up actions.

Teach workers about the administration and
management of economic matters.

However, the cooperative’s development cannot stop

there for long. The tendency for the merchant class
to be eradicated clearly follows the economic nature
of the cooperative, and it creates the basics of a
planned, consciously regulated market that super-
sedes the chaotic and blind capitalist one, which itself
produces manifold crises and standstills. Assuming
that the cooperatives progress only until they
take over the retail market (providing that the retail
market complies with the basic necessities of the
proletariat and current data show that cooperatives

156
are developing in this direction) we have to ask - what
impact would it have on the capitalist economy?

Capitalist enterprises would be made totally depen-

dent on the organized market, which itself would be
consciously led by proletarian democratic associa-
tions. This exact market would impose its requirements
and both qualitative and quantitative requisitions
on the enterprises. Production then would have to
strictly adjust to the sizes of the wholesale directives
set by the cooperatives. These directives would then
match consumers’ actual needs, leading to a reduced
risk of possible financial crisis and capacity to flood
the market with redundant products. We would thus
end up with the same result as that of state collec-
tivism. Organized, scheduled, adjusted production.
Apart from this, other important results, ones crucial
to class struggle, that would curb the monopolies
of capitalists can easily be foreseen. With a decline
in the possibility of crisis and industrial standstills,
workers come away with more autonomy to fight for
more and cement their gains. Industrial crisis is the
important factor, as it greatly inhibits the current
struggle against industrialists and forces a return
towards the state in order to gain factory lawmaking.
The workforce being expelled from time to time and
the industrialist’s liberty to lower production in a
timely fashion in order to endure the standstill often
prevents the strikes. This, then, gives the industrialist
the upper hand, allowing him even to defeat previous
workers gains. So, with these conditions in mind, the
only safeguard can involve providing an executory,
legal, state validity to workers’ conquests. This is
precisely why trade unions come to be more tied to
state policy. This development is behind the popularity
of the slogan “without a state there is no salvation.”

157
 As we can see, cooperatives may furnish another
solution, organized by workers’ associations who
take control over the market. The importance of this
struggle against exploitation is twofold. Not only is
it able to become a bulwark against crisis, allowing
workers to develop unfettered actions, but, as
aforementioned, it also creates a new weapon in the
class struggle – consumer boycotts, available to the
proletariat not as united workers, but as associated
consumers. Indeed, cooperatives that manage a
huge market for consumer goods are able to make a
difference from time to time in the struggle between
industrialists and workers by simply refusing to buy
the products of any exploitative and power-abusing
company.

Those hidden or partly conscious concerns push

cooperatives forward. A generic, commonly known
incentive – getting a larger dividend from a grocery
warehouse – transforms (in the proletarian environ-
ment) into something completely different, something
that goes beyond the cooperative’s initial mission.
To increase their income, the cooperatives have to
expand their business activities, and to expand their
activities they have to expand their trading capital
and centralize their markets. That’s why, on the one
hand, the broadest mass of people possible are
encouraged to join the cooperative by setting the
minimum share as low as possible and by providing an
option to pay it gradually and thus to limit the share
rate. From this, as in Belgian cooperatives, income
is not divided between participants, but gathered
as a collective capital and withdrawn in the form of
vouchers. On the other hand, cooperatives aim to
create a federation. They associate in one, overar-
ching association with a joint central management

158
and periodical representative conventions. This type
of organization can conduct and lead large economic
operations. It has enough power to buy from the
manufacturers themselves, transport materials on
its own and, thereby, it is able to increase its income
even further. A federation of cooperatives is able
to win not only profits from groceries, but also the
profit of mass trade. In this regard, by owning a
huge retail market and capital, the federation can
make a step forward. Just as in the beginning it
aspired, owing to its economic nature, to collect
the profit of merchants, now, as master of both the
market and capital, it aspires to gain the profits of
businessmen – to become an individual, independent,
and self-sufficient economic organism. An organism
that produces on its own and consumes on its own,
the cooperative becomes consuming-producing.
The struggle between cooperatives and merchants
(sometimes including the producers, as occurred on
a large scale in Scotland in 1896) may only serve as
an incentive to this change. However, this incentive
is occasional, incidental, and only accelerates the
realization of the natural and stable tendency, that
must appear in associations which administrate the
collective capital and the regulated market. Even and
especially the most important product for the lives of
the working masses – bread – cannot be emancipated
other than by creating cooperative bakeries.

The tendency of workers’ cooperatives to transform

into a self-reliant and self-sufficient economic system
is explicitly present today in the English and Belgian
cooperatives. Large English and Scottish “cooperative
warehouses” (English Wholesale Cooperative Society
and Scottish Cooperative Wholesale), federations,
encompassing over two thousand consumers’

159
 associations and one and 1.5 million member-fam-
ilies, not only own a system of small stores and
information offices for smaller groups scattered
across England, Europe, and America, but also run
an extensive production. These federations own and
run huge arable farms on which they produce wheat,
vegetables, fruit, meat, poultry and dairy. In addition,
they own factories that produce candies, preserves,
footwear, soap, textiles, lingerie, clothes, furniture,
pottery and other goods. The development and
viability of the English cooperative’s production can
be described by comparing two figures that express
the difference in this production’s worth within a span
of three years (quoting Bernstein): in 1894 it amounted
to 4,850,000 pounds sterling and in 1897, to 9,350,000
pounds sterling. Two-thirds of this production came
from consumer associations, the rest from producing
associations. The reason for this development is
the ensured, constantly expanding market inside
the cooperatives, as well as inside the great capital
administrated by the federation. This capital makes
it possible to improve the technologies used in
production. Cooperative factories are designed in
accordance with all the sanitary rules; the workers’
salary is governed by the highest norm the trade
union has set for each kind of job; the number of
working hours is lower than usual for the same job in
the same city - in some workshops it totals only eight
hours. When it comes to working conditions, cooper-
atives maintain a clear advantage over the capitalist
workshop. They have already resolved all concerns
regarding sanitation and consumption that the
proletariat is still striving to find solution for by legal
means. Bakeries provide a clear example of this. Seldom
has any industry developed as complex a set of state
laws and regulations as the English baking industry.

160
Even despite the law attempting to provide cheap
and healthy bread, the weight and quality of the
bread continued to be falsified. In England, between
1878 and 1995, the full set of regulations (Factory and
Workshops Act) obliging local authorities to regulate
sanitary conditions in bakeries were observable.
In actual fact, however, these conditions did not
improve at all; however, the cooperative bakeries
stand out here, with their perfect machines and ideal
sanitary conditions. The work itself, whether moving
the sacks or mixing the dough, is mostly mechanized.
The workers have access to their own kitchens and
dining rooms, bathrooms and restrooms, while in most
private bakeries they eat even in the bakery itself. The
salaries are also higher thanks to the trade unions.
The weekly amount of hours worked is fifty-one, while
in private bakeries it ranges from seventy to eighty.1

Let’s look more closely at the most interesting issue

and find out who the owner of this production is, who
gains the profit and who rules it all? The co-owners of
the business are shareholders. The shareholders are
the consumers’ associations and trade unions – they
are the beneficiaries. This means that each and every
worker of the cooperative workshop, after becoming
a member of the consumers’ association, becomes
an equal co-owner of the workshop and participates
in the general profit. The same is true of trade union
membership, which acquires its own stocks in coop-
erative workshops. Apart from this, some dividends
are still offered to workers independently of their
affiliation to any union or association, but there
is no general rule on this score. English Wholesale
does not allow workers to share the profit if they

1 F.R. Rockell “Les Boulangeries Cooperatives en Angleterre,” Rev.

d’Econ. Pol : 1899.
161
 do not belong to an organization, whereas many of
the Scottish cooperatives, and even wholesalers, in
Glasgow do. In the first half of 1896, the cooperative
factory in Kettering paid forty percent of its dividend
to the workers. In 1891, a cooperative bakery in
Glasgow issued “vouchers” that served as a special
fund and allowed the bakery’s workers to buy shares
in the cooperative.

This way of governing the cooperative evolved under

the influence of two kinds of practical needs. On one
hand, the autonomy of associations had to be linked
up with united common action so that the system of
federations could lead this huge economic organism.
On the other, the administration had to be provided
with the proficiency, elasticity and ability to perform
actions, as the indispensable condition for such a
developed and complex workshop as the cooperative.
At the same time, the administration had to be put
under the control and general leadership of the whole
members’ association as the only owner and governor.
For these reasons, in cooperatives a democratic
formation or federal republic exists, with its represen-
tatives and parliament. And, interestingly, after many
long years of fluctuation and conflict, the same kind
of formation also developed within the trade unions.
The federation’s main matters are directed by the
representative delegates’ meetings. Each consumer’s
association may send one delegate for every five
hundred members (as with the English federation) or
in accordance with the purchases it makes (as in the
Scottish federation). This chosen delegate represents
the associations in general and in specialized meet-
ings has a voice in directing and setting the main
issues. The appointment and selection of officials
to the central and local committees is carried out

162
through a voting system whereby ballot papers are
sent to each association to be filled in. The federal
committee issues a paper and a monthly report, in
which it informs the other members in detail of the
needs and issues of managing the cooperatives. In
some of the cooperative businesses, such as the
bakery in Glasgow, the workers send their special
representatives (one for every twelve people) to
conduct debates in their name. The general feature of
the cooperative administration can be described as a
democracy that involves the working class’s participa-
tion and leadership on various economic issues, which,
thanks to the federal system, also provides a simple
way of adapting those issues to the concerns of each
group.

This form of democratic republic also allowed cooper-

atives to develop into clearly proletarian institutions
and take spirited action in both the moral and mental
emancipation of workers including their struggle with
industrialists. Most characteristic is the way that the
cooperatives spent their income. Examining this allows
us to fully observe the social source of this income. In
capitalist or petty bourgeois stock companies, profit
goes directly to shareholders or becomes a flashpoint
for some future financial affair. Here though, what
is brought to the forefront are the common goals
of protecting living conditions and mutual help in
reaching higher culture and levels of emancipation.
The contract worker does not display any kind of
“devotion” or “inborn idealism,” but instead the natural
need to widen one’s strength and horizons. The
inability to do such in any other way rather than by
organizing is the main attribute of the proletariat.
This is why the consuming-producing organism of the
cooperative becomes the nucleus for all constantly

163
 growing working-class institutions that aim to satisfy
moral and intellectual needs, defend individuals and
shelter their existence. Such could not be achieved
with the one hundred franc income usually offered to
cooperative members. We can also observe libraries,
museums, schools and parks being created alongside
the British and Belgian cooperatives. We can also
observe the process of shaping individual educational
institutions responsible for educating children and
youths in the spirit of a new society, one based on
commonality. To this end, some political institutions
were created to protect and defend the cooperative’s
interests within labor organizations. Moreover, there
are loan facilities (the cooperative does not allow
goods to be bought on account, but those strapped
for cash can get an interest-free loan), unemployment
benefits (protecting the unemployed from economic
constraint), health care (including free medical care)
and other measures designed for both those in old
age and children. Independently, cases are known
of cooperatives financially supporting strikes, such
as the English Wholesale that provided 125 thousand
francs to help maintain the Yorkshire miners’ strike, or
the Leeds cooperative, which also supported miners’
strikes.

The cooperative’s struggle, taken up to embrace all

human needs, this strange, inner vitality, which trans-
forms the small group of workers, itself held together
by the modest slogan of “saving through spending,”
in fact gradually transforms the whole social world.
This can be exemplified by the famous Vooruit from
Gadawa – this association, established in 1883 by a
few weavers, managed to gather 30 members. Each
person saved 50 cents a week. After 10 weeks, the
association commanded a budget of 150 francs and

164
with this capital it proceeded to establish a cooper-
ative bakery called Libres Boulangers [Free Bakers].
Weaver’s syndicate lent them two thousand francs,
which were paid back within the space of a year. In
1884, the cooperative reached a high enough level of
development to open a new, huge, refined, mechanized
bakery with a meeting hall, theater, non-alcoholic pub,
library and store right beside it. In 1885, they opened
their own pharmacy and in 1886, a place to print their
journal. By 1887, the association already owned three
pharmacies, stores taken from the petit bourgeoisie or
colonies and the coal warehouse. In 1889, the bakery
was reopened in an even bigger version, so that the
cooperative was able to produce seventy thousand
kilograms of bread each week. In the following years
even more shops selling lingerie, clothes and coal etc.
were opened. The number of members rose to seven
thousand families and the annual income to more
than two million francs. Moreover a whole series of
institutions was developed, such as savings and loans
banks, free medical care, birth care, elderly care and
education. The economic mechanism that lay behind
it was incredibly simple. Membership costs were just
one franc twenty-five cents for the cooperative book
Every week, each member buys a certain amount of
vouchers for bread and coal depending on his family’s
needs and these products are delivered directly to his
house. Every three months everyone gets some part
of the bakery’s income paid in vouchers, with which he
or she is able to buy whatever products are available
in the cooperative’s stores. These purchases afford a
new six percent income, able to be used to buy some
necessary goods. In some sense, this can be seen as
a realization of the collectivist dream of non-monetary
exchange.

165
 The sociologist might appreciate in the cooperative
a sort of artistry of social autogenesis. Reforms are
not implemented by the police of the democratic
government but they happen on their own. The active
element here is nothing else than the inner human
power, a social lubricant and original creator of all
social phenomena – a need for life, this rough product
of struggles, free of any tenets. Inside this need there
emerges, however, an individual aim. In the association,
whose bonds stem from that fact that different
people share similar needs, a social aim emerges.
And as this social aim is embraced, new practical
issues arise, forming a web or uncodified ideology
of pursuits, wherein it becomes possible to find the
shape of a new, emerging society. Almost all things
postulated by the collectivist ideology find their orig-
inal realization in the cooperative movement. All that
the socialist parties tried to establish in their “positive
politics” by democratizing the state and by giving up
all that is revolutionary in their ideals together, with
the soul of the modern man full of rebellious dreams,
is achieved by the cooperative without the state, by
this autogenetic power of coming together. This is the
evident background to market organization and the
idea of matching production to consumer interests.
Today we see enterprises being run by democratic
consumers’ associations, which attempt to reconcile
working conditions in the interests of workers and,
more importantly, even to destroy the whole idea of
wage labor itself. By doing so, they transform the
laborer, who becomes a member of the cooperative,
into a coowner and coleader of the enterprise where
he works. We can also see a protection against unem-
ployment, and social and financial security for elderly
and ill people, that is, sometimes even unavailingly,
gained by the socialist politics from the state, but

166
with many harmful compromises. And finally, we see
the outline of a great struggle against exploitation.
With the market boycott, combined with the strike led
by the jobs syndicate, a continuing and successful
limitation of the capitalists’ monopoly and protection
over wage labor becomes possible.

Next to this correspondence in economic tendencies,

a great difference arises between socialist politics
and the union-cooperative movement. This difference
concerns their methods for taking up action and their
views on emancipation. Socialism aims to democratize
the state and also to extend it to every part of the
collective’s life. It aims to equate its organization with
every type of social organization. Such is its path of
economic liberation and even (those doctrines tend
to be very ironic) about liberation in general . The
syndicalist-cooperative movement, however, reveals a
contrary tendency. It creates a stateless democracy,
and behind the backs of ministers, the parliament,
electoral combats and bureaucracy, it uses the power
of independent association to transform society
economically.

Conscious control over the market and production in

free associations happens also outside proletarian
struggle, that is, in agriculture. Such associations
develop mostly within the wealthier parts of the
peasantry, however, their various forms also infiltrate
smallholding classes and encompass even the rural
workers. Furthermore, these are constantly progress-
ing institutions that, in their process of evolution, can
follow with many new, hitherto unforeseen types of
social organization and methods of taking up action.
They show an increasingly strong tendency to step
into various types of relationships that transform

167
 society by changing both the economic and cultural
conditions of the peasant social class. We can see
here basically the same developmental tendencies
that characterize consumer cooperatives:

1) To eliminate the merchant’s brokering between

producers and consumers, and to consciously
regulate production according to the essential
needs of the market measured by proper statisti-
cal institutions;

2) To replace an economy based on individuals by

an economy based on associations by means of
technological advance and agricultural knowledge;

3) To take consumer interests into account during

production through quality control measures;

4) To develop institutions so as to enhance national

culture, technical and general education, and
that take care of insurance, pensions and credits
based on mutuality between free association
that group almost all over the syndicates and
agricultural associations.

Those aims are not a product of the ideology being

promoted throughout the peasant social classes – in
fact, they stand in contradiction to this ideology, as
the significant majority of agricultural associations
remains under the influence of conservative and
catholic ideology, which consciously and purposively
formed these classes, hoping to turn them into a
fortress for social ossification or a counterbalance
to any subversive movements. Here we can see the
fairly interesting duality between ideology – the
preached, official one – and all the autogenetic

168
processes that vitally transform people and their
relationships in a totally opposite direction. In this
case, social dialectics is shown in its classical example.
Under those conservative slogans some associations
emerge that later consciously protect an economic
system based on private property, by bolstering the
class that is this system’s strongest supporter – the
peasantry. This bolstering of peasant property is
met with the conditions set by the vast market of
agrarian products to have been created across the
development of industrial capitalism. These products
are products of large, growing urban communities
and a number of industrial regions and countries that
are not self-sufficient in the provision of food. This
market requires constant and organized supplies of
consumer articles. The provision of goods to compete
with those capitalist products is possible for peasant
homesteads only if they agree to associate and
corporately organize various cultural and market
activities.2 On the other side, engaging the peasantry
in the general market matters, improving their living
standards and the naturally progressing comminution
of the homesteads with population growth, makes the
aims of enlarging one’s income, improving soil quality
and freeing oneself from sales brokers, increasingly
compelling and important. Again, realizing such aims is
achievable only by leaving the individualist economy
for a planned one.

Agrarian associations usually begin with a communal

acquisition of fertilizers, fodder, seeds, farming tools
and machines, and after some time their influence on
the trade in those products starts to grow. As they
further develop, agrarian associations, by carrying
2 See Krzywicki – Kwestia rolna [Ludwik Krzywicki, Kwestia rolna –
przełom w produkcji środków spożycia w drugiej połowie XIX
wieku, Warsaw 1903]
169
 out drainages, regulations, experimental fields,
afforestation of sandy dunes, subordinate more and
more private homesteads to the association. Finally,
they expand to the agricultural industry, rearing
dairy farms, cheese dairies, bakeries, mills, preserves
factories and so on. Even though land cultivation
proper remains independent, the association of
one industry branch inevitably leads to expanding
it toward another, on which the first is based.
Running the cooperative agricultural industry in a
beneficial way requires increasing intervention of
the association council in private homesteads, the
providers of the necessary products. That is why,
wherever cooperative dairying emerges, some rearing
and controlling associations also arise, as happened
in Denmark, Canada, Belgium and France. Having
their own inspectors, they keep on extending their
supervision to particular private business branches
that deal in fodder, methods of rearing and health, or
cattle species. Wherever cooperative distilleries exist,
supervision concentrates on vineyards and potato
fields. Similarly, it growingly influences the cooperative
charcuteries, preserves factories and other similar
workshops, the excess of agricultural products and
homesteads in general. Various agrarian associations
group into provincial unions and nationwide federa-
tions that directly interface with consumers’ urban
cooperatives within the storehouses. As they enter
the market, the cooperative’s products have to fulfill
certain quality standards and production quotas,
making several homesteads further subordinated to
the decisions of the collective. Owing to this, they
increasingly place greater emphasis on cooperation
to match these conditions of production. Next to the
joint acquisition associations, others are responsible

170
for mutual loans (the Reiffeisen coffers in Belgium, the
“rural coffers” unions in France, Don Cerutti’s “rural
coffers” in Italy, and so on), mutual insurance, agrarian
schools or promoting rural culture and many other
things. In this way the movement, which originally aims
to bolster the property of individual peasants, slowly
transforms into the full contradiction of property
itself – into an autogenetic development of federal
collectivism. It turns into a production system based
on consociation and a planned economy, which under-
mines the current system at its economical and moral
fundaments. Conservatism generates the revolution.
Here are some examples to give us an insight into
the development of this movement. In France, in
1896, there were about 1,275 syndicates with 423
thousand members. In 1901 this number totaled over
1700 syndicates grouped in 10 provincial unions
that consociated 700 thousand members. Through
congresses and a Central Union, which gathered 600
unions, they managed to develop a general federal
organization and build relations with French and
foreign consumers’ cooperatives. Their functions
are constantly being added to. Apart from buying
tools, seeds and fertilizer (which brought about a
reduction of up to 50% in the prices of fertilizers and
farming tools) or running various agrarian services,
the cooperatives have also developed milk houses,
cheese dairies and manufactures of canned goods,
sausages, starch, noodles, as well as some bakeries
and mills. They are building loan facilities with a down
payment, experiment stations and model farms as well
as some informational bureaus, migratory agronomists
and inspectors. The union in Belleville canton, which
has 2352 members, comprising mostly vignerons and
small farmers, has expanded vineyards, organized the
selling of butter, founded a building society, instituted

171
 conciliatory courts among peasants and mutual aid
institutions to look after the elderly, inpatients and
orphans. Should anyone in the neighborhood fall ill,
the unions look after their crops. The Poligny union,
with 1700 members, has organized agricultural classes
in elementary schools and insurance against fire
and disease. The department union of Loiret, with
7000 members, holds exhibitions on agriculture and
lectures about agronomy, vine culture and horticulture
and about developing experimental fields. It also
organizes mutual insurance for fire, hailstorm and
other accidents. Apart from this, it takes care of the
conciliatory courts and has organized free legal aid.

In Belgium, according to official state statistics from

1899, there were 638 “farmers’ trade unions” with
50,475 members, 623 associations that purchased
fertilizers, seeds and tools with 50,375 members,
229 agricultural credit associations (the so-called
Reiffeisen coffers) numbering 7,857 farmers and 1,838
non-farmers and 319 dairies (34,305 owners of 87,382
cows). All of them were established, and are currently
run, by the cleric party. The law from 1896 does not
allow farmers to handle trade and industry. They are
able only to buy seeds, fertilizers, machines, cattle,
etc. in order to sell it to other members. However,
some other associations prove helpful here. In most
cases, a parish will have trade unions, some of the
Reiffeisen coffers, cooperative dairies, a rearing
association, mutual insurance associations and
some others. The unions are grouped together in
federations that cover provinces. The federation
of the socialist, urban cooperatives, which embrace
twenty-three producer cooperatives and 166
consumer cooperatives, is also trying to penetrate
the countryside. This federation currently possesses

172
three rural producing associations: dairies in Herfe-
lingen, a tobacco producer Lion Rouge in Alost, and
chicory production plant Soleil de Zon. Besides this,
there is one association that buys farming items and
a few rural cooperatives. The socialist cooperative in
Zon, most of whose members are industrial workers
in rural areas, owns a bakery that provides bread to
those within a three mile radius, a community house,
a library, a cafeteria and some storehouses for
eatables and footwear. The footwear is produced in
cooperative factories called Vooruit. The cooperative
in Zon has also expanded to other villages. The dairy
in Herfelingen sells milk and butter produced by the
cooperative in Brussels.

In 1896 in Switzerland there were two-thou-

sand-five-hundred agricultural associations,
838 cheese dairies, 763 rearing associations, 251
associations for buying proper tools, thirty-nine
cooperative distilleries, thirty-two grain associations,
eight cooperative brickyards, six butcheries, six
cooperative vineyards, etc. In them, petty owners
and rural workers made up the great majority. These
cooperatives formed one union, based in Winterhur,
and a huge central storehouse that provided almost
all the necessary farm items. In 1900, sales were
worth four million francs and provided two-hundred
thousand francs profit. This profit is not paid out
to the members, but it becomes part of the Union’s
common capital. Merchants boycotted the union of
farming cooperatives and have forced manufacturers
not to sell their products to the cooperatives, which
is why goods are mostly imported. Besides this,
the Swiss League of Associations (Schweizerisher
Genossenschaftsbund ) exists along with both unions
(of agricultural and consumers’ cooperatives) and all

173
 other consumers’ cooperatives outside the union
as fellow members. This league is one that protects
consumer interests. It was established under the
pressure of deleterious state policies opposed to
consumer associations. Influenced by tradespeople
fighting against the cooperatives, state officials were
forbidden from participating in the cooperatives,
upon the order of the general council. It was also
established that cooperatives should be treated as
trade concerns and accordingly subject to taxes.
The League has opposed this outcome. In addition, it
has also aimed at getting a revision of the business
code, gaining influence on tariff policy to protect
consumers’ interests, founding a cooperative bank
and forging commercial links between rural and urban,
domestic or external cooperatives.3 The Birseck
cooperative, which is trying to become a general
association of people from the local areas, for
which reason it has adopted many social tasks and
activities, is interesting for a few reasons. Its sphere
of activity includes consumption, production, selling
products, insurance, a building society, producing and
providing electricity for small workshops, education,
cantonal policy, community houses, bakeries and so
on. It comprises fourteen communities from the Basel
village canton, owns twenty-one storehouses and a
Basel consumers’ cooperative as its trade area. Its
fellow members are mostly small-business owners and
workers. Both the consumers’ cooperative in Basel
and that in Birseck abandoned the method of direct
administration and decision making at general meet-
ings of members, as they were considered useless for
technical and administrative cases, where people are
too easily influenced and unable to fully discuss their

3 See: Mutschler, Le Mouv. Coopératif en Suisse Rev. d’Econ. pol.:

1902.
174
choices. Instead, they have adapted the parliamentary
system, which currently dominates in the cooperative
and workers’ union movement in general.

In Denmark, the most developed cooperatives are the

dairy cooperatives. The first one was created in 1882.
In 1897, there were already 986 associations for one
thousand communities, so they are almost in every
one of them. Moreover, they produce almost eighty
percent of all Danish milk. Those cooperatives have
linked together to form an export copartnership and
they supply most of the storehouses of the feder-
ation of English consumers’ cooperatives. They form
a center for many other organizations, such as the
associations that buy and control cattle. The inspec-
tor paid by the associations oversees the barns twice
a month, he analyses the cows’ conditions, the fodder
they’re being fed and provides advice on which of
them are no longer useful. In addition, there are also
cooperatives that breed swine, partly combined in
a union that exports eggs to England (in 1896 there
were 344 cooperatives with 18,000 members), a few
hundred rural consumers’ associations, unions to buy
fertilizer and seeds, a cooperative sugar refinery, 146
horse riding associations, a company that provides
insurance for hailstorms, fire and pestilence, some
agricultural and apiarian clubs and an educational
association. One in every three homesteads is
the property of either a consumers’ or a dairy
cooperative.

Wage labor is common in most agricultural coop-

eratives, with some exceptions, such as the dairy
cooperatives in Italy, the preserve factories in Rhone
and the unions of some vineyards in the Ahru Valley,
where the only workers are the members, sometimes

175
 together with their wives and children. Many French
unions exist that accept their workers as members,
such as the union in Castelnaudardy, which has six
hundred workers out of one thousand members. The
same goes for the Swiss cooperatives. Their attitude
towards the farming proletariat has not yet been
clearly specified. However, there can be no doubt
that this movement of farming cooperatives, which
today provides for so many aspects of social life and
so deeply undermines current economic and cultural
relations, will sooner or later have to progress to the
topic of rural workers’ interests. In this case, they
will be forced to establish specific associations able
to fight for this proletariat, associations that aim to
improve their living conditions and enable them to
achieve economic independence. The rural consumer
cooperatives, and even the dairy cooperatives, can
already become economic centers, flanked by a
number of institutions that organize mutual aid and
fight exploitation. Some of them, acting as collective
individuals, would even be able to become coowners
of the great, cooperative factories, just as the
trade unions in England did. One also should take into
consideration the fact that the unions, which include
increasing numbers of the peasantry, whose living
standard and culture they improve, simultaneously
facilitate the organization and general struggle of
rural workers, freeing them from the risky rivalry of
petit holders, who search for easier profit and use
wage labor to make up their budget shortfall. And the
natural living and cultural proximity of these two rural
classes does not allow the associations movement to
be restricted to just one of them and not to lead to
any subversion in wage relations.

176
Independently of the consumers and agricultural
cooperatives, which form a center for many common
social issues by giving them a new basis in economic
collectivism, some other associations are developing
in modern society; these associations are totally
classless, and fight for common interests, but do not
consider class struggle. To put it bluntly, there is no
single field, nor a single need, in a human’s life that
does not lead to the creation of a corresponding
associations’ movement and that would therefore
not open onto new types of inter-human relation-
ships based on commonality and the freedom of
convergence. Let us recall all those associations that
are looking after social hygiene and those fighting
alcoholism; those associations for the provision
of low-cost flats, for mutual aid in cases of death
or illness, as well as associations for fostering
working-class gardens (Ligue du coin Terre et du
foyer, Oeuvres de jardins ouvriers), associations for
beautifying the countryside, associations for taking
care of children and organizing summer camps, the
associations around people’s universities and educa-
tion, lifeguard and firefighting associations, Red Cross
associations and, lastly, some scientific, technical and
artistic associations — all such associations are in fact
the drivers of all civilizational progress. The common-
alities they represent also tend to form alliances in
larger unions with a view to reaching common goals
collectively. In France, for example, three hundred
mutual aid associations (the Mutualités or Sociétés
de prévoyance) comprising three million members
and a 350 million franc fund, have organized anti-tu-
berculosis associations in order to support popular
hospitals. Similarly, the Paris producers’ cooperatives
established tuberculosis clinics designed to play an
educational role in tuberculosis prevention, as well

177
 as provide medical care, fish oil, raw meat and warm
clothing for the inpatients. Also the Social Hygiene
Union is preparing to group together associations of
mutual aid, abstinence associations, associations for
affordable flats, and lastly, international associations
for tuberculosis prevention. A plan exists to promote
the idea of social health for all people, sending children
to villages, starting gardens in working-class districts,
building hospitals, flats and so on. Special note must
be taken of a new type of association – the so-called
“community neighbourhoods” in London.4 Such asso-
ciations have introduced an idea of community based
on common living areas, i.e. living in the same district
of the city and so they try to maintain a degree of
everyday neighborly relationships or share knowledge
about the area and its needs. This is why their form is
close to that of the institution of the parish, but they
are free from state coercion, which is characteristic
for the latter. These community neighborhoods are
trying to build an organized, collective change for
the common health, safety, as well as basic material
and cultural needs of the individual. They organize
communal kitchens and summerhouses, and have their
own doctors and lawyers. These associations may be
considered as part of the first movement to attempt
to communize the household.

The cooperative movement can be judged in two

ways: from a revolutionary perspective or from a
natural science perspective. The later takes nature
as the movement’s foundation, viewing it as a factor
of development and transfiguration. Revolutionary
doctrine has a specific feature – it tries to work over
every fact and make it compatible. The logic it employs
4 Editor note. Community neighbourhoods (as translated from the
Polish) refers to the cooperative movement also known as the
Owenites or Owenism.
178
is not individual, specific. Upon encountering a new
fact, revolutionary doctrine judges it as if they both
had the same genesis, and thus was also a doctrine.
Objections towards the union-cooperative movement
are characterized precisely by this logic. The state
socialists promulgating them impose on themselves an
ideal of priestly chastity in all practical matters and
have not yet set out on the broader road of “positive
politics.” They deem that cooperatives carry a double
burden. First, cooperatives are conservative by nature
and ward off any social upheaval and that they seek
to look after their own interests, just like every enter-
prise. Workers who get influenced by cooperatives
and become entrepreneurs are not only unprepared
for the revolution, but also fear social catastrophe,
just like the bourgeoisie and the peasants. Through
the cooperatives, they are bound to the existing
order and respect it, so they listen to slogans about
the final fight but fail to feel its necessity. Second,
state socialists charge that cooperatives aim to
divide the proletariat into two groups, by categorizing
workers by their ability to join cooperatives. Those
who are unable to do so include, for example, country
workers, the court service, which is still paid partially
in products, workers without permanent employment
who live from day to day, tramps and the unskilled
proletariat, which is unable to organize itself on
a regular basis and whose labor force is deemed
substandard. Anyone without access to work in
cooperatives creates a kind of “fifth state,” and their
social interests develop in opposition to the interests
of elite workers, who are organized in professional
unions and consumers’ associations.

These charges initially indicate to us that something

like a “revolutionary formula” exists and enables a

179
 statement on whether or not a fact is revolutionary.
The confessor, to take one example, does a similar
thing, judging people’s conscience in accordance
with catechism. Second, a social fact is judged by
opponents as if it was something finite, motionless,
closed in itself. That is to say, as a doctrine that must
always be settled logically, is isolated, and inaccessible
to unrelated thoughts, and thus jealously guards
its separateness. However, neither cooperatives nor
trade unions nor any other similar organizations
have any specific ideology, codified slogan or article
of faith that might determine any specific direction
of their development. These organizations comprise
a great variety (as does everything that autoge-
netically results from life needs). They adapt every
demand of the workers’ fight, precisely because they
do not come from any principles, and no principle
leads them through their evolution; thus they are able
to appear anywhere that the needs of a particular
community are present – they match the general
circumstances. They are able to destroy things that,
according to their founders, were destined not to be
destroyed and carry out social revolution even where
the conscious interests of people were striving to
fetter it.

The revolution, according to socialist doctrine,

basically amounts to an aim to reconfigure the state
for collectivism, or to speed up “the general catastro-
phe” that will come about with the birth of a new
state. According to this idea of the revolution, the
cooperative is a conservative institution, because it
carries out reforms without state interference. Above
all, the revolution means to create a new legal system
and to interfere in existing lawmaking to change it for
the sake of the proletariat’s well-being, going as far

180
as a complete reconfiguration of the order. The revolu-
tion requires political struggle in the broadest sense,
everything from elections to barricades. However,
cooperatives try to avoid government mediation. They
reform society without reforming the state and thus
they withdraw) the working class from political strug-
gle and even from the idea itself of “social catastro-
phe.” That is why every people’s assembly, insofar as
it forms its demands towards the state, whether this
is “socialization” or the implementing of an eight hour
work day, is a revolutionary fact, even if it fails. On the
other hand, meetings of customer associations that
implement an eight-hour work day and abolish wage
labor in their factories are not a revolutionary fact
and are called the mutual aid of the petty bourgeoisie.
People’s assemblies aim to create a new legal system
and new state institutions to destroy the foundations
of capitalist order. Cooperatives do not create any
new system; they count neither on parliament, nor
on cabinets of ministers. So, no revolution can occur
without “nationalization” and with this definition in
mind one has to judge whether a particular social fact
is revolutionary or not.

However, we may put this issue differently and

demand something other than a settling of the
concept of revolution a priori, according to rules of
historical-philosophical theory. Conversely, we can
aim to create this concept on the basis of new facts,
ones simultaneously created by class struggle. That
is, not to use the concept of revolution to judge
whether the fact is revolutionary, but conversely,
to judge the concept on the basis of facts alone.
Because the concept of revolution refers to life itself,
this demand is truly legitimate, just as is using the
induction method to understand those things that do

181
 not come from our thinking. It is legitimate as long as
we would like to see what the doctrine has hitherto
hidden from us.

This is why every social fact, owing to its existence

as “a social fact” pure and simple, includes some
conservative features by nature. These features
bound it to the entire social environment, adapt it,
that are the result of a further branch of events that
existed prior to it or that exist contemporaneously to
it, and that anchored its existence. Absolute novelty
would not emerge and develop in society if it had
nothing in common with social life. In a certain sense,
the cooperative is a conservative fact. It arises from
the eternal fight for prosperity; it adjusts to the
mechanism of the capitalist economy, because the
fight for prosperity cannot duplicate the patterns
set by cavemen or feudal barons. A cooperative
conducts its cash operations right where the big
trading houses do, because it deals in capitalist
commodities, not with the products of future nation-
alized production. Ultimately, just as with any other
contemporary enterprise, a cooperative takes care of
earnings, of returns on capital. This is how it can meet
the needs, which gave rise to it, to eradicate hardship.
This conservativeness is everywhere, in every social
movement, even in the most revolutionary political
struggles. Every law concerning production, every
nationalization, that socialists demand, stems from the
same primal pursuit to improve the living conditions
of the working masses and must adjust to existing
social conditions in order to somehow integrate with
capitalist mechanisms, since they would otherwise be
impossible.

182
But in addition to this, in every social fact that shows
its autogenetic development, an element of novelty
arises - without it, there would be nothing to develop.
This element is not only the goal to improve life, but
also the ways that make this pursuit real. In state
policy on workers, this novel element exists in the
tendency to place legal limits on exploitation and have
the state intervene as the representative of hired
workers. In a strike, however, state policy comes down
to limiting exploitation through workers’ solidarity and
extra-state institutions that regulate working condi-
tions and look after workers. In cooperatives, this
element of novelty shows up in the same moral form,
thus in looking for well-being by commonality, through
institutions founded on democratic assemblies that
take the market and production into their own hands.
But how can we recognize new formations that herald
social change?

Some new elements have emerged that blend in with

the contemporary social system and expand its
durability and power, thereby weakening or destroy-
ing those moral factors, and fostering the system’s
disintegration. By way of example, Russian factory
legislation truly restricts exploitation to some degree,
but is by no means a symptom of a simultaneous
process of state democratization and the workers’
taking control of the means of production. Compared
to the unbridled exploitation of the previous eras, it is
a new fact. Yet, it contains no revolutionary tendency,
as it does not aim to destroy any fundamental capi-
talist dynamic. On the contrary, we can easily imagine
capitalism in its full development, but restricted to
the limit by the humanitarian guardianship of the
tsarist police. Whereas any new formation, if it wants
to develop, requires the essential destruction of

183
 capitalist elements and heralds social upheaval. The
revolutionary fact can be recognized in that first
and foremost it destroys something essential in the
contemporary social system .

So, the development of consumer cooperatives

cannot in any way be reconciled with the capitalist
market, with its omnipotent monopoly of the business
elite. Neither can it be reconciled with the existence
of a merchant class and the trade-industrial crises
it propels. This is known once we realize that the
development of cooperatives inevitably leads to a
collectivist production devoid of monopolies. In every
context, the movement of cooperatives creates a
social dilemma. Either it will develop or capitalism will
continue to exist. The development of cooperatives
and behavior of capitalism becomes a clear reductio
ad absurdum, namely capitalism without monopoly or
wage labor. That is why the cooperative is “a social
fact” with revolutionary tendencies. We find this
same revolutionary feature in labor unions, when we
consider that their fundamental tendency is to enable
workers to seize capitalist enterprises, a tendency
that could not develop without reconfiguring the
basis of present production and destroying wage
labor. We also find it in farming associations that
gradually transform agriculture and connected parts
of production, including the unplanned, competitive
and mercantile individual economy into a type of
collective and socially organized economy.

The objection that associations can gather only a

specific part of the proletariat, as a kind of workers’
aristocracy, and that associations have their natural,
impassable limits of development, fails to consider
that the development of associations is not distinct

184
from social life. The development of associations
influences the labor market, the commodity market,
the general culture of the country and, ultimately, the
whole moral and philosophical atmosphere. Thus this
development indirectly reconfigures forces, as well as
the conditions of life and struggle, even for groups
that have not entered the world of cooperation. The
market’s dependence on consumer associations, the
shortening of the work day by labor unions, a reduc-
tion in the competitiveness of wage labor, and when
it comes to the countryside by the development of
farming associations, are living examples of collective
solidarity, economics and resistance. All this goes
toward overcoming the lawlessness of exploitation
that weighs upon the non-professional proletariat or
the helpless masses of house industry workers. We
also have to take into account the fact that different
types of contemporary workers’ associations exist
that are yet to gain an awareness of their historical
role. They do not use every means at their disposal in
order to wage a systematic struggle to improve the
living conditions of weakened workers’ groups. What is
more, it must be understood that, in the cooperative
movement, some new forms and figures of associa-
tions undoubtedly exist. Such associations are aimed
at today’s helpless, exploited masses, because this
whole movement is not a social formation, which is
withdrawn and finite, but is a process of permanent
creation resulting in some new methods and bonfires
of the hitherto unforeseen revolution.

The objection that “self-help associations tear the

proletariat from political struggle” is a charge that
one can only ask to be formulated more accurately.
What it indeed means is that they tear the proletariat
from political struggle insofar as this struggle aims

185
 to extend the state. But what emerges from such
associations is a new form of stateless politics,
one more consistent with the spirit of democratic
cooperativism. Further, this new form is the only one
that truly responds to libertarian and moral ideas,
ones that, in their seedbeds, are concealed within the
proletariat itself.

186
187
Airi Triisberg and

Looking for
Autonomist
Politics in
the Baltic
States
Historical Discontinuity,
Slippery Concepts, and a
Bus Full of Germans
188
189
 This article is a creative transcript of a conversation
between us. We are two “Baltic” comrades, Airi
Triisberg from Estonia and Tomas Marcinkevičius from
Lithuania. Airi has been actively involved in organizing
against precarious labor conditions in the cultural
sector, contributed to the social center Ülase12
in Tallinn, and participated in the queer feminist
counterpublic sphere. Tomas has been active in
radical left-wing politics in Lithuania since the early
2010s: from taking part in the LUNI Free University
and website anarchija.lt to being on the staff of left
wing news portal GPB.lt and the council of the May 1
Labor Union (G1PS). He was also involved with the Emma
Social Centre in Kaunas, which is reflected in part of
his research on autonomous spaces in Lithuania and
Central/Eastern Europe, and in this conversation.

The Baltic states are a weird region located on the

margins of Eastern Europe, Northern Europe and
Central Europe: not truly any of them, but with
traits of all three. Therefore, we chose to have this
discussion amongst ourselves, since our contexts are
quite similar, or at least, recognizable to one another.
The Baltics are also a weird place to be organizing
anything “radical” as neither “Western” nor “Eastern”
political concepts really seem at home around here.
Here is our speculative journey into the newish
concept of “Baltic autonomism.”

Airi: Hi Tomas! We want to discuss two questions: how

to narrate leftist histories in the Baltic region? How to
conceptualize autonomist politics in this post-socialist
context? To start things off I can share a story, which
in my opinion tells quite a lot about continuities and
discontinuities within the left across different regions
and times.

190
A few years ago, I received a message from my friends
in Germany: “Three comrades from Berlin are travelling
through the Baltics, can you host them?” I said yes
and, as usual, invited my guests to give a talk while
they were in Tallinn. We arranged this talk at very
short notice and assembled as a small and intimate
group in the social center Ülase.

It was surprisingly hard to find a common ground.

One gap of communication was produced through our
age difference: my guests from Berlin were around
seventy years old whereas friends from Tallinn
were mostly in their mid-twenties. Another gap was
produced through different experiences of doing left-
ist politics. For those young people in Tallinn, activism
meant organizing cultural events in the self-organized
community center. For my guests, it meant mobilizing
mass movements and building alternative solidarity
economies. The differences between East and West
were also present. I was trying to bridge these gaps
and mediate the conversation, but I constantly felt
that I was failing. Until there was a moment when my
guests – whom I asked to share their experiences
in the autonomist movement in Germany and whose
storytelling had just landed in the early seven-
ties – said: “We, the 1968 generation, were the first
generation of the radical left in Germany since the
twenties.” I responded to this statement: “Look, here
is finally one thing that we have in common: We are
the first generation of the radical left in Estonia since
the twenties.” This was the connection between us.
We were both from the first generation of the radical
left that had emerged after a rupture.

As far as I know, the first attempt to mobilize an

organized leftist movement in post-Soviet Estonia took

191
 place in 2006 when the anarchist movement Punamust
(RedBlack) was formed. This movement was mobilized
through a punk forum on the internet. People who
became affiliated with Punamust were very young,
many were still high school students. Some of the
activists were born around 1991, the year that the
Soviet Union was dissolved. I think there is something
symbolic in the fact that the first generation of
post-Soviet left in Estonia overlaps with the first
post-Soviet generation who did not experience the
Soviet Union at all, or who remember it only through
childhood memories from the eighties.

Discursively this anarchist mobilization in Estonia

was very much influenced by the alterglobalization
movement. Punamust organized a big number of street
protests, typically solidarity actions following the key
events of the alterglobalization movement, such as
protests against IMF, WTO or G8 summits. Most of those
actions did not explicitly relate to the local context,
and the number of protestors remained very small.
One of the bigger mobilizations was in November 2006
when George W. Bush visited Estonia. This provided an
opportunity to organize a demonstration against war
in Iraq, which brought together more protesters. In
addition to street actions, Punamust focused on the
dissemination of knowledge. The journal Alternatiiv
published translations of anarchist authors, and
film screenings organized by Punamust were well
attended.

192
I find it quite interesting to look back at this time
from today’s perspective. If someone had asked me in
2007 how the alterglobalization movement manifests
itself in the Baltic region, I would have answered that
there is no such movement here. At the time I felt that
the movement was happening elsewhere – in Seattle,
Genova, Prague, Rostock, and St Petersburg. People
from the Baltic region sometimes went and joined
these big mass mobilizations, and then came back
home and expressed solidarity with the movement.
I think that was how many of us felt, as if we were
not really part of it. But meanwhile I have learned that
a social movement is something other than a mass
mobilization; it has a more complex structure. From
today’s perspective, I would say that the alterglo-
balization movement was very present in the Baltic
region. It had a variety of manifestations, ranging from
movement politics to cultural practices. Ironically, I can
say that now with more certainty because when the
alterglobalization movement ended and transformed
into other struggles, certain forms of organizing also
disappeared in Estonia. From this distance in time one
can see much more clearly how connected they were.
Tomas, how would you narrate the recent history of
leftist movement politics in Lithuania?

Tomas: I think it’s a bit earlier that “beginnings” can

be pinpointed in Lithuania. There was this famous and
influential Vilnius squat called Kablys (The Hook) in the
former Railway Workers’ Cultural Palace. The building
itself and a punk club in its basement still remain. So, it
was already in the nineties, and early two thousands
that there was a movement of sorts that was, of
course, influenced by punk culture. People would go to
the West and bring back some political ideas, or zines
from other squats, or touring bands would bring them

193
 . . . I’d say a lot of influence was from Poland, because
they got it first, from Germany, and then it moved to
Lithuania, especially Vilnius.

A second, very “open” beginning happened in the

mid-two thousands, when the anarchija.lt website was
established, as well as a group around it, and a some-
what overlapping group around the LUNI Free Univer-
sity, which would hold its lectures and seminars in
various “unexpected” spaces, including cafes, former
and current factories, parks, etc. Both of these milieus
were clearly anarchist and quite a big deal in terms of
publicity and visibility. “Anarchism” was something new
in Lithuania and “leftist, but not communist,” so to say,
not “traditional socialism,” and therefore it got a lot of
media attention. In the meantime, there was also the
New Left ‘95 (NK95), which was more intellectual, more
“traditional Marxist” – not in the “orthodox” sense, but
more similar to the “academic Marxists” that one can
meet abroad.

All three of these, I’d say, played their part in the

beginnings of what we could maybe call “autonomist”
politics, but I’m not sure that the name really fits. I
think some people really saw it as autonomist, at least
several persons who were quite conscious that they
wanted to do autonomist politics. On the other hand,
I did not really find a clear and unitary definition of
autonomism even in books on autonomism. There’s
Italian autonomism, together with workerism, then
South American autonomism, North American, German
autonomism. The latter is more related to the squat-
ting movement, urban struggles, antifascism, etc.
Many people would not call themselves “autonomist”
at all. I was thinking about a name for “this kind of
politics.” It could be a bit pretentious, but perhaps it

194
could be called “dialectical left,” or “polylectical left,” in
the sense that it’s a bit mixed and merged, a sort of
smorgasbord of leftist ideas, interplaying, disagreeing
with each other, but at the same time agreeing on the
general framework and creating something . . .
Perhaps, we should talk about some sort of “Baltic
autonomism,” or “Eastern European autonomism,” or
“Eastern European left” . . . I think the naming part is
really complicated, and whenever we are trying to
put it in the framework of “just autonomism,” it kind of
escapes. Like, when I was doing research for my unfin-
ished dissertation, I asked some people: “What does
autonomy mean to you?” And they would be like “It
means nothing, I would never use that term, it’s a term
that you brought to me, it’s never been in my head.”
I think that’s an inherent flaw in the very topic of
this book and the topic of our conversation. We’d
probably need a huge historical, ethnological, and
sociopolitical study, just to put these events and
attempts at left politics into some sort of a frame. But
now we don’t have tools for that, so maybe we can
simply talk about things that happened?

Airi: But let’s take a moment to speak about

terminology here. I also feel that my experiences in
Estonia don’t fit comfortably into commonplace leftist
vocabularies. But intuitively and on the everyday
level, things are pretty simple. We are constantly
making differentiations between factions within the
left. I mostly use three terms when I speak about
the radical left in the Baltics: anarchism, autonomism
and movement politics. I sometimes use these terms
interchangeably even if they are not identical,
because there are strong overlaps.

195
 Autonomism is not a common term in Estonia, few
people associate with it. In my own political vocabu-
lary, autonomism is quite central because two strands
in my political biography are linked to autonomist
politics. I was politicized within autonomist contexts
in Germany, and I was influenced by the EuroMayDay
movement and postoperaist struggles against
precarious labor. But similarly to you, when I invite
my comrades in Tallinn to conceptualize our common
experience, autonomism appears as an abstract term
to which most people do not relate. Anarchism is much
more relatable. For example, the self-identification of
Punamust was with anarchism.

I think that the anarchist self-positioning has

something to do with the anticommunist Denkverbot
(a prohibition on thinking) characteristic to postsocial-
ist societies. Socialism and communism became taboo
subjects after the disintegration of the Soviet Union.
Anarchism was the most neutral term, because it had
not been part of the official narrative in the Soviet
Union. Anarchism is not even leftist by definition,
for example in post-Soviet Belarus, there has been
a notable presence of nationalist anarchism, which
is more aligned with right wing politics. In Estonia,
there was a public imaginary around anarchism that
associated it with melancholic punk music and indi-
vidualist expressions of dissent. I remember that the
self-identification as “armchair anarchist” was quite
popular among intellectuals in the nineties. From this
armchair position, one could express some abstract
critique towards statehood. I can only imagine how
unwelcome such critique must have been in the
newly reestablished nation state. But these armchair
anarchists would never get their ideas challenged
and their nerves wrecked with some actual collective
practice.
196
Tomas: I was talking with some comrades about why
we started as anarchist or autonomist. It’s the same
idea. First of all, for some people, their socialization
kind of eradicated the idea of communism or socialism
from their psyche and replaced it with an effigy of
something outdated and even evil. I started as an
anarchist, but the older I get, the redder I get, and
the less I am black.

Still, when we talked about it, we realized that there

was no other way for us to get into politics. Back
then, if you didn’t want to be in some marginal
Stalinist group or didn’t want to associate with some
ugly old men who shouted barely understandable
slogans on the street and are possibly spying for
Russia, there were few choices. If you wanted to have
any legitimacy, you’d go with anarchism. It’s actually
quite . . . easy (?) being an anarchist in Lithuania or the
Baltic states, it does not require a lot of attachment
to certain ideas, you can be anything, it’s a mix-and-
match. You can be individualist, collectivist, whatever
you want: “Let’s all talk about things.” It’s not a very
strict position.

Airi: I agree with that description. Collective practices

are mostly shaped by a mixture of influences and
there are always some contradictions inside those
groups. I am thinking of the street guerilla group,
Prussakov Bicycle Society, that was active in Estonia
in the early 2000s They were using creative forms
of protests and tactical media activism in order to
address issues around public space and urban traffic.
For example, they organized this hilarious action in
2006: a group of people gathered early in the morning
and parked flowerpots and bicycles in a parking lot
which was located on the central square of the city.

197
 When the car owners arrived, there was no parking
space left. The situation escalated into conflict, which
was shown in the evening news, just next to images
of the city mayor of Tallinn planting a tree on the
occasion of the establishment of the European Green
Capital Award.

For me, the interventions by the Prussakov Bicycle

Society are so evidently linked with the carnivalesque
forms of protest that were developed in the context
of the alterglobalization movement. But at the same
time, I am not even sure whether Prussakov Bicycle
Society can or should be included into the leftist
narrative. They would never explicitly position them-
selves on the left. Instead they were using various
camouflage tactics, somewhat similar to Pro-Test Lab
in Vilnius, which used the concept of “pro-test” instead
of “protest.” Pro-Test Lab was a campaign initiated in
2005 against the privatization of the cinema Lietuva,
the last remaining Soviet era cinema in Vilnius. This
campaign brought together a diverse group of leftist
actors, students, cultural workers and neighbors who
organized humorous and creative street actions in
order to critique the privatization of public space.
However, rather than positioning themselves as
protestors, the campaign tried to re-signify disobe-
dience and leftist practice in a more playful way and
to create a positive meaning around it by emphasizing
the aspect of pro-test and pro-experimentation. I
believe that these choices had something to do with
allergic reactions to leftist vocabulary that were
common in postsocialist societies. What is the point
of creating turmoil around an identification as leftist?
This would only invoke negative reactions and direct
attention away from the actual issues that need to be
addressed. When the Prussakov Bicycle Society was

198
trying to attract people into taking collective action,
they were mainly appealing to the fun factor. There
was a creative spirit around them. Whether they were
anarchist or autonomist, it is hard to say. But some-
how, it happened that the techniques they were using
coincided with the creative forms of direct action
that were also widely used by the alterglobalization
movement during the same period.

Tomas: The question of the relation between tactics

and political identity is very interesting. On our
portal, named GPB (Gyvenimas per brangus, freely
translatable to “Life Is Too Expensive”), there’s this
recent article, in English, on how AirBnB is using Saul
Alinsky’s methods to organize “grassroots” groups
to lobby for its interests. The main question remains:
Can tactics be seen as a marker of political identity?
Not always, but in a way, at least in our context, they
probably can. Ok, let’s say people don’t call themselves
“autonomist,” but I see quite a lot of autonomist action
in Lithuania. These creative actions are an example of
it, as well. Explosive, spectacular, tactical actions are
used usually just because we don’t have the numbers.
You don’t have the people in their thousands to go
to the streets, so you have to do a media spectacle,
something “new,” etc.

We just have to remember the 2016 protests against

the new (and worse) Labor Code, and how we slept
on the stairs of the Government building in Vilnius,
illegally occupying one of the main squares. Some
people from the trade unions after that said: “What
we had been trying to do in our negotiation rooms
and with our publicity campaigns for two years, these
youngsters came and did in two weeks.” This is, of
course, a huge overexaggeration, but I think there is a
grain of truth in it.
199
 First of all, we attracted a lot of media attention to
a topic that was covered by the media, but rarely
presented from the side of the workers or the unions.
The discussion around the new Labor Code had been
quite peaceful, as if it had already been passed, and
all that was needed were some guidelines on how to
adapt it to everyday working conditions. We managed
to bring back some antagonism to this discourse, and
to bring the discussion back to the starting point, ie.
whether we need a new Labor Code at all.

Some sources from the then-President Dalia Grybaus-

kaitė’s environment said that it was partly because of
us that she decided to veto the law. The Parliament, of
course, rejected the veto and passed the new Labor
Code anyway, but omitted several sensitive articles,
including the zero hours contracts.

Another effect was that we contributed to at least

partly lifting the topic of workers’ rights from the
“unsexy” zone. You know, “the old proletarians from
the provinces do not want progress to come to
Lithuania, all they want is for the Soviet times to
come back,” and so on and so forth . . . And suddenly
these young people with bright faces and educated
sensibilities join in, and it all seems a little different.

So, this is a trace of autonomist politics, “how to do

more with less,” basically, but it’s usually more of a
necessity than a desire. I would actually rather prefer
thousands of people on the streets than constantly
trying to come up with the new brilliant idea of how
“creative” our protest of thirty individuals has to be.
Another trait that is also quite autonomist is that
most radical politics are not purely anarchist in
Lithuania. It reminds me of the old Italian autonomist

200
thesis that it’s the working class itself that is going
to make the revolution, not the party. It’s not purely
like that here, but the idea that politics have to stem
from the desires of the group that is taking an active
part in the process is very much present. However,
leadership and formalities are somewhat allowed in
this quest to create a united, stable, and powerful
movement. There’s also the idea that we do not force
it, if we see that the power is not there, we stop and
wait and think how to get more of it, but never set up
some sort of an avant-garde party that would “push
the course of history.”

And the last trait is emphasis on space. There has

always been some sort of organizing space, either
in Vilnius or in Kaunas, or both. It would change and
transform, but there would always be a space that
creates and maintains a group identity and keeps
things going on. By now, I really don’t know if that
is a good thing or a bad thing. When I was doing my
research about autonomous spaces in Kaunas, I got
to the point where I started asking people: “But did we
really need those spaces?” Because at the beginning,
we didn’t really consider this question, we were just
like “of course we’re gonna squat or have a social
center.”

Airi: I would add grassroots organizing and collective

practice as relevant traits within autonomist politics.
We are not skilled in collective work, therefore learning
and negotiating about collectivity are emancipatory
practices. But then again, not every grassroots
initiative is autonomist.

In Estonia, liberal civil society has also actively

developed in the past decades. For me, this is also a

201
 potential line of differentiation within the left. Some
groups choose the movement structure instead of
making the pragmatic choice of establishing NGOs
and becoming dependent on state or EU funding
which shapes and dictates the contents of the work
and limits the imagination. Others specialize in single
issue politics and become more professionalized in
advocacy and lobby work. Yet what is specialization?
It is a function of capitalist division of labor in which
you become an expert in one field and stop seeing
the broad picture. You don’t turn up at the actions
organized by others anymore, because you’re too
busy doing your own thing, focusing on single issue
politics, losing solidarity.

In this sense, I do not want to idealize grassroots

organizing structures. In Estonia, they are usually
short-lived campaigns that last for a few weeks
or months and then stop. After a while, a slightly
different composition of people assembles again to
organize another campaign. On the one hand, there is
certain continuity because these initiatives are driven
more or less by the same people, but on the other
hand these structures are extremely fragile. We have
not learned to create autonomist structures that are
more resilient.

Tomas: I guess the issue of creating resilient

structures is quite a lasting one, especially when, as
you have mentioned, everyone’s “doing their own
thing.” To me, this also seems like an issue that is
related to a certain type of subjectivity, namely the
“overeducated” activist: very insightful and sensitive
to the circumstances, but at the same time highly
individualized and even, to an extent, timid.

202
I would say that, at least in the sense of wishful
thinking, a weak parallel with Italian autonomist politics
has surfaced in Lithuania in the relation between
struggle and education. You know, how from the 1960s
to the 1970s, the Italian autonomist intellectuals would
not go and get employed in the factories, but they
would have their cadre there. These agents would
bring back the news, would tell them what is happen-
ing in the factory, what is being done, etc., and the
intellectuals would then provide some theoretical or
tactical background to the workers. All in all, it would
be a relation of intense and productive collaboration,
but it would differ from, say, narodniki, in that the
Italian communist/autonomist intellectuals of the time
would not “become” factory workers.1

I was putting up our photos and a couple of

sentences about each member of the G1PS (May 1
Labor Union) council, and noticed that almost every-
body has a Masters or even a PhD. On the other hand,
it has never become a “reading group” (even though
reading groups are arranged from time to time, of
course). There’s always a desire to go broader, not
necessarily “to the masses,” but just not to get stuck,
to get involved, to organize inside and outside of
our circles. Still, very important questions remain not
fully answered, such as: What do you do when you’re
overeducated? How do you do your politics?

Airi: In Estonia, there is occasional self-reflection

about who is the activist subject and how these
subject positions shape our politics. What does it
mean when the antiracist discourse is dominated by
1 Narodniki is the plural for a member of the Narodnik movement in
nineteenth century Russia. Agrarian socialists, they often lived
in peasant communities. The term is meant here in the sense of
“going to the people.”
203
 white voices? What kind of feminist politics is done by
activists who are extremely well educated but who
cannot understand Russian, the biggest local minority
language?

When I think about recent developments in Lithuania

and the trajectory from GPB to G1PS, I get the
impression that the question of material conditions
is very present. In Estonia, the situation is a bit
different. If you want to initiate something new and
get people behind it, it is easiest to reach out to the
feminist mobilization base. For example, when the far
right came to power in Estonia in 2019, the street
protests were mobilized through queer and feminist
networks. It was never explicitly manifested to the
general public, but inside the group, everyone knew
that half of the team were queers, and the majority of
the team were feminists. There were only a few people
who came from other contexts and perhaps did not
recognize that from the start. For me, this example
shows the strength of feminist and queer politics
in Estonia. The history of feminist organizing has a
different trajectory than anarchist or autonomist
politics, but there are also some overlaps. Currently,
feminism is a very important foothold on which new
initiatives can be built. It is pretty easy to activate
the feminist mobilization base, but the hard limit
comes with class struggle. Organizing around working
conditions is somehow not urgent enough, there is no
collective energy to do something together.

When I was active in the Ülase social center, there was

a strong division along the lines of class, ethnicity
and gender. In the early evenings, the predominantly
Estonian or English-speaking queer-feminist publics
gathered for semi-academic cultural events: film

204
screenings, talks, discussions, social gatherings. In
the later hours, the predominantly Russian-speaking
youth assembled for hardcore punk concerts. Ülase
is the only leftist space in Tallinn with a strong
presence of working class youth, working poor, and
Russian speaking youth. However, organizing against
exploitative working conditions does not happen there
either. It’s the loud music that brings people together,
the joy of blasting your brains out after finishing
the day at the workplace you resent or hate. Ülase
is the one space in Estonia that gets no recognition
whatsoever from the liberal civil society or from the
art and cultural sector. And I think it is because the
people who are organized there do not resemble the
“good citizen.”2 They are not attempting to improve or
reform liberal democratic society. This is how citizen-
ship politics in Estonia works – not every resident
is a citizen, and not every politically active citizen is
considered a good citizen.

Tomas: But it doesn’t always have to be only about

explicit efforts to organize against exploitation. A
place to bash your brains out to punk music, to relax,
to socialize, to feel, so to say, autonomous, is import-
ant by itself. I would even say that we, “the activists,”
risk becoming a lot like those “good citizens” with their
goody-two-shoes desire to “improve society.” I’ve
been in situations where people that I once organized
with would avoid me, cross the street upon seeing
me. As I understood it, I was sort of a “cop” for them:
“Ah shit, here he comes again, he’ll for sure ask about
how I’m doing at work and if I’m organizing,” they’d
probably think.

2 Good Citizen is a publication issued by the Network of Estonian

Nonprofit Organizations, a central actor in the civil society of
Estonia.
205
 The paradigm from which to evaluate our successes
and failures is exactly what remains after the
movement, after some sort of action or organizing
point, what spaces, structures, and institutions are
established. Now there’s GPB, now there’s G1PS, now
there’s Kaunas Pride – not sure if autonomist, but for
sure autonomous. So, things, political actions, leave
some residues that might turn into institutions. How
they are doing after that, is another question, since
those institutions are not always successful in what
they want to do, sometimes they become things-in-
themselves, or not, etc.

But autonomism and autonomous organizing has this

aim of becoming self-sustaining. Not necessarily to
“create jobs” for ourselves – which is, in my opinion,
also a good thing – but more like what needs of ours
can be satisfied by the structures that we have
created. So, for example, when I was thinking about
the Emma social center in Kaunas, I thought about it
this way: What can we ourselves get from our social
center? It became a cultural space, so OK, we get our
cultural needs satisfied, at least partly and sometimes
quite to an extent, since there is not much more to do
in Kaunas, to be honest. But what else have we got?
Did we get cheaper food, or a space for education, did
we get social security, healthcare, accommodation,
etc.? I think we always need to think about that. If
the state or general society does not satisfy some of
your needs, what can you build to make sure they are
satisfied?

And about Kaunas Pride . . . It would feel a bit unfair

if I were to talk about it too much, because I did not
take part in organizing it, but the people in Kaunas
organized an autonomous Pride! Without corporations,

206
without support of politicians, without even a legal
body – they used our trade union, G1PS, as a legal
entity for it. Funnily enough, any liberals who other-
wise support LGBTQ+ rights did not even take part in
the parade, since: “It was organized by commies, who
were using poor LGBT people for their propaganda
purposes.” And still, it took place and participation was
quite numerous, around three thousand people took
part, the day went great. It was a public proof that
you can do things without that much of an institu-
tional background, if you have a group of people who
really want to do it.

That’s also, in my opinion, one of the differences

between autonomism and anarchism: the autonomist
idea is that you can and should build up your auton-
omy in the system, but that you cannot escape the
system itself. You still have to play by some of the
rules and see how to act from within them. You know,
like Omar from The Wire would say: “All in the game.”
I’d say that autonomists do care about the ethics of
what they do, but there is very little of what could be
called “morality,” that is the difference.

Airi: We started from the question of how to narrate

the recent history of leftist radical politics in the
Baltic region. We hesitated whether autonomism is the
most accurate frame to conceptualize it, but both of
us agreed that anarchism has played an important
role. For me, this raises again the question of conti-
nuities and discontinuities. The history of anarchism
in the Baltic region is much longer than two or three
decades. In the early twentieth-century, anarchists
were not only very active but also well networked.
I have come across stories of how anarchists from
Riga were hiding from the authorities in Tartu. I am

207
 speaking here about the Czarist period when both
Estonia and Latvia were part of the Russian Empire.
It is actually quite astonishing how much state
repression contributed to the formation of activist
networks. During the revolutionary years 1905–1907,
the authorities were displacing revolutionary activists
into smaller cities. That was exactly how revolutionary
knowledge was transported from the centers into
the peripheries. I will provide another example: in 1906,
a large number of revolutionaries were deported to
Siberia. Among them was feminist social democrat
Marta Lepp, who writes in her memoirs how she met
comrades from every corner of the empire there,
especially from the peripheries. According to these
memoirs, she spent an intense summer in Tobolsk,
impressed by the beauty of the river Irtysh, arguing
about revolutionary politics at the campfire. She then
escaped to continue political work.3

These old stories are actually not well-known in the

anarchist contexts of Estonia. There is no leftist
scholarship that might research the history of
anarchism or other movements. There is no collective
narrative about what existed before 2006. There is
also no discussion of how today’s anarchism differs
from the past. This leads me to the question of
whether the nineties and the two thousands were the
beginning of the Western left’s reception in the Baltic
region. Are we reproducing the narrative of Western
left when we discuss whether anarchism in the Baltic
region is closer to Italian autonomism or German
autonomism? How come we are not debating whether
this anarchism still carries influences from Bakunin
3 Marta Lepp aasta romantika, järellained, lõppvaatus. [The
Romance of 1905, Aftermath, Last Act] Eesti Päevalehe kirjastus:
2010 [1905].

208
and Kropotkin? I think that even the reference to the
alterglobalization movement is essentially Western,
even if that movement started with the Zapatista
uprising and aspired to be global.

Tomas: Once, I talked to a good friend and comrade of

mine about this, asking the question: Did we just take
“Western modes of organizing” and try to apply them
in Lithuania? And she said: “Yeah, in a way.” We got
some models of organization and we tried them out, to
see what suits us and what doesn’t, what works here
and what doesn’t.

And then about this historical continuity that is not

present here: yes, that is because of the Soviet Union.
But it doesn’t have to be this way. For example, one
member of G1PS is in his fifties-sixties, and he was
an anarcho-syndicalist already in the seventies and
eighties, he would write articles on anarcho-syndical-
ism for national newspapers during the events of the
early nineties.

So, it’s not like these people did not exist in the Soviet
Union. But if we want to find them, and if we want
to revive the continuity, we have to deal with the
Soviet Union. And that is a huge task, to make this
part of history more nuanced and to extract some
things from that period. The late Soviet period is
very important: If we want to build something more
“authentic,” movements that are more “ours,” and
better reflect the feelings of people around us, we
need to break with the idea of “the big break of 1990.”
I’m not saying it was not a big break, it was huge,
but it’s not like time itself stopped and waited for the
USSR to collapse. We need to see these things from a
longue-duree perspective.

209
 That’s why I also don’t feel that comfortable with the
discourse of “the beginning of the left in Baltic states.”
There’s never a beginning to the left! Even when there
are no youngsters that organize themselves into
organizations and start doing “political stuff,” there’s
always somebody striking, somebody fighting for
better life and work conditions for themselves and
those around them, somebody that holds dissenting
left-wing views to the hegemony . . . There’s always
that one anarcho-syndicalist guy in the Soviet Union
in the seventies.

Airi: I agree. I am always very distrustful when

something is claimed to be the first or the only one.
My first reaction is to ask what has been forgotten,
omitted, or pushed to the margins, knowingly or
unknowingly. But yet, here I am claiming that the
first post-Soviet generation in Estonia was also the
first generation of the radical left after decades of
rupture. In Estonia, we do not know those persons
who were anarcho-syndicalists in the seventies. They
may have existed but we do not know about them,
and they are certainly not part of our networks
today. So, this remains a question about continuity
and discontinuity rather than winning the debate
about who invented the left. And of course, I am also
aware that completely different continuities exist
in Russia, the former Yugoslavia or even Lithuania.
Another aspect that I want to clarify is that the two
thousands in Estonia were certainly not the beginning
of leftist politics. They were not even the (new)
beginning of anarchism because anarchist counter-
culture already existed in the eighties in connection
with punk music. I would say the two thousands were
the beginning of autonomist movement politics. The
formation of PunaMust signified a shift from cultural

210
forms of anarchist self-articulation towards political
organizing. And it also signified a shift in the forms
of political organizing – PunaMust was not a political
party, trade union or NGO, but a movement. The period
between 2006–2008 was a very intense period of
organizing, and it became a springboard for many
new initiatives. The recent history of leftist movement
politics in Estonia cannot be told without going back
to this period.

I am currently interviewing political organizers in the

post-Soviet and postsocialist region. I am interested
in their political biographies, so I usually start the
conversation with the question: “How did you become
politicized?” Many answers include a component of
living or studying in the West – because leftist politics
has a more neutral connotation in the West, it was
possible to develop a positive relation to it. In my
research I want to bring attention to the connec-
tions that leftist initiatives in the post-Soviet and
postsocialist space have with each other. I have been
looking for examples that would break the narrative of
learning from the West. Can you bring such examples
from the Lithuanian context?

Tomas: There’s always something from Russia. I

remember when we were squatting for a short time in
Kaunas, we were screening films about squats in other
countries, to gather inspiration and to introduce the
concept to local people, etc. And we watched this film
about squatting in Russia, which was very DIY, raw,
and had interesting stories from Moscow, St Peters-
burg, Yekaterinburg, and other, smaller Russian cities.
And then we were like: “Shit, if they can do it in Russia,
we can for sure do it here.”

211
 Now in Lithuania many comrades are educated, for
example, in the Central European University, CEU. Now
it’s being moved to Vienna, so that’s kind of over, but
before they would study in Budapest, which was a
very Western-style university in a very Central-East-
ern European environment. So, it’s always a fusion, and
concepts and modes of action or organization get
diluted over time. If a Pole got it from Germany, and a
Lithuanian got it from a Pole, and a Latvian got it from
a Lithuanian, and they all adapted it for their environ-
ment, in time, we have at least several modes of the
same concept or idea, sometimes very different from
the “initial” one.

And also, there’s a lot of healthy skepticism towards

the West and Western ideas around me. It’s not that
we’d reject anything that comes from the West
outright, but the usual stance is: “Yeah, it all sounds
good, but let’s see if and how it works here.” Which is
quite contrary to what I saw in Prague, when I lived
there for a year.4

Prague was one of the few places I’ve been to in

Eastern Europe, if not the only one, where autonomism
was a commonly used term, a conscious self-identi-
fication, and also a political faction, “competing” with
anarchism, Trotskyism, Stalinism, etc. And then I would
go to, say, a protest against, say, some anti-abortion
march, and there would be six local people there when
I arrived. So, I’d say, “shit, there are so few of us,
perhaps we should call it all off,” to which a response
would follow: “No, no, no, don’t worry, there’s a bus of
activists coming from Dresden right now.” A crazy idea,
4 This whole story is probably unfair to the Czechs, since I did not
know too many of them, only lived there for a short while, and
struggled with the language. So, let’s not forget that this is only
anecdotal evidence from my own experience.
212
but if you really have to wait for a bus full of Germans
for your protest to happen, perhaps it’s not worth
doing it at all?

Airi: For me, the most inspiring conversation partners

have been organizers of Emma social center in Kaunas,
especially during the period when I was active in Ülase
social center in Tallinn. At that time, our core team in
Tallinn was three to five people whereas Emma’s team
was bigger. I often felt that we were dealing with
similar questions and challenges. Talking to people who
were running a social center in Germany or Italy did
not feel very useful for me. Many standard things that
are self-evident over there, simply don’t work in Tallinn
at all. When talking to people from Emma, I did not need
to explain the social context, we could jump right into
the conversation on how to develop strategies that
work in the local context. Talking to people from Emma
felt like we were holding an Ülase assembly but simply
with more people than usual. When Emma would try
out something new, this would be useful knowledge
for us – if it works out there, it is likely to succeed
in Tallinn as well. Meanwhile these two contexts are
not so easily comparable anymore, because Emma
has developed a strong mobilization base. Nowadays,
much more is possible in Kaunas than in Tallinn. I find
that aspect also very encouraging because in Estonia
there exists a widespread belief that radical politics
is not possible due to the specific historical and
political – post-Soviet – circumstances. The example
of Kaunas proves that creating a movement is very
possible. It simply requires organizers who take
pleasure in doing politics together.

213
Lexicon

Tomas

Autonomous
Action

214
First of all, this definition of autonomous action is not
necessarily very precise. It is based mostly on my
personal theoretical knowledge of “Italian,” “German,”
and “North American” autonomisms of the twentieth
century, as well as practical participation in “Polish”
and “Lithuanian” (“Baltic?”) autonomisms of the early
twenty-first century.

As the “classic” Italian autonomism goes, represented

at first by Tronti et al. and then by the likes of Dalla
Costa, Bifo, and Negri, the working class is very much
at the center of its own history. How is that different
from “orthodox” Marxism? It’s different, because the
working class is very much at the center of its own
and the world’s history.

Italian autonomists urged us all to abandon the notion

that we are but pawns in this game of capital, swayed
to and fro by its flows and waiting for an opportune
chance to resist. No, they said, the working class is
exactly what creates capital, there can be no capital
without workers, hence, it’s in our collective hands to
act with it as we see fit. In other, well known words,
“you don’t need the boss, the boss needs you.” And,
no matter how much capital would desire to get rid
of workers as such (as we can see, very intensively,
nowadays), it can never succeed.

This, of course, extends, albeit in different and more

nuanced ways, to other dialectics of power. As we
all know, “a woman needs a man like a fish needs a
bicycle,” and the Global North would soon croak under
its white man’s burden without the Global South. For
purposes of convenience, here, let’s simply call all

215
 these groups and classes, without whose labor their
“superiors” would soon wither and die, “workers.”
So, when workers feel powerless to resist their
oppressors, the feeling is, of course, very real, no
doubt about it; however, it should be regarded not as
a “normal state of things,” but as a huge anomaly. To
paraphrase alien king Lrrr from “Futurama,” “why does
not the proletariat, the largest of the classes, simply
eat the other ones?” And it’s the task of workers
themselves, sometimes even outside of “their” parties,
their unions, and, most importantly, the phantom of
the “broader society,” to correct this anomaly.

For action, this means that protests, strikes, move-

ments, and so on, start and end with those whom
they are about. Usually, they are also organized by
members of the group in question. Not that unions,
parties, or the very same “broader society” are
forbidden to take part in them, but they must never
forget where the actual center of power is and should
remain.

Is that such a revolutionary principle; is it even worth

talking about it? After all, the principle of “nothing
about me without me” is much older than the word
“autonomism,” and, in the context of progressive (and,
nowadays, sometimes even reactionary) politics, the
order of who should speak and who should wait their
turn is paid much attention to.

Well, yes, but no. It was a revolutionary idea in the

West in the 1960s and 1970s, when stagnant parties
and unions, compromised by their compromises with
“big politics,” could not reflect the needs and desires
of those that they were meant to represent. And
nowadays, much of this “order of priority” is just for

216
show, but not for reality. In my native Lithuania, there
is a thing called a “trilateral council,” with members of
centralized trade unions, capital, and the government
deciding the country’s economic policies. The biggest
Pride parades are organized by an organization
supported by parties, banks, embassies, etc., and
lately it seems like family members of LGBTQ+ people,
not the people themselves, are the most “legitimate”
advocators for their rights. I’m quite sure that, with
some thought, we can see examples like these all
around us, in our respective political and economic
backgrounds.

So, “autonomous action” is an action that:

Seeks to bring back the normal status quo,

where those who create have the most say in
ruling what is created.

Does not give in to “outsourcing” the power

of the people to stagnant and compromising
institutions.

Or when it does give in a little, strategically,

it remains always conscious of where the
real center of power is, and always vigilant in
reminding this to those holding other illusions.

Simple as that? No, not simple at all. But that is a

question for broader texts and for the actual political
puzzles that we must solve every time we make a
move :)

217
Ayreen Anastas,
Rene Gabri,
Arnoldas Stramskas
and Noah Brehmer

We, the
Inheritors,
of Worlds
A Correspondence on
Autonomy, Space, and
Infrastructure

218
219
 In 2020, as part of the Paths to Autonomy assemblies,
we began a conversation on spaces to/for/of auton-
omy. Having all been impacted by our experiences of
organizing through such spaces – and in moments
even sharing a space – it seemed to make sense to
take a moment to raise the question of what their
exact importance is and how, in turn, this importance
may be differently encountered in our respective
regions. Departing from our shared experiences in
building and maintaining autonomous spaces – which
have taken varied forms over the years as social
centers, infoshops, squats, etc. – this correspondence
ventures broadly into reflections on the problematic
of cultivating autonomous worlds: transversal
movement formations organized through the infra-
structural and infrapolitical standpoints of social
reproduction and decolonialization. Agreeing that it’s
not one world we seek to inhabit but many, another
key thread in the correspondence engages with the
problematic of inheritance and what it could mean to
defend our spaces and movement infrastructures as
carriers of manifold worlds, paths, and futures for/of/
to autonomy.

Noah: In my teen years I had various encounters with

what could be called autonomous spaces. Born in a
midwestern rustbelt city, Milwaukee, my encounters
began in the DIY punk scene, which held communal
houses and basement venues. In the margins of this
scene appeared a well-organized anarchist collective
the Burning Book Mobile, who began by tabling zines at
gigs, eventually creating an infoshop (only after I had
left town), the Cream City Collective. My late teenage
years in NYC also came with a sprinkle of encounters
with DIY venues, which, perhaps out of the financial
reality of holding space in NYC, took more rigid forms

220
and depended upon an economy as night venues.
From here I began to drift towards the art scene,
which offered certain openings in terms of exploring
ideas and concepts, while quite fierce closings on the
other in terms of how heavily market dependent and
competitive these spaces often were. It was during
this moment that I encountered 16 Beaver, joining
a reading group on Italian post-operaismo theory
Ayreen and Rene were facilitating, something like
2009. It was the first autonomous space I had any
sustained encounter with that avowedly set itself the
task of broadly theorizing and enacting autonomy as
a revolutionary standpoint: autonomism. I suppose it
was also at this moment that some frustrations and
critical reflections on autonomous spaces began. In
considering autonomy as a revolutionary proposal
for an altogether different organization of space at
large, these four-walled spaces of autonomy came to
at times feel like marginal, containing, enclaves. How
to spread autonomy? How to gain territory? How to
build movements? And what possible role do spaces
themselves hold in answering these questions? Having
begun another personal life path toward autonomy in
Lithuania from 2012/13, these thoughts have persisted
over the years as important questions for me.

Arnoldas: My entrance into what could be called

autonomous spaces took a longer and more ephemeral
path, although largely through the same (same but
different) DIY punk path. The 1990s, after the collapse
of the Soviet Union, were “wild”: not only in terms of
old structures of economy and state collapsing and/
or reforming, but also on so many affective and social
levels. When I think of those days growing up in a
provincial town I cannot dissociate all this ephemeral
“prepolitical” search for autonomy in subcultural

221
 circles from a lived experience of being surrounded
by criminal autonomies, gangs searching for respect,
avoiding wage labor, invoking fear, conquering
territories. Although more composed spaces could be
found in bigger cities, the ideas, and ideologies came
later, whether as anarchism or feminism, etc. In 2000
and 2001 I lived in Berlin, coming back to Lithuania
regularly, also trying to “import” a wider variety
of broadly autonomous ideas and practices. Some
would say these years were a peaking moment of
the antiglobalization era, a cycle of optimism perhaps,
which after Genoa and 9/11 steadily declined.

In There Is No Unhappy Revolution (2017), Marcelo

Tari suggests that “we might . . . think of territories
entering into a revolutionary becoming as a kind of
outside internal to the metropolis.” But also, not to
forget, multiple outsides, acknowledging that various
links between them rarely exist, or how they can be
cultivated, or how they are incompatible. Perhaps
being critical of who claims proper autonomy and
whether those claims correspond with reality? Does
space give stability, continuity etc. therefore it is
valuable? Is it a territory with its own problematic of
policing the border of who is in and who is out? And
when, as Tari asks, does this claim to the constitution
of an inside enter its own articulation of an outside?
Could it be useful to think of spaces as part of
infrastructures?

Ayreen & Rene: All conversations can be seen, if

they aspire toward it, as paths toward autonomies.
So maybe before beginning, we can try to admit that
there can be many things said regarding what brings
us together in this moment to think autonomy. The
biographical is one mode and it is a generous one,

222
because it situates our bodies in the territories,
temporalities and various conditions we inherit and
struggle to alter, dismantle or affirm, as it regards
the way we want to live with others. In this way, we
are now right in the middle of the question, can this
conversation be an occasion for that searching?
As it concerns the biographical, we could say that we
inherit conditions already in our histories which one
can either avow or disavow, but there is no doubt
we have already inherited them. We find ourselves on
these paths long before we arrived as living sentient
creatures. Only as an example, in Tehran, as a child,
young as we have been in the time of the revolution,
there is a tumult and restless air, in the smoke filled
urgency of a street and the insurgent living rooms
that are imagining fighting to change the conditions
of life, against a Shah, a king that has been implanted
by the CIA in their preemption of an anticapitalist,
anti-imperialist turn in our region and in Iran.
The currents of such emancipatory trajectories and
those of enclosure and control are old, they predate
us as individuals, they are communal winds, yet their
directions change and they sweep up bodies in very
unpredictable and singular ways. There could be so
much more to say in these biographical tangents, but
maybe just trying to share this is to acknowledge
that we are déjà born into such paths and so too
the forces of enclosure and blockage, preempting,
limiting, channeling, capturing those paths, stalling and
foreclosing them.

To pick up another line, for instance, in Palestine, we

are university students under a brutal Israeli occupa-
tion, living, feeling, witnessing an uprising, an Intifada,
a rupture in the colonial order that the occupiers have
tried in vain for years to normalize, naturalize through

223
 their repressive and oppressive mechanisms. An
anti-autonomy regime one can say, that only affirms
the law of the domination of colonial occupation
and dispossession. Is Palestine an exception or the
rule? How to inherit those histories and be faithful to
what they ask of us, without inheriting the weight
and burden of what the oppressors and the autono-
my-obstacle-designers and practitioners are seeking
in those histories?

So on the one hand, there are milieus of autonomy

we are born into, historically determined, but also
these currents are instaured by bodies who struggle,
affirming to inhabit their worlds on their own terms.
And then there is a question of the moments and
spaces, which bring us closer to the questions you
are both placing in the center, the situations where
whatever we are, our sense of a we, or an I, comes
into contact and crisis with that rupture we perceive,
between bodies searching for that autonomy and
bodies which seek to restrict or destroy those
paths. And what could we call this, is it a choice,
a determination, is it individual, is it collective, is it
beyond this way of delineating agency between ones
and multiplicities? We could speculate or side with the
last of these, but let us say, whatever the experience,
it cannot be reducible to a will. Maybe we could say
that in each instance, there is an exigency, a process
already underway, a path that is not itself determined
nor can it become a state or a condition that one is
in, or ever settles in. And yet, at the same time, these
exigencies are maintained, nurtured through practices,
spaces, habits which are ongoing and passed down
between communities. They are not simply material
infrastructures, they can be immaterial, such as
customs, even the passing down of languages,

224
dialects, which can create, or in their destruction, and
this also takes many forms, limits the conditions of
possibility and states of searching for autonomy.
So whatever we could call these zones or spaces
where those exigencies are shared, transmitted, ampli-
fied, they form one part of this very supple circuitry
of events, movements, struggles, inquiries, searches,
ideas, experiences, paths toward autonomies. And its
infrastructures, we would propose, could be seen as all
the means, including, but not limited to, spaces which
can disseminate, reopen, multiply those paths.

Arnoldas: Certainly it is important to think about

autonomies as not merely material infrastructures.
On the one hand, in our part of the world, in a total
surveillance structure which was the Soviet Union,
maintaining infrastructures that would be explicitly
oppositional was out of the question. In a post-Soviet
context we can talk about other forms of surveillance,
commodification of space etc. but it is quite a differ-
ent setting with distinct problematics. The wholesale
rejection and demonization of the Soviet experience
and associations of leftist politics with that experi-
ence brought attempts to search for leftist histories
but mainly in relation to the pre-WWII period, with the
aim of showing that the ideas and practices, whether
of socialism, communism or anarchism, had their place
in the country before the Soviet era. Perhaps it is a
mistake that resistance practices during the Soviet
times are dismissed as merely nationalist thus antileft
and appropriated by the right. I was reading a compila-
tion from KGB archives (in an unpublished manuscript
by E. Balčiūnas) about anti-Soviet activities and what
is evident is that there were a variety of subversive
actions with wide-ranging motivations behind them:
from fascist sympathizers, to strikes and sabotage

225
 in the workplace, from calls to independence, to
accusations that the state is bourgeois and not revo-
lutionary enough, from hippies to riots. The key event
in 1972 was the self-immolation of Romas Kalanta,
which followed demonstrations and riots which were
brutally repressed. That set the stage for at least a
decade in Kaunas, the second largest city in Lithuania,
in terms of hypersurveillance and prohibition of even
the softest socially and politically subversive activity.
Only in the context of perestroika in the mid-1980s, an
ecological movement emerged, punks appeared on the
scene, economic reforms and increased circulation
of prohibited media became signs of the unexpected
near future collapse.

While these more recognizable outward expressions

of dissent had their place throughout the Soviet
period, another source of agency and even auton-
omy appeared in quite widespread illicit everyday
practices and economies, as well as the adjacent
realms of reproduction. This includes the simulation
of work, theft from the workplace, informal economy
of exchange, systems of favors (blat), etc. Usually
perceived as immoral behavior and a corruption of
the character later made responsible for a less-than-
smooth transition into democracy and the capitalist
system. For those inclined towards autonomy politics,
perhaps, should be seen as a source of potential
discursive and political resources. Perhaps having less
visibility and collective character than let’s say Italian
practices of autoreduction, nevertheless it can shake
the image of passivity of the population and align
with anticapitalist practices, no matter how marginal.
Sometimes what is marginal is all there is to start off
in building something larger.

226
Running adjacent to such practices and perhaps
serving as a kind of enabling infrastructure for their
articulation were the semi-autonomous spaces of
food production and distribution. From the mythical
role of the domestic Soviet kitchen, which served as
the only safe space where anecdotes, honest conver-
sations, and doubts could be formulated – a sort of
“truth” space – to the later integration of kitchens in
autonomous spaces and their importance in fostering
bonds. This element perhaps is something that needs
to be taken much further (and there are places that
take the issue seriously) but it seems a very common
denominator across spaces, cultures, etc.

Noah: The question you open about embracing

certain resistance practices under state socialism as
emancipatory inheritances gets at the core of a lot
of issues. Eastern European countries, like Lithuania,
have not only been marked by a century of Russian
and then Soviet imperial revisionist historiography, but
also Western – the German, then US-NATO-EU matrix
of geo-powers. The post-independence era welcomed
in a liberal discourse of “totalitarian studies” wherein
Western experts came to explain to their socialist
block neighbors all that they missed over the course
of the 20th century as though nothing of any worth
took place here. It was very much a process of
importing a Western branded history of free cultural
and social life – a hegemonic and latently imperialist
position that could be said to assume something like
a colonial relation of domination. In a book that Lost
Property Press will release at the end of this year, The
Commonist Horizon (2022), there is a very nice essay
by our Serbian comrade Ana Vilenica on the specific
conditions of coloniality we face here and the respec-
tive paths to decolonization or counter-histories that

227
 could respond to this landscape – it is titled “Who has
‘the Right to Common’? Decolonizing Commoning in
East Europe.”

The Romas Kalanta example is of course a nice one

to share (and worth noting that a social movement
in 2015 called Gyvenimas per Brangus [Life is Too
Expensive], which began as popular protests and
boycotts against rising food prices, occupied the
park where his monument stands in Kaunas . . . acting
as a kind of reference and point of inspiration for the
contemporary movement). While actions like Kalanta’s
and others hold an unquestionable importance as
sparks of revolt, at times mobilizing popular flames, I
have come to worry about how a certain fixation on
the figure of the socialist era martyr – as a paradigm
for the political subject – risks detracting from
the rich infrapolitical histories of everyday power
you began to point to Arnoldas. In our assembly
discussion with Ewa Majewska, we considered to what
extent these practices of martyrdom are imbricated
in a masculine, heroic notion of agency that played
into Western understanding of freedom as liberty and
choice. Relying, as they did, on monumental gestures
of refusal by an individual – most often male – norma-
tive notions of agency were coded into these public
theaters of revolt. Such conjurings of Western liberal
freedoms were not only problematic in the aftermath
of socialism (welcoming in neoliberalism as the new
norm of freedom), but also dangerously omitted the
practices of “weak resistance” that flourished as a
communal, self-organized autonomist movement in, for
instance, the Czechoslovakian councilist movement.
Responding to such a problematic, Ewa in turn
proposed the figure of the tired housewife as the
antimonumental and antipatriarchal figure of working

228
class autonomy under state socialism; opening a
discussion on the Solidarność movement and the
possibility of an antimonumentalist politics of the
symbolic. By considering autonomy in these terms,
we not only gain a new vantage on the rich histories
of autonomous politics under state socialism but also
a critical lens for the reevaluation of what, in fact, is
assumed when we employ the concept of autonomy
in our movements. And as Arnoldas asks as per the
tradition of the kitchen, what would it mean to center
our spaces and relations of reproduction as “political”
relations. For instance, a social center or movement
space like Luna6 in Vilnius does not physically follow
protesting subjects to the street, operating more in
the background as a reproductive infrastructure for
the “political” – e.g. as a space to gather after a demo
for food, discussion, and healing; or before to make
banners, conspire, etc.

Speaking to efforts of critical reevaluation, Ayreen

and Rene’s conceptualization of autonomy as a politics
of inheritance stands in a notable contrast with
modernity’s thrust toward the universal or project of
the “invention of the new man,” which saw in tradition
a conservative force, an impediment to the articula-
tion of autonomy and not, as you have found, a vital
source for its deliverance. Here I recall Marx’s opening
lines of the 18th Brumaire ... wherein the revolutionary
is found to be haunted by circumstances “transmitted
from the past,” while at the same time having to make
use of conditions already given, for the articulation of
the future:

Men make their own history, but they do not

make it as they please; they do not make it
under self-selected circumstances, but under

229
 circumstances existing already, given and
transmitted from the past. The tradition of all
dead generations weighs like a nightmare on
the brains of the living. And just as they seem
to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves
and things, creating something that did not
exist before, precisely in such epochs of
revolutionary crisis they anxiously conjure
up the spirits of the past to their service,
borrowing from them names, battle slogans,
and costumes in order to present this new
scene in world history in time-honored disguise
and borrowed language. . . . In like manner, the
beginner who has learned a new language
always translates it back into his mother
tongue, but he assimilates the spirit of the new
language and expresses himself freely in it only
when he moves in it without recalling the old
and when he forgets his native tongue.

Of modernities’ “modernists” it is perhaps Benjamin

who most strikingly veers from this revolutionary
thirst for the new – seeing the commemorative
power of the losers’ history as a source of strength:
the Spartacist of today looking to the Spartacist
uprisings of yesterday while gathering strength
in the plotting of tomorrow. Paths, then, less as a
problematic of making the correct choices than as a
matter of how we dispose ourselves to the manifold
inheritances that already inform and condition every
situation within which a claim to autonomy will be
made. Following Spinoza, autonomy is then a matter
of the orientation of a form towards that which
increases its capacity for movement with other
bodies at motion AND rest. A certain subindividuality
and subhumanity pervades, saturates the scene.

230
Ayreen & Rene: If we consider this conversation
as part of a search for autonomy, then for us what
clearly lays behind what you both have said, is the
question: from where, which trajectories, horizons and
histories do we draw inspiration or even orientation in
such a search? For us, part of holding and nourishing
common spaces with friends and friends to come has
been this effort to seek also autonomy as a process
of thinking through the inheritances, the various
paths others have taken and those which may have
been suppressed from our view.

So continuing with your thoughts, if we begin in

the space of everyday reproduction and consider
autonomy from the perspective of feminist critiques
for instance, especially those which emerged and
branched off from the operaist and autonomist tradi-
tions in Italy, then certainly that search is colored
very differently than what could be a more patriarchal
projection of working class or proletarian autonomy.
And any measure of success, efficacy or valorization
will be very different in such a horizon. Since the
question of everyday reproduction, from that vantage
point and inquiry, is not one facet that will have to be
transformed, it is the central axis which will allow us to
gauge our autonomy from the impositions on the form
life takes according to state and capitalist infrastruc-
tures, including the nuclear family.

We can’t help but ask with you Arnoldas, as you bring

up the kitchen as a locus of rethinking or linking
spaces of autonomy: could we not also consider this
importance of the kitchen and food as part those
experiences and trajectories of the communalization
of everyday reproduction? In this light, the figure
of the “tired housewife,” that you bring up Noah,

231
 becomes a kind of limit figure, as much as an antimon-
umental and antipatriarchal one, of certain dead ends
of a masculinist, productivist, even workerist horizon
of autonomy?

If autonomy is reimagined from the quotidian spaces

of what Félix Guattari refers to as our “existential
territories,” and the way we reproduce our lives with
one another, at every facet, then clearly we have
very different tactics, strategies, and projects to
compose and consider together. What happens to
autonomy when it is considered through efforts to
recover and reclaim the communal in those processes
of reimagining our everyday lives?

Another aspect that interests us in what you have

said approaches yet another limit of the dominant
left traditions as they have been passed down to
those who identify with them. Not only has autonomy
been relegated often as secondary to say the idea of
class struggle, but also, the radical experiences and
traditions of autonomy, which have not fitted neatly
into Eurocentered, Western, Modern accounts of
history, have also been largely unaccounted for.
For instance, let’s begin with one of the constituent
moments of whatever emerges as a West or as
Western Modernity, which is the colonization of the
Americas and the transatlantic trade of enslaved
peoples from Africa. Where do the struggles of the
colonized fit into those histories? How, we ask, have
those communities maintained themselves and their
communal lives without rich and textured experiences
and practices of nourishing autonomy? Or let us
consider one of the main theses of Cedric Robinson
in his seminal book Black Marxism (1983), where he tries
to resituate the Black radical tradition away from a

232
Eurocentered account and argues that it actually
emerges from the multiplicity of experiences, cosmol-
ogies, metaphysics, concepts, notions, customs,
habits, communal structures and practices which were
brought, held, maintained, reimagined by captives from
Africa across the Atlantic. They are what animate the
fugitive and maroon communities configured by those
who were formerly captive. And these are according
to Robinson the forces which animate their paths to
autonomy, these are what constitute whatever could
be called a Black radical tradition.

This kind of account troubles what even those who

have been subject to colonization have to assume as
traditions of radicalism, which are not just problematic
because they focus on European figures, excluding
non-Europeans, but more importantly, because
they write off the very sites and practices from
which anyone could glimpse potential paths towards
autonomy today.

A similar process of thought seems to have affected

Sylvia Wynter in her as yet unpublished monograph
Black Metamorphosis wherein – in the process of writ-
ing the book in dialogue with the editorial collective
Small Axe – she growingly begins to question her own
Marxist terminologies and accounts, arriving slowly
at aesthetic experiences, the drum, rhythm, and
dance as central elements in reconfiguring existence,
common life and, we could potentially add, experiences
of autonomy from conditions of captivity.

For us, autonomy implicates a constant search and

one is continually looking for friends, companions,
comrades who can help open the way. What is import-
ant is that our searching is continuous and never

233
 settles on readymade answers. Even our own answers
merit rethinking as we confront limits, especially in the
political experiences we undergo and in the spaces
we try to create. Because, as we see it, sometimes
these are also limits in the imaginaries and accounts
we inherit which have shaped our understandings of
autonomy, its traditions, or potential practices.
This brings us back to what you were thinking about
the subterranean forms of resistance in the socialist
and Soviet states, which could not be seen in their
own terms and as potential radical practices of
autonomy which we could draw from today, because
they have been overcoded as “dissidence,” sometimes
seen as straying from the principles of universality,
too particular, too esoteric, too identitarian, too much
tied up with tradition, nationalist, ultimately to be
marked as reactionary, liberal, bourgeois, etc. It seems
to us that we are at a conjuncture, where at the same
time as we struggle to reclaim traditions which are
constantly being effaced, we are also called to look
at the dominant radical traditions handed to us as
containing within them their own effacements.
And maybe a last thought which comes to us from
your invocation, Noah, of Spinoza, it would be interest-
ing to consider for a moment what different notions
of autonomy can bring into this process of looking
for autonomy. What are we seeking when we seek
autonomy? What precisely is at stake? And in this way,
we agree that Spinoza can offer a glimpse into such
an adventure. Autonomy via Spinoza can be consid-
ered the thinking and practices that are capable of
transforming ethics into politics. Autonomy in contrast
to the philosophies of the One would not imply
hierarchies of existents, would not submit to the idea
that the competent, the professor, the professional,

234
the vanguard, the leaders should know better and
from them all knowledge shall emanate.

Autonomy as countering the institution of political

hierarchy. Autonomy as a cosmology of being, in which
every being realizes its being without a state or even
laws setting any limits. In this light, a radical form
of equality emerges into view, we could say a “true
equality” in which the categories human, nonhuman,
animate, inanimate lose their relevance and meaning.
With Spinoza, one could say this “radical equality” is
at the base of every notion of autonomy, and a task
would be to understand the political implication of
such a world, in which all commands are disactivated,
all rulers are ruled out. Autonomy at its best can
become a notion that helps us clear up the conditions
for the realization of such an understanding of a
multiple world full of potencies without the One to
determine or judge them.

Noah: In the early 20th century the Yiddish Bundist

movement – centered in Vilno – shared the concept
of doykayt [hereness] in their effort to enact a
“we” as a figure of immanence and multiplicity. As Sai
Englert observes in “Doykayt: Yiddish Land for All”
(2016) “Doykayt was the Bundists’ way of describing
the importance of fighting where one is, alongside
the people [with] whom one lives. It was conceived
as a rejection of both Zionism and separatism. The
Bund mobilized this slogan to argue with Jews about
the importance of changing the world, their current
world, together with their Polish, Russian, or Ukrainian
neighbors.” The antifascist, internationalist longing
captured so well in doykayt sits nicely alongside
Ayreen and Rene’s thinking with Robinson on the Black
radical tradition – namely the urgent question of how

235
 to develop tools for the building of autonomous infra-
structures where these manifold traditions – paths of
autonomy – may be reclaimed, enabled, and inherited.
Here in Lithuania, amidst a situation of border push-
backs and the violent detainment of migrants from the
Middle East, doykayt resonates as a historic banner of
insurgent unity against the border regimes, the police
and the prisons. To fight together with those with
whom you share a space – the etymology of comrade
is indeed one with whom you share a common room;
a notable contrast with its current connotations of
ideological allegiance to the abstract belief in an idea
or organization.

Continuing our line of thought on infrastructures of

autonomy, the writings of anticapitalist historians,
like Robinson, feel vital for cultivating the knowledge,
languages, and tools we will need to build these
infrastructures in the present. From E.P. Thompson,
Dolores Hayden, Silvia Federici, and on to Robinson and
C.L.R. James, one always finds a vibrant “infrastructure
of dissent” at the core of any sustained rebellion
against capital.

And I agree with what you’re saying on the trajectory

of workers autonomy, but would also stress that the
emergence of “workerism” as an institution within
(but not necessarily against the nexus of capitalism,
colonialism, patriarchy) has had both a previous and
persisting life in multimodal, translocal, movement
formations, which at their strongest points enable a
“compositional” standpoint against capital: bridging
the axis of race and gender, agrarian and urban,
forms of life – enunciating a violent thrust against the
totality of capital’s global domination.

236
The historic process of the de/resubjectivisation of
what could broadly be called the historic socialist
movement into the isolated identity of the white male
working class was only realized through decades of
hybrid warfare – a butchering of the many headed
hydra of communism and its Frankensteinian reification
as a figure of division, alienation, and domination.
In The Many-Headed Hydra (2013), Peter Linebaugh
and Marcus Rediker do well in capturing this radical
moment of insurgency; sharing the story of the
tavern cultures in the Lower East Side docks of NYC
in the 17th century. The taverns were a vital mixing
ground, schools of insurrection, where the “wretched
of many nations and colors gathered” to tell their
tales, lore of insurrection, dance, and feast. Of them,
Hughson’s Tavern became infamous as the locale for
the plotting of an insurrection. The war against these
mixing grounds evolved into Americanization programs
over the next centuries – peaking over the course
of the World Wars. Ford established the American
School where migrants would enter for six months
learning English and the “American way of life.” After
passing their exam, the Festival of Unity took place,
featuring a ritual where the migrants would enter a
mini boat wearing their ethnic clothing and be pushed
to a pot. Once in the pot, their teachers would spin
them around with giant spoons; disappearing only to
reappear moments later with blue factory uniforms,
American flags, and singing the national anthem. It
was through such processes that radical inheritances
were erased and the figure of the working class came
to oppose the figure of the “rioter,” “women,” “commu-
nist,” “Black,” etc.

The historical emergence of autonomia in Italy

is important then as a response not only to the

237
 shortcomings of Italian operaismo but to workerism
more generally as a historical subjectivity that has
continued to pose questions and problems in the
present. And as Federici herself observes looking
back at that historic moment in Revolution at Point
Zero (2012), the relation between these formations
was not only conflictual: “From the operaist movement
that stressed the centrality of workers’ struggles
for autonomy in the capital-labor relation, we learned
the political importance of the wage as a means of
organizing society, and, at the same time, as a lever to
undermine the hierarchies within the working class.”
While autonomist groups like Lotta Continua agitated
for the multiplication of points of antagonism through
rent strikes, squatting, social centers and autoreduc-
tion practices, operaismo’s union formations inside the
factories served as essential tools for the scaling up
of the uprisings that unfolded across the city. In Turin,
the CGIL Union helped coordinate the autoreduction
movement by acting as a quasi-officiating body
for the mass practice of self-reducing the cost of
transport and household utilities. It was through
these diverse compositions of struggle for autonomy
that class struggle was extended directly over the
entirety of society as a revolutionary political force.
This is not to look over the clear and well-known
shortcomings and even oppressive, misogynist,
opportunistic tendencies within operaismo. Indeed, it’s
important to recall the details of autonomia’s clash.
On one hand we have the new southern migrants who
do not fit into the values of the northern workers’
cultures – namely they disidentify with the spaces of
work as essential sites for social belonging. Then we
have new compositions of revolt, such as the urban
riots or uprisings in the south, which the unions and
political parties denounce. This also comes with what

238
you talked about as the feminist, reproductive labor
standpoint, and a lesser discussed decolonial one,
in Italy. Finally, there is an experience of the internal
shortcoming of the official institutions of the labor
movement itself after the Hot Autumn in 1977 where
the communist party and its representative unions
made deals to end a massive strike wave in return
for huge wage increases. Yet, these wages were
quickly undermined by inflation in rental and trans-
portation prices . . . it showed, lets say, how integral
infrastructure is and what happens when movements
are subordinated to a single claim for autonomy – the
autonomy granted by the wage.

And essential for our gravitation around the question

of autonomous spaces, it is at this moment that
we find the birth of what we are now calling social
centers. These spaces could be thought of as a
living articulation of the movements’ decentering of
the worker. Social centers, after all, were rooted in
the neighborhood and operated as generators for
autonomous urban rebellions.

Ayreen & Rene: Yes, indeed, the doykayt sounds like

an interesting notion. From a Palestinian perspective
today, one perceives the historical lines that were
more minor, broken, interrupted by more hegemonic
structures over the 20th century. Can one think of
doykayt as a form of life, a mode of thought, that is
very different in nature from Zionism and its ideology
of a capitalist colonial Jewish state? One may ask
wherein lies this difference in nature between the two,
that is, what may be of interest to our search here
together. Is it the question of political belief combined
with desire and the form of their propagation that
make the difference here?

239
 And fascism, if it means anything for us, is the name
of a counterrevolutionary process which attempts to
preempt, capture, destroy movements which stand
against capitalism. The tools it uses and has used
historically vary, though they do comprise something
of a repertoire, which often uses some supremacist
ideation and some notion of purity, blood, race, etc.
Do we need to invent new concepts today in the
way the Bund invented doykayt as encapsulating an
affirmative desire for a life in common and fighting
fascism at the same time. Can we also look into
various histories to find and reclaim these ways of
conceiving a common life? How can we start thinking
further and putting into play those concepts? We,
as autonomists, as communists, as anarchists, as
whatever we want to call ourselves, as those who are
interested in a world-in-common, a world of a here-
and-now, a world-in-a-revolutionary becoming. What is
it that we need to invent, create, recover and what is
the need for it, what moves us to create it. And what
is that revolution or even revolutionary organization
when it is centered at the level of a form of life?

Italian autonomia is still interesting for us today, as

it questioned at a given moment both centralization
and representation, and if any production was still
relevant, then it was the production of a new type of
subjectivity. And most interesting was the emphasis
of Italian feminists within the movement on the
forgotten, naturalized, marginalized work of women in
reproducing everyday life. And how that reproduction
was the discounted and suppressed force of the
production of workers themselves.

These are questions we are still confronted with

today: what kind of struggles are we facing, and what

240
new subjectivities emerge or are forged through
these processes? Again, if we think of these struggles
as more processes of reshaping the prefigured
subjects of neoliberal coloniality, then we can also
enter and try to understand what this coloniality is
also bringing, imposing, that supersedes a restricted
sense of an economic project.

So touching on the decolonial for us, if we think a

decolonial path to autonomy, then we would have to
say that from our own experiences and communal
processes, we see coloniality also passing through
many left and labor movements both historical and
contemporary.

For instance, the higher wage is not simply a short-

coming of official institutions of the labor movement,
it is part of a logic which could extend to today’s
struggles for a social wage or claims for a basic
income. A logic that still privileges, universalizes a
particular idea of “quality of life” and access to a
certain level of goods and wealth produced through a
capitalist mode of production, which has been based
and continues to be based on the immiseration and
colonization of worlds. It is and has historically been
a highly objectivized, extractive, destructive process.
And any state, even socialist ones have largely taken
on similar approaches. They are still based on the
imposition of one image of a world that has been
constricted and constructed through the elimination
of a multiplicity of worlds.

While potentially “winning” important battles against

capital in the name of higher wages or provisions by
the state – forgetting all the dirty tricks which will
render those “victories” into “defeats” – they continue

241
 to tacitly normalize a state of affairs which is held
together not only by ongoing wars of counterinsur-
gency, wars of oblivion, and wars against subsistence,
but also by processes leading to the consumption and
destruction of the planet itself.

And the weight of these processes has always

fallen squarely on the backs of those who have
been marked historically as less than human. They
are historical processes of colonization which then
embedded, hard-coded ideas of life, of knowledge,
of truth, of world, of progress, of backwardness, of
future, of development, of educated and uneducated,
of laziness and productivity, of wealth and poverty, of
beauty and ugliness, of race, of gender as universal.
All of these contain within them the vestiges of
coloniality and these continue to also plague some of
the most revolutionary and emancipatory traditions.
It is for this that any notion of autonomy, from our
vantage point today, has to reappraise, in a longer
arch of history, the processes which have lead all of
earth’s creatures to be on the verge of planetary
destruction. And for us, it seems quite critical to
do this reappraisal acknowledging that colonialism,
race and patriarchy are key elements of capitalism.
And quite possibly to go as far as to understand
that capitalism is just one facet of a colonial matrix
of power. Walter Mignolo, following Anibal Quijano,
outlines it as control of economy (land appropriation,
exploitation of labor, control of natural resources);
control of authority (institution, army); control of
gender and sexuality (family, education); and control of
subjectivity and knowledge (epistemology, education
and formation of subjectivity). And as the friends who
are exploring this line of thinking say, coloniality is the
dark and hidden side of modernity. So all the places

242
which have been touched by or infused by modernity,
whether they chose to or not, also embraced all the
ideological apparatus of coloniality through the matrix.
In this way, we can see that the feminist critiques
are not merely an expansion of anticapitalist struggle
but enter fields which touch on other aspects of this
matrix of power.

Thus, in a decolonial horizon, autonomy means

struggling at the level of all of these spheres of
subordination, domination, control, production of
subjectivities. And clearly, then, we could see that in
the history of socialist and communist states, despite
even supporting anticolonial struggles abroad, this
colonial matrix has not only not been done away with,
it has been largely reproduced.

At the same time, when we do see struggles today we

can often see a decolonial dimension to them. But if
they are grasped as such, then we stand to see, for
instance, efforts of struggling around the rights of
migrants as radical chances for inventing decolonial
paths rather than merely finding ways to absorb
displaced communities into the very machines that
have produced their violent evictions.

These are difficult matters, but they seem to us

necessary to consider. And clearly, it is not a point
of saying this or that is the only path to autonomy.
It is just to point out that what the decolonial path
to autonomy offers is a more robust account of the
multiple domains at which autonomy can be reclaimed
and struggle can be waged. A struggle which is then
also intrinsically connected to and not at the expense
of the most vulnerable communities facing the brunt
of the exclusionary and destructive powers of these
colonial, racial, patriarchal capitalist processes.
243
 There would be more to say here, especially regarding
the question of a microphysics of power and even
a micropolitics of desire but maybe we could ask a
question, since we initiated our conversations around
spaces for autonomy.

Can we not imagine these spaces as perpetual zones

not only of insubordination, revolt, but also of revo-
lution, at the level of the subject, even and especially
going beyond the subject? And in such processes,
given our growing sense of this more complex map
where capitalism has only been one face, one domi-
nant manifestation of this colonial matrix of power,
can we not take more seriously in these spaces of
searching for autonomy or the senses of autonomy,
this task of desubjectivation, decolonization from the
imprints of coloniality which modernity trafficked into,
imposed upon every place and sphere of life?

Arnoldas: Great insights and very important consid-

erations. Whether we call it forms of life, collective
autonomy or autonomy on the level of the subject,
or simply difference, decoloniality, I think, offers a
lot in terms of thinking through both the present and
the past. Obviously, the socialist project, especially
in its state form, can only be considered different
by a degree and not fully of substance. The logic of
modernity is inextricably linked to violent ordering and
remaking of the world, eliminating – whether through
force or integration – all that gets in its way. But also
let’s be frank that violence is not the only way of
ordering. Integration happens through seduction too
and the desire for order, comfort, and normality is
a powerful ideological tool. If we agree that various
movements often are complicit in reproducing the
logic on which larger domination is based, where does

244
it leave autonomous spaces striving for rebellious
relation to the existing, and what inner mechanisms
can be put in place to safeguard from it? We (and who
is we in each instance?) can set the tone, put the right
discourse, create rules but the uneasy relationship
always remains between careful curating and spon-
taneous activity based on messy socialities of those
involved. Does postapocalyptic urbanity still allow for
visible oppositions of something as stable as a space?
Lately, spending quite a bit of time in Barcelona, a city
priding itself on new municipalism and progressive
politics with its ex-activist mayor, squat evictions
happen almost daily, increasingly harsh policing of
unruly subjectivities, constant discourse of cleaning
up and order, a cat and mouse game, where the cat
is getting fatter and the mouse can only get some
breathing space on the city margins or further. This
is a process which has been already implemented
decades ago in some cities. Of course squatting is
only one feature of infrastructural autonomy, but
one that, at least in a European context, has been an
important one in terms of larger autonomous politics
and the ability to maintain forms of life, albeit with
its own sets of contradictions and limitations. On the
other hand, doesn’t the desire for resolved contradic-
tions indicate the same path of modern domination?

I was talking to a friend recently about the feeling of

doom in the city. Their response was that the doom
happened already quite some time ago and we live in a
postapocalyptic, postdoom world without realizing it.
It’s only the date when it happened that’s still up for
discussion: 1500s? 1800s? 1980s?

When the forces of domination and resistance are so

uneven, the question arises of whether visible forms

245
 of resistance, even if it is a discursive resistance,
are an appropriate form of engagement. I guess
a thing or two can be drawn from the history of
warfare – guerrilla war, asymmetrical war, insurgency
etc. without over-romanticizing it either, at least from
the location in which we are speaking. In The Least of
All Possible Evils (2012), Eyal Weizman talks about Israeli
military and Palestinian resistance, where the principle
of proportionality (how many get killed) is used as a
complex political-affective measurement – he says
that the “power is grounded in the very ability to
calculate, count, measure, balance and act on these
calculations. Inversely, to make oneself ungovernable,
one must make oneself incalculable, immeasurable,
uncountable.” Can this be applied elsewhere? And
what about our increasingly important online selves,
where calculation, attention, and circulation fuel the
spectacle of integration?

The physical space becomes problematic as a dot on

the map, lacking mobility, invested in its own identity.
There seems to be a need for a fine balance between
overidentifying, overcoding on the one hand and
the over-accommodating, over-inclusive idea of an
open space, which then can easily turn into a washed
out stand in the marketplace of ideas. I was always
interested in how these spaces can cultivate politics
without falling on charisma, figures, names and faces.
Perhaps it is impossible to engineer that fully but from
my experience it seems that there is quite a variation
in how that happens, what kind of practices are more
conducive to such outcomes and that is something I
would be interested in exploring more with you.
But a more complicated question is perhaps how
striving for visibility becomes at the same time a
striving for compromise, normalization, respectability

246
and “pragmatism.” I’m not sure whether that Debordian
quote, mentioned already here (“everything that
appears is good; whatever is good will appear”), is
really taken seriously and what would it mean to take
it seriously.

Noah: Yes, I agree that seeing the times we live in as a

post-apoc era, serves us well in dispelling any illusion
of liberty/the entitlements it is necessarily grounded
in – as one Italian autonomist feminist said “don’t
believe you have rights.” I recently came back to the
“young” Agamben’s concept of inclusive exclusions, as
a way of thinking how visibility is used by capital to
always keep us far way from the real sources of our
power e.g., the cryptohiearchy everywhere alive on
social media.

Connecting what Ayreen and Rene have called subter-

ranean forms of resistance to the socialist and Soviet
states and from there back to the question of the
infrastructural, Tiqqun’s concept of infraspectacular
worlds feels relevant. Developed in their first issue of
the journal to describe how the crisis of empire, while
depending ever more on the spectacular demonstra-
tion of its triumph, erodes on a subterranean level,
opening fragmentary spaces, zones of intermittent
autonomy, where forms of life grow without the medi-
ation of the commodity. The history of real communism
under state socialism is very much an infraspectacular
history and I think very important knowledges can
be transmitted from there for Western comrades
who may often be too keen on attaching visibility to
political efficacy – all that is visible is good, all that is
good is visible. Infraspectacular worlds may be a way
of describing publicness without visibility. I’d call it
a tactical visibility and a question could be what we

247
 can learn from it for our organizing in and beyond the
spaces of autonomy we are connected to? Evident
in all this is the need to approach a microphysics of
power.

Ayreen & Rene: It is often the case that a conver-

sation has to conclude by the limits of time or some
measure that is predetermined. And yet, it is all the
elements of that conversation which actually outlive
its parts and articulations which allow it to begin or
live. It feels for us that indeed now the conversation
is beginning fully and we don’t know exactly which
of the many rich threads to pick up. And maybe we
will not be able to respond but only mark or remark
on the resonance we feel with the questions you are
both asking and bringing to the table. We will try to
do it in a form that is fragmentary, notational and
possibly musical.

248
249
Lexicon
Ayreen Anastas,
Rene Gabri
Seduction

Safeguarding Against Complicity

Instability of Spaces of Assembly

Desire for Solved Contradictions

Imbalance of Forces

Spectacle of Integration

Idiorrythmie

Microphysics of Power

250
Seduction
Seduction is at the heart of societies of control. When
the diagram of power is based on control and no
longer direct suppression of countering forces, then it
will be through instruments of seduction that desire is
channeled and captured.

Safeguarding Against
Complicity
Safeguarding Against Complicity could be an
interesting title for a pamphlet. In its introduction, one
would have to write that any measure to safeguard
against something risks falling into policing those
“messy socialities.” It seems that a potent manner to
struggle against complicity is to attempt to always
be in contact with those who are most vulnerable by
the existing arrangement or distribution of forces.
We would then have to say that contact and building
relations with other struggles far from where one may
be situated is critical to countering the blind spots
and occlusions, which are structured, which are at the
heart of how power takes shape, and naturalizes the
unrecognized complicities it needs to reproduce and
generalize itself.

Instability of Spaces of
Assembly
Instability of Spaces of Assembly. It seems for us
another heading in what you call the postapocalyptic
urbanity is the frequency with which different urban
251
 processes displace and evict spaces of struggle or
spaces of relative autonomy. There is no clear and
easy path to remove that threat of eviction. We have
tried to think of exit in some way not simply from the
city or metropolitan existence, but from all the habits
that this existence requires to survive on its terms.
In the context of the virus and its after effects,
we don’t know what will happen in this regard. But
surely, tactically, whether temporary or enduring,
these spaces of self-organization, of assembly, of
autonomy are still crucial. But it seems if they cannot
be sites that incline toward forms of communization or
collectively shifting the ways life is lived, then our own
experience is that these spaces can easily become
sedatives for a kind of blindness and complicity to
the immense consumption/destruction cycles and its
concomitant productions of waste, which metropolitan
existence more and more relies on.

Desire for Solved

Contradictions
Desire for Solved Contradictions A friend once said
that the contradictions we encounter are the result
of specific strategies. Another friend used to say, live
the contradictions. It seems to us that the former
proposition is closer to how we see this conjuncture.
If we see that today, “my survival,” “my consumption”
depends on processes which require the consumption
of earth, war, the death of so much life on the planet.
If we see that the reproduction of that life “here,”
requires as prerequisite the reproduction of the
death “elsewhere,” it seems hardly possible in the face
of planetary ruination to “live the contradictions.”
Looking for measures to overcome those structures
252
which make people, in the name of work or livelihood,
pimp themselves, their communities, their practices,
their lands, their habitats seems to us absolutely
critical today. And it seems the urgencies grow
faster than the insurgencies precisely because of
those structured contradictions. And while there
is no roadmap for overcoming them, it seems
even the great revolutions will only once again be
confronted by them. Clearly, whatever measures we
are considering would not have to seek to restore
some kind of wholeness, because so much has been
broken. And yet, there is still so much that we can
heal and recover wherever we are, whether through
customs and traditions of care, histories, practices
suppressed, or directly with all the life that earth still
hosts and gives. Inventing new ways of living together
seems also at the heart of struggling against these
contradictions. In the context of decolonial thinking,
there is also this notion of delinking and it seems to
us to resonate with what we have been exploring with
friends. Multiplying these practices of life in common,
of forms of existence which avow the co-, the with,
which are the preconditions of whatever is called life
and finding a way to do that, less and less dependent
on the infrastructures which require the amplification
of the contradictions seems for us a more affirming
orientation to any path to autonomy.

Imbalance of Forces
Imbalance of Forces The forces are indeed never in
balance but what a microphysics of power allows
us to perceive is that it is always from the “micro”
that power organizes, consolidates, aggregates,
dominates, governs, controls, acts through. It
sediments and hardens into forms, of structures, of
253
 infrastructures and of life itself. These become in a
way force multipliers, which propagate and contain
the power that is invested in them. But if we see that
those forces are being produced through us, and in
the way we enact and enforce, propagate further the
demands placed on us, we are part of reproducing
that imbalance. Maybe our struggle or even revolution
has to be reconsidered from this microphysics to also
then account for what we construct or reconstruct
rather than resist, what we conjoin to, put to common
use, rather than simply what we exit. It seems that
if in what has been theorized as the societies of
control, the dominant form power takes is in orienting
desire and delimiting the sites in which it can flourish,
unfold, be contained; then it is really a very different
struggle, around and through desire that those forces
acting on and through us can be destituted.

Spectacle of Integration
Spectacle of Integration We have been theorizing
something we refer to as white noise. White noise
could be seen as a correlate to the theories of the
spectacle. If spectacle ultimately emphasizes a visual
dimension to the commodification of language, of
life, of relations, of place, and the pageantry, glory,
shock, awe, intoxication that is required to fulfill
these disintegrations and integrations, then white
noise is more about what is heard, what we hear, the
noise of capital, the white spaces it creates which
discolor everything, its forming of a space of relation
that is thoroughly white, that is thoroughly tied to
the colony, the colonization of the basic forms of
communication, the mediums in which they unfold
and a sculpting of relations, hierarchies of visibilities,
audibilities tied to its antisocial media, platforms and
254
networks. There would be so much more to write
and think here, but we believe the questions raised
in this domain are critical since so many believe
these networks and Silicon Valley technologies to
be mere tools or instruments; but we have seen how
they actively model, sculpt, generate subjects and
relations that are capitalist. Capital was and remains
a social relation above all. And it reproduces through
its propagated instruments those forms of relation. It
is clear that without building our own spaces which
offer other means and modes, we only risk partaking
in the reproduction yet another piece of the social
infrastructure of white supremacy. We would like to
think that this work of thinking further about this
white noise introduces a dimension of race, white
supremacy and coloniality into the discourse of
spectacle.

Idiorrythmie
Idiorrythmie A term that occupies a central figure
in a friend’s teaching course in 1977, Comment vivre
ensemble [How to live together]. Distinct from the
potentially oppressive use of Rythme, in which every
one would have to be follower of a regular movement
of flow, Idiorrythmie, in its very naming, allows for a
multiplicity of forms of life to flourish, each in its own
timing, in its own emphasizing of beats, while still in a
horizon of living together. While rhythm can be taken
onto the sides of bureaucracy, property, identity,
enclosures, the law, spectacles of state and displays
of power in the mass coordination of bodies in space,
Idiorrythmie takes distance from this potential for
rhythm to be literally instrumental-ized. Idiorrythmie
always proposes precisely such as it is, a rhythm
which is unique to its bodies, to its situations, to its
255
 difference. Our friend explains in fact that the older
term of Rythme, Rhuthmos has not been understood
as oppressive and could have emerged in a use closer
to what he names Idiorrythmie, fugitive, singular,
unstable. Can autonomy be ever achieved without
Idiorrythmie?

Microphysics of Power
Microphysics of Power If X conceptualized the notion
of der Wille zur Macht [the will to power] in the 19th
century, and that same X collapsed at the sight of
someone hitting a horse in Turin and remained ten
years folded onto themselves without language, and
if Y a hundred years later wrote La volonté de savoir
[the will to know] and then passed away from health
complications due to AIDS. How to understand those
two concepts and the interplay between them?
If power is different in nature than what has been
thought and assumed for a long time, and not only
in bourgeois theories of power, but also in Marx, also
with us, when we assume that power is possessed,
is a property of presidents or leaders or fathers
or even classes, yes classes – then understanding
the microphysics of power means exploring the
implications by Y that power is never possessed,
but always exercised, going through the dominated
as well as the dominator. If power is a multiplicity of
forces, then we can think of notions like strategy and
diagram to further understand how these forces are
operating.

So if power is exercised, and is diagrammatic, almost

like a mathematical equation, then looking at it in this
way is like wearing a new pair of glasses, that when

256
applied, make everything around us more clear and
potentially more insidious.

Which are these forces? It depends on which diagram

is applied. A friend of Y explains this very well in his
seminar on Y in the 1980s. There is the diagram of
discipline, the diagram of the sovereign, the diagram in
say, ancient Greece, and the mutating diagram we are
currently living through.

And then savoir is the result of the application of

this mathematics of the diagram, the sedimentation,
the stratas which form in its recursive uses and
applications. The variables in an equation become
more concrete, hardened, the student, the prisoner,
the citizen, the soldier on the one hand and the
school/university, the prison, the state, the military
base as correlates. Of course, a state or any other
institution can subsume other institutions.

Microphysics in this sense is not a miniaturization of

the notion, it is not to say, oh yes there are the big
scale apparatuses and then there are the small scale
ones. It is more to say that micro physics and macro
physics have completely different principles. What
applies to atoms, particles, and small elements does
not apply to a physics of big objects. Microphysics is
a different approach to discerning and analyzing how
power operates and is reproduced on, in, through us.
But for us concretely how can we benefit in our
struggles together from all this analysis, how can
we live and be closer to the commune in our midst?
Even better, how then to disactivate power in all
its exercises, configurations and shapes resulting
from those diagrams applied and sedimenting on
our bodies, our common spaces, on everything and
everyone around us.
257
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